one memory

I have this memory about my dad, from when I was thirteen or maybe twelve.  I asked him if he would go throw a baseball with me.  We lived in Sydney at the time.  So we went down the street to a park.  It was Balmoral park.  And we threw a ball for a while.

Why do I remember that?  The park was at the bottom of our street in Mosman, New South Wales, Australia.  And I remember that day and that time, like it was some memorable time.  But all we did was walk down to the park, at my suggestion, and throw a ball for a while.  Twenty minutes tops.

It was the same as I would do now.  If one of my kids asked me, I would say, Sure, and would walk down to the end of the street, and would throw the ball, back and forth, for as long as they wanted, and then he would say he’s had enough.  And we would walk back up the hill, to our house half way up, and I would go back to playing the drums, and he would go back to reading the paper with his beer.