Last Day of “Hit Me a Few”
At 5:00 in the afternoon, he drove the 1952 Ford pickup home. All day he had been delivering ice to homes with large, wooden ice boxes for preserving food. He was the ice man. Delivering ice was his job. He was my Daddy.
I, a boy of eight, had been waiting for him for over an hour. As he opened the pickup door and his left foot hit the ground, I ran toward him with a bat, ball, and glove in my hand, thrust the bat and ball into his large hands, and pleaded, “Hey Daddy, hit me a few!!”’
He was tired after work, but I knew he would oblige.
I ran with glove in hand toward the field in front of our home. With the bat resting in his right hand and on his right shoulder, Daddy with his left hand would throw the ball straight up in the air and then as the ball came down, he would quickly grasp the bat with both hands, swing, and send the ball high into the blue Texas sky for me to catch. After each catch, I ran the ball back to him. He would compliment me for each catch. He was the most important person in my life.
Sixty-five years later I know now that there must have been a last day Daddy and I played, “Hit Me a Few”. Either I grew to look to school activities with other kids or I dreamed of other players in a game. And Daddy became ill. Time ended “Hit me a few”.
Neither Daddy nor I knew when that last day happened. Neither of us planned for it. Neither of us wanted it. But there was a final hit of the ball on that last day and the ball climbed high into the blue Texas sky and fell into my glove for the last time.
And it was over.
How good it was!
Bobby Ezell
At 5:00 in the afternoon, he drove the 1952 Ford pickup home. All day he had been delivering ice to homes with large, wooden ice boxes for preserving food. He was the ice man. Delivering ice was his job. He was my Daddy.
I, a boy of eight, had been waiting for him for over an hour. As he opened the pickup door and his left foot hit the ground, I ran toward him with a bat, ball, and glove in my hand, thrust the bat and ball into his large hands, and pleaded, “Hey Daddy, hit me a few!!”’
He was tired after work, but I knew he would oblige.
I ran with glove in hand toward the field in front of our home. With the bat resting in his right hand and on his right shoulder, Daddy with his left hand would throw the ball straight up in the air and then as the ball came down, he would quickly grasp the bat with both hands, swing, and send the ball high into the blue Texas sky for me to catch. After each catch, I ran the ball back to him. He would compliment me for each catch. He was the most important person in my life.
Sixty-five years later I know now that there must have been a last day Daddy and I played, “Hit Me a Few”. Either I grew to look to school activities with other kids or I dreamed of other players in a game. And Daddy became ill. Time ended “Hit me a few”.
Neither Daddy nor I knew when that last day happened. Neither of us planned for it. Neither of us wanted it. But there was a final hit of the ball on that last day and the ball climbed high into the blue Texas sky and fell into my glove for the last time.
And it was over.
How good it was!
Bobby Ezell