After this, we had dinner and Willie found a new tennis ball that he got for his birthday. We played our version of catch, where I have to wrest the ball from his mouth and toss it past him while he plays "goalie" trying to block it, then chasing it if he misses it or deflects it.
This game was never for Oates, who seemed to lack both the attention span or the jaw span to play catch. But when he was younger, he'd play an aggressive side game of "defense" trying to thwart Willie and otherwise disrupt his game. Often, Willie would get angry and then attack Oates, who would retreat and start over.
It's not that late but Oates was too tired to play that, and with his arthritis and age kicking in, those days of "defense" are few and far between.
But Willie played with the same enthusiasm and agility he always has. I'm especially delighted when the ball goes somewhere difficult and he figures out a shortcut or clever way to retrieve it.
I was struck by the fact that this blog, not much more than a month old, started right after Willie's sudden illness, which looked possibly fatal. It's so beautiful to see him back. I haven't taken one day, one moment for granted. I had the odd thought that if he had indeed died, I'd be so overcome with grief that I might have imagined this night, this game of catch, just to deal with the hole he would leave in my life.
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