We settle into our seats at the stadium just as the minor league game begins. His ball glove rests in his lap.

"You'll protect me from any foul balls that come flying at us, right?" I ask.

"Sure," he responds.

Third inning. The hitter swings the bat and the ball flies up and over, soaring through the sky in our general direction. People around us stand. He slips on his glove and stands, too. I remain seated, watching the ball follow an arc in the air that seems aimed right for us. I follow the ball with my eyes as it begins to drop, as hands around us reach into the air, as he stretches his higher than the rest. I follow the ball with my eyes as it plummets toward us, closer and closer and closer and then I see his glove close around it. From my perspective, it looks as though the ball just landed in his glove, like it chose him out of all the people in the crowd. Or maybe he snatched it from the air and, like everything else he does, the catch just appeared effortless. Either way, he is beaming down at me now, ball cuddled snugly in his glove. People slap his back as he sits down and passes his prize over to me.

I kiss his cheek proudly. "I knew you'd catch it," I tell him.

"You did?"

"Yeah. I didn't even flinch. I just watched it fall, closer and closer. Because I knew you'd catch it."

"How did you know?"

"Because you're you. And I just knew."