I'm no pitcher. But the first time I made my father flinch with my fastball, I felt as if I had grown up that day. My hand was finally big enough to affect the ball's trajectory and make his sting.
It was 1978. I was 10. “I don't know how much longer I can catch these,” said my already aging parent, who would deny two decades later that he ever said anything of the sort until I was at LEAST 14.
