By Warren Baker
The ball didn’t spin. Not even once.
When it left dad’s hand, it was as if he put the baseball on an invisible stick and shoved it my way. You could count the stitches as it came closer.
The ball flew in slow motion, and it hit my glove with a sharp, painful crack. I meant to catch it in the webbing, but it hit the palm part of the glove instead. I yelped like a little puppy, and the ball popped out of the glove and hit the ground.
I never could catch his knuckleball, and I’m okay with that.
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