None of that mattered. It hadn’t when he was seven years old and his dad had brought him here for his first father-son pitching lesson, and it didn’t matter now, because Cole was seeing it through seven-year-old eyes, when the field had seemed special, the distance between the mound and the plate—a rubber mat they’d brought with them—had seemed immense, and he’d been buzzing with importance and excitement and love for his father.

He strode to the mound and gazed off to the bare spot of dirt that served as home plate and the catcher’s box, overcome by nostalgia and memories. His eyes slid shut as he was engulfed by the past.

He could hear his dad’s voice, first on the mound with him—teaching him a beginner’s leg kick, gently pulling Cole back from his overzealous determination to do a full wind-up, explaining that would come later—and then from the plate, encouraging, coaching, praising, teaching, and catching for him. With a start, he realized he could recall his dad’s smell—a hint of aftershave beneath the mint of the gum his old man had chewed incessantly.

With his eyes still closed, the years washed away, and Cole remembered that summer day like it was yesterday. The heat of the sun on his arms, the smell of cut grass and mint, the distant sound of little kids playing on the playground at the opposite end of the park. His dad’s enthusiasm when Cole picked up the basics more quickly than expected. His encouragement, his patience, his pride. His love.

He’d always known his dad loved him. Had taken it for granted for sure. Even when Cole had gotten in trouble at school or at home, even when his dad had disciplined him, there’d never been any question about whether he was loved. And always, no matter how much of a shit Cole had been, there was forgiveness.

When he felt little bits of dampness on his face, Cole opened his eyes. It was snowing. The silent, gentle flakes started out sparse, but within a couple of minutes, they’d picked up in intensity. He looked up at the sky, and it was like a 3D optical illusion with all the flakes coming at him. He wasn’t a religious guy, but as he gazed upward, the concept of heaven crossed his mind, and he wondered if his dad was looking down at him.

He lay down on his back, right there on the nearly flat mound, his arms behind his head to cushion it, and felt it—a peace like he hadn’t known for ages, maybe hadn’t ever known. And he knew. There was no logic to it, but still, he knew—his dad was looking down at him, sending him a message. A dad’s love forgave, and he was forgiven.