It was 10 at night when my parents returned, exhausted. My mother headed straight for bed, but my father hung around.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I want to see the game,” he said.

Excellent to read with this piece: https://readup.com/comments/-the-new-york-times-company/like-father

@sjwoo, thank you for sharing these raw stories and memories of your father. They are powerful.

💥 Powerful 💥

My father took the glove off and shook his left hand. His palm was as red as a beet.

Dad, who passed away 11 years ago, never told me he loved me. But that sound of the baseball landing in the soft flesh of his hand, over and over again — it spoke its own tender language, though at the time, all I felt was shame.