The sound was deep and hollow, the exact sound of my backyard thirty-four years ago.

“You really oiled this every year?” he asked, his eyes wet.

“Every April,” I said.

Toby looked back toward the dugout, where his son, Leo, was trying to catch a ball with his cap.

“Leo!” Toby called out.

The little boy looked over and ran toward the fence.

“This was my glove when I was your age,” Toby told him, handing the dark leather Rawlings to the boy. “My dad took care of it for me.”

Leo’s eyes went wide. He put his small hand inside, the glove swallowing his arm up to the elbow.

“It smells like old cars,” the boy giggled, running back to his teammates to show them his new treasure.

Toby turned back to me.

He didn’t offer a dramatic hug, and we didn’t cry on each other’s shoulders. We aren’t those kinds of men.

But his shoulders relaxed, and the wall that had stood between us since 1992 finally crumbled.

“Grab a seat by the dugout, Dad,” Toby said, pointing toward a green bench. “I might need help with the batting order.”

I walked around the fence and sat down.

For the next two hours, I watched my son encourage eight-year-olds who missed every single ball thrown their way.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t point out their mistakes with a flat, cold voice.

He just smiled, clapped his hands, and told them to try again.

He was the coach I should have been.

After the game, we packed up the gear together.

Leo was running ahead of us, throwing a tennis ball into the air and catching it with his giant, historic glove.

“We’re getting burgers,” Toby said as we reached the parking lot. “You coming?”

“I’d love to,” I said.

I climbed into my car, but this time, the passenger seat was empty.

The glove was gone, right where it belonged.

And for the first time in thirty-four years, we didn’t talk about the weather.