Ringers in the Backyard

My father pitched horseshoes every Sunday afternoon of my childhood, in a sandpit he dug behind the garage. I never paid much attention. This summer, at fifty, I asked him to teach me. He's seventy-eight.

He dug the old horseshoes out of the shed, cleaned the rust off them with a wire brush and rebuilt the pit with fresh sand. He showed me how to hold the shoe, swing it underhand with a gentle flip and let it go at the top of the arc. "Don't throw it," he said. "Let it fly."

For weeks, my shoes landed everywhere except near the stake. One hit the garage door. One went over the fence into the neighbor's tomatoes. My father laughed until he had to lean on the fence.

But in September, on a warm Sunday, I threw my first ringer. The shoe spun through the air and clanged around the stake. My father dropped his iced tea. He shouted. He hugged me. He went inside and told my mother, who came out on the back steps and clapped.

We play every Sunday now. He still wins most of the time. I don't mind at all.