I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a sentimental guy, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I love my kids more than anything in the world. I would walk through fire for them, or even sit through one of those holiday movies with the talking animals. Which I did when they were little. More than once.
I walked into the living room, where Nolan was watching TV.
“Hey,” I said. “Do you want to go out front and play frisbee with me?”
“I don’t know,” he said, with a wry smile, “is your Old going to be able to keep up with me?”
“Only one way to find out,” I said.
For the next forty minutes, we ran around in the street together, making spectacular throws and equally spectacular catches.
Okay, one of us did, and the other one was reminded that he’s not in the same great shape that he once was, but the important thing is that both of us genuinely enjoyed each other’s company, as we always do.
As I worked on this column, I was reminded of something I wrote for here in November: “I woke up this morning with searing pain in my left arm and shoulder. It was joined by some pain in my right hip, and even though I’m pretty damn achey today, it’s worth it. I’m not going to be an old man and wish that I’d played less frisbee with my son.”