Catch

If nothing else, I could always play catch with my Dad.

It was never an easy time between he and I. Me and he...we had few ideas that either could really understand...but "catch" - a ball tossed back and forth - was an easy reminder that I was his daughter - for he to remember that I was his child.

He passed on a craft he knew well. I would never throw like a girl...and I was a good catcher. More than once I've fielded line drives that dislocated my knuckles or sprained a thumb, and I could always make a play from centre field to second base without strain.

Catch was a mark my Dad etched into me. I was happy to receive it. He offered many other lessons I did not so readily adopt. That is the way it is, I think, with daughters and Dads.

Catch is a beautiful pass-time. It has no purpose. No one ever lived or died for throwing and catching, and yet this game has the rhythm of passive pleasure, like waves on a lakeshore. Every throw an advance, every catch a victory. Unlike the games that employ catching to other ends - baseball, football, rugby...the simple act of throw and catch is civilizing, mesmerizing...complete.

This weekend I played catcher to tired bodies as they crossed the finish line at Ironman 2010 (Can THIS body catch THAT body comin' through the tape?). The Ironman people actually call it "Catching".

As the beaten bodies came at me I remembered my Dad's words:

Open your eyes - if you can't see it, you won't catch it.

Plant your feet. Don't get knocked down.

Stay still...put the glove up and trust yourself.

Those bodies at the finish line at Ironman, they are crusty with salt sweat, they smell of urine or puke, or worse. The minds atop the fit bodies are exhausted and incapable of completing the simplest of tasks. They are spent. The job is to lead them, catch by catch (here is your medal, here is your shirt, throw me your timing ship, catch this water, grab some food), to the place where a loved will carry them away.

If my Dad ever read a piece of fiction, I was not there to see it. He could read, I know, but he had no time for anything that was not instructive. It's unlikely he would have read anything I've written to date. If he had, it's unlikely that he would have enjoyed it.

But when I write he is always in my head. Writing is a game of catch I play with myself. I pelt words back and forth, from one side of my head to the other. I try to throw the words so that they travel in a smooth arc, not a wasteful lob. I try to be crisp. Accurate. When I am warmed up, I let fly with the hard shit, huck it. I pick a target, always aim carefully. I try to keep good form.

I plant my feet.

No one will knock me down.

When I'm tired, I trust someone will be there to catch me, guide me toward the thing I need.

I am a body, comin' though the rye.

Catch.

Keep catching as catch can...

Kari