We got to the stadium early enough for batting practice.
He carried our mitts, one inside the other. As we walked inside, I put my hand around his shoulder.
Our seats were in left field. My son stood, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet.
The baseball was hit on a line, a laser beam that carried over the fence, smacked into the facade, and bounced into the section above us. And he was off, bounding up two steps at a time. He ducked under a seat, and emerged holding the ball in his hand. He held it up over his head, a huge smile on his face.
At home, only a day earlier, I had walked towards him. He walked away and sulked. "I hate you Dad."
An attempt at micro-fiction, AKA"flash fiction," a form of ultra-short story, described here and here and here.