These are the hands that I held when I was very small. These are the hands of a meat cutter who followed those of his father. These are the hands that showed me how to lay my fingers across the threads of a baseball to throw the perfect pitch. These are the hands that gently rested on my shoulders while singing “Sunshine on My Shoulders” in the car. These are the hands that taught me how to hold a racquetball racket and grip a golf club correctly. These are the 74-year-old hands of my dad on Fathers Day — hands that I am blessed to still be able to hold.

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