As fathers all across the country force a smile at their pocket screwdriver sets and gaudiest of ties, the holiday takes me back to memories of my father and I.

Without breaking into a rendition of "Cats in the Cradle," let me take you back a bit.

I can remember trying to pry him off the couch and away from some race in Pocono long enough for us to get some throwing done in the yard.

I tried to assure him that the numbered cars would still be turning left 30 minutes later.

In a day and time in Marshall County when the game hadn't evolved into the long season it is today, my thirst ran deep. Tryouts, the regular season and all-stars took you from late March till mid June before having to hang up the cleats.

When my brother started bagging groceries at 15 and Farmington didn't exactly provide a surplus of playmates, Dad had to step up his game.

It took taking on my mother and her obese cat as allies to get him up. What I usually did was get her to yell at him while I drug the feline from under the bed. After obtaining the massive furball, I tossed it onto his stomach. The weight knocked his breath away and got him to at least sit up.

Having shoes, a hat, a ball and glove within arm's reach are vital at this point. If he finds any reason to lay back down it's all she wrote.

So, after seemingly a week's worth of negotiations, we're tossing the hardball around.

After having to squat down while his brother George pumped gas into his hand in their younger days, he had no problem catching pearls from me that would do well to break a pane of glass.

The unwanted exercise tried his patience from the get-go. All it took was a couple curveballs to shorthop into his shin before he was back in front of the TV.

For those who are as big of fans as I am of the 1989 movie "Field of Dreams," you'll see the irony of getting to play catch with my father. Kevin Costner was trying to "ease his pain." Here I was providing quite the opposite.

Needless to say, I was the first 10-year-old on my Little League team to learn how to throw a curveball for a strike.

Years of rebellion later it's become tough to have quality conversations with the good ole boy from Bell Buckle. Not sure if it's an inability to relate to one another's lifestyle or what. But, there's always baseball.

The national pasttime has long been the backbone of our family.

Nowadays, I write about it. My brother Chris coaches it. Mom still hates it when the Braves lose. Dad takes it as serious anyone possibly can.

He's the salt-and-peppered guy sitting on the top row scaring your kids and wearing down the umpire's patience. The decibels emitted are hard to ignore by anyone except Duck River Speedway faithful or troops on the deck of an aircraft carrier.

Later this afternoon I'll get to take the mound for the Shelbyville Sox in an adult baseball league game in Antioch. I hope he's there barking out his patented "put him in the books" and "rock and shoot" quotes at me.

If he's not, then it's off to the kennel to find the chunkiest cat in Bedford County.

If he is, then "...we'll get together then, Dad. You know we'll have a good time then."