Go Fly a Kite Part 3

As soon as they pulled in driveway, Timmy unbuckled himself and jumped out excitedly.

"Dad, Dad," he called out before the front door had even closed.

"Back here, son."

Timmy ran down the hallway to his Dad's office.

"I got a kite Dad. You know how you always tell me to go fly a kite," Timmy naively asked.

"Mamaw took me to Walmart and bought me one."

As if he didn't even hear his son at all, he told Timmy to go get his glove. Timmy cowered.

"But I wanted to fly my new kite."

"Boy, if you want me to spend some time with you you'll go get your glove."

Those words crushed Timmy, but he ran to his room and put his kite on the bed and grabbed his glove out of his toy box. He ran outside and started tossing the baseball up in the air and trying to catch it. He was out there 15 minutes before his Dad came outside. With him only six years old, he spent far more time chasing the ball as it rolled than catching it.

When his Dad came outside he was on the phone, leaving the boy instantly disappointed. He tossed the ball to his Dad and his Dad threw it back. Drop, a bounced ball, throw, drop . . . the cycle repeated itself over and over.

It didn't take long Justin started. It wasn't malicious. It wasn't even purposely mean-spirited. He was just being him. As parents, it's easy to become hung up on performance instead of just being IN the moment and down on their level, which is all kids really want in the first place. . . a sentiment shared by every kid throughout the world no matter what their background.

"You're not keeping your eye on the ball Timmy," Justin, who was an All-State performer in high school, said.

"Talking to my son, we're playing catch," Justin quickly followed up.

"Who are you talking to Daddy," the son said ignoring his Father's pleas to 'do better.'

Justin ignored him before starting off a soapbox sermon with an audience of zero.

"Second place is the first loser. No point playing the game just for fun." Justin said, hoping to live his own dreams through Timmy of making it to the majors. "Your know your Daddy was All-State," he proudly proclaimed.

"Yep, if I wouldn't have thrown out my arm there is no doubt I would've made it to the pros."

"What's All-Steak," Timmy innocently asked. "Is that what Mommy fixes for dinner sometimes?"

The same cycle happened like clockwork. Only something strange happened . . . Timmy did catch the ball. His eyes got big like flying saucers when he realized his achievement. He quickly looked at his Dad, hoping and just knowing he saw the monumental moment. And he would've if he hadn't been so busy, on Facebook, drowning himself in everyone else's lives to even notice his own life just got wet with one of those irreplaceable instants!

Timmy threw down his glove and kicked the grass mad his Dad didn't even see what he did. He Ran over to the swing and threw himself on it belly-first as the pendulum sent him flying into the air, arms extended, like he was Superman. After another 10 minutes passed, of which Justin didn't even notice, he called Timmy back over to him. Come play catch again was the request.

Timmy walked back over and picked up his glove in happy-go-lucky fashion.

Throw, drop, chase. Throw, drop, chase. . . until lightning struck twice. Timmy closed his eyes and viola he caught another throw.

"Did you see that. Huh did you Daddy? Did you see," his eagerness bubbling over.

With the phone glued to his ear, Justin didn't miss a beat.

"Yeah I did. Good job, but next time keep your eyes open." As soon as the words hit the atmosphere, Timmy felt that all too familiar feeling . . . he was crushed!

His little spirit had soared to the heavens only to have them nosedive, crash and burst into a fiery inferno. Justin tried to think fast . . . after all, he was used to using his smoothness, his charm to get exactly what he wanted no matter the situation.

"Put it here son," he said as he reached his hand down to his son, initiating a high-five. But the damage had been. Sure Timmy halfway, and with the enthusiasm of watching paint dry, extended his hand up to his Dad, but he was just ready to get in the house.

As tears dripped down his cheeks, he tried to open the door, but his blurry eyes just wouldn't allow him. Justin, feeling terrible, raced up the five steps and pulled the handle down for his son.

He felt defeated, his spirit was crushed-- it was an all too familiar feeling. Maybe he would always be a screw-up . . . a failure. His Dad's words sounded like piercing screams in the middle of a slumber. They ate at him, consumed him and wilted any chance of life before it could bloom.

"Baby, what's wrong," Timmy's Mom Kailey asked.

"Dad," he shot back more hurt than angry.

Timmy started to walk off then turned back around, facing the kitchen, almost as quickly as he had started down the hall.

"Mom, wanna help me fly my new kite with me before it gets night-time?"

"I would love to," she started to walking to his room. Timmy smile was so big it could've covered up the sun.

"Oh shoot, I forgot. Baby, I can't play with you right now. I have spaghetti cooking for your Dad. Maybe next time. I promise."

It's always next time.