In the park, a Little League game is being played by 11-year-olds. They delight in the moment of friendly competition under the afternoon summer sun.

Beyond the outfield fence, an old man, fully aware that his time clock is ticking down his final minutes, sat in his house at his desk writing his eulogy to his loved ones. He looked out the window and he smiled.

He put his pen to the paper. “When I die, don’t make me a memory. Instead do this for me. It’s my only decree. Go visit someone who’s lonely. Be sure to love your one and only. When I die, don’t cry for me. Celebrate my legacy. Let your heart roam free. Laugh like a child. Do something wild. Life is too short to waste a minute. Get in the game. Go play and win it.

“When I die, give me away. Do it the same day. Don’t let sadness sway. Give me to someone you miss. Hug them for me. Give them my love. Let them be free.

“I’ll never be gone. I’ll be the star you wish upon. I’ll be your shade under an old oak tree. I’ll be up on the mountain. I’ll be down in the valley.

“When I die, you can find me here and everywhere. I’ll always still care. I’ll always be near.

“Do this for me. This is my remedy. Give me away. Do it the same day. Let love lead the way. To someone you miss, give them my kiss.

“When I die, don’t cry for me. Let your spirit fly free. Keep just a part of me inside your heart because in the end … we’ll never be apart.”

The old man looked out the window. He rubbed his eyes after he saw that the boy who had hit a double and was standing on second base was himself, wearing a helmet much too big for his head.

“That’s me, alright,” he said out loud.

The batter swung and hit the ball into left field. “Run!” the old man shouted at himself. “Watch the throw. Don’t get tagged out!”

He stopped safely at third base. He turned to home plate his to see his dad holding a bat and walking up to the batter’s box.

“C’mon, Dad! Get a hit!” shouted the old man out the window.

“Hey son,” his father hollered across the diamond. Suddenly time stopped. The game stopped. The players stood still like statues.

“That was nice hit you had,” said Dad. “You’ve always played life like a baseball game. You won some. You lost some. One day you hit a home run. The next day, you struck out. But the most important thing is that you always showed up for baseball, and you always showed up in life.

“You never quit on yourself, and you were always there for your family. That makes you a winner in my book, son. No matter how many times you lost in life, you’re a winner. That’s your legacy, and you did it every day. You played hard. You loved hard.

“You left it all on the field.”

The old man wiped a tear from his eye. “Thanks, Dad.”

His emotions shifted. “So, you gonna swing the bat, or what?”

The kids on the diamond became animated again. “He can’t hit,” shouted the third baseman. ‘Swing, batter, batter, batter, swing!” yelled the shortstop.

The pitcher’s tongue shot out to the corner of his mouth. He looked to the catcher for the sign. From the wind up came the pitch. The old man watched his father take a mighty swing. The ball rose so high in the sky that it disappeared.

“Son, I hit that one for you. You’d better go get it.”

“But the ball never came down,” said the old man, with his eyes looking through the window to the sky. He glanced back at home plate and his father was gone.

The old man picked up the pen and returned his attention to the paper he was writing, but first, he looked out the window again, and the Little League game had resumed. He saw himself standing on third base. He peered down at the paper and with a trembling hand, he moved the pen to print, “GOT TO GO HOME.”

Suddenly, he laughed. He remembered something said to him many years ago that he needed to say now. He tried to shout, but the words came out in a raspy whisper.

“If they don’t have baseball in heaven, then I ain’t goin’!”

He moved the pen again. “When I die, bring me to a home full of joy. Where I can play baseball like a boy. Where I can play catch with my dad. Wow, would that make me glad!”

He heard his father’s voice bellowing out of the sky. “C’mon up, son. You gotta find that ball I hit. It’s somewhere inside the big cloud that’s right over the Little League field. Oh, and God loves baseball, too. A doubleheader begins as soon as you get here — Angels vs Saints on the Field of Dreams just behind the sun.”

The old man looked back at the game. The batter got a base hit. He watched himself run. When he stepped on the plate, he disappeared just like his dad had.

Just before he dropped the pen, he wrote in large letters, “I’M HOME.”

To our dads in heaven and to all the dedicated dads here on earth …

Happy Father’s Day!

Email Rich Strack at richiesadie11@gmail.com