Mi Abuelo taught me to love baseball; baseball taught me to love. 

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Abuelo Enrique was my best friend. He taught me about mortality, living in the moment, diffusing tense moments with laughter and how to enjoy a coffee—even if it's bad.

He died during COVID, but I had lost him years before. He wasn't the same after his stroke. Or maybe I wasn't the same. Maybe life hit both of us.

Whenever I called him, I could always hear baseball in the background, even in the offseason. He loved Los Doyers, but loved the game more. At times, we'd watch a couple of plays on the phone. I was in El Norte, but I could see him shaking peanuts like dice before popping them in his mouth—legs crossed, cold beer sweating.

I never asked him if he remembered any of the Dodgers' World Series wins from '55 to '88, but I'm sure he did. I also know we would have been on the phone crying after his hometown paisa Urias threw the last strike of the Series, had he not passed months before.

I think about Henru often, especially his dark humor. His ashes sit on my bookcase. I plan to hike Pico de Orizaba—Mexico's highest peak—and spread his ashes. He was afraid of heights.

Every year on the anniversary of his death, I do something related to baseball. The first year, I bought a Louisville Slugger and my wife and I found a diamond and watched our 4-year old run the bases.

The following year, a broken-in glove was on the list. I searched online (mi abuelo would've hated that), and went to some used sports stores, but came up empty-handed.

Discouraged, I thought of doing something else—maybe buy some Big League Chew, sit on some bleachers, and talk to him.

Later that day, I waited for a friend inside the corridors of the strip-mall on the corner of 700 East and 2100 South. It smelled of pizza and urine-soaked concrete (courtesy of the unhoused, if you want to quote Othello).

I stared at the Dees sign in all its glory—barely spinning anymore, half its lightbulbs missing. I don't know why or how, but I looked down at the brick flowerbed. And there it was, past the spider-filled juniper ground cover, something foreign. A smile in a room full of frowns.

I reached in and couldn't believe it. Faded leather. Shoelaced webbing. Worn-to-hell lacing. A perfect, beautifully broken-in glove.

I looked around praying the owner wasn't standing next to me. A smile crept in, then a chuckle. Then the levee broke, and a peal of laughter ensued. Anybody walking by would have thought I was having a mid-life crisis.

My son Knox has Sever's Disease. It's growing pains on steroids. When it's bad, he walks as if his soles are sunburnt. One day, Knox told us he wanted to give baseball a shot: "I think it might be my thing."

The next morning we got up and got his glove. He hadn't used it since Henru's first anniversary, his hands were as big as the glove.

At the store, Knox asked if I was going to get a glove. Henru's glove was beautiful, but it was shot. I grabbed one from the rack and went to the cashier.

The glove had a sticker on it for less than what gloves went for, so I asked the cashier to double check. I was right. I passed—I'd rather repair the miracle glove.

We got to the diamond and started breaking in my kid's glove. Back and forth the ball went. Back and forth we talked—teeter-tottering through small talk.

That's the beauty of playing catch. Laughs, adjustments and smiles filled the space between each throw. Then things slowed down. I was overjoyed.

If you've ever looked at the guts of a baseball, you know what it's made of: Layers of leather, stitching, seams, rubber and a cork center, all jumbled up by miles of cotton strings and yarn.

Love is like a baseball.

For the first days after my son was born, I would roam the halls of LDS Hospital, just looking at him while mama recovered. Like cork, my love was impermeable.

As he grew, our relationship was mostly one-sided—me making sure he didn't die: a first layer of thick black rubber. Slowly, our relationship became more two-sided: second layer of rubber. He began teaching me how to be more than a father—a friend, a dad. He protected me from my dumbass self. Taught me how to be more forgiving.

While we had begun wrapping yarn around our relationship for some years, I physically felt our bond growing with each throw on that Spring night. I was experiencing a heart full of grateful (to quote Dierks Bentley).

I caught my kid's damn-good throw and as I felt that, I paused. I told him that this was one of the best moments of my life. I told him I loved him and thanked him.

As we were calling it, he asked if we could play catch in the morning. I pulled up my work calendar and there it was: "ABUELO." I had forgotten Henru's anniversary.

"Do you think he was playing with us?" he asked. My eyes swelled. "Absolutely."

I don't know when the last stitch will be sewn in my life, but I'm looking forward to the jumbled miles of memories with my kid. Maybe he'll look at the white shiny leather of a pristine pearl and feel what I felt that cool evening with the purple mountains behind us, just before he throws the ball to his kid and starts wrapping the yarn around their love.

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