IF I COULD DANCE WITH MY FATHER AGAIN

      I never cut the rug with my dad. He was too busy flying, fishing, or playing pinochle.  Still, when I hear Luther Vandross' "Dance With My Father Again", I feel sad. It describes a longing to re-live the boundless love between a father and child.
    I got to experience that yesterday at a softball game. My team of old guys was scheduled to play an exhibition game against a group of young poets.

      It was a part of this month's O Miami Poetry Festival. When we got to the Coral Gables field a game of 7-year-olds was finishing up. Each boy had a father cheering him on. My mind went back 26 years when I taught my own son, Dylan, to play ball.  Special times.

     An hour later as our game was about to start, my eldest son showed up. I was ecstatic to see him with my wife in the stands. A moment later the other team's captain told me they needed another player. I ran over to Dylan and told him, "They need an outfielder, you can use my glove, let's play ball!"  And we did.

     I watched him gracefully catch flies in left field. When it was his turn to bat he hit a home run. A proud papa got to dance with his son again.
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Despite the heroic efforts of Dylan and the rest of his team, the Young Viejos came out ahead in the annual game, 14-9.  Playing twice a week, we had experience on our side. 

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