The fear on his face was palpable as only a ten-year-old’s can be. “My stepdad’s gonna KILL me!”

Now, we know that if any young boy stole away with his father’s prize possession, in this case a baseball signed by Babe Ruth, he would be in deep trouble. And yet, there was another layer of terror on this innocent child’s face. Imbedded there was evidence of the years of pain at losing a dad, trying with all his might to re-create that relationship with a relative stranger, then perhaps blowing it all with a bonehead move.

If you haven’t seen The Sandlot, you haven’t discovered the joys of this equal-opportunity tearjerker for girls and guys, moms and dads, daughters and sons.  I watch part of it whenever I come across it, which is often, on various cable channels. I only have a daughter, so the vagaries of young boys trading insults worthy of an American Pie movie AND sharing emotions straight out of Jane Austen is newfound joy—and pure entertainment. And there’s the booming presence of James Earl Jones to boot.

But the bittersweet, very special note that is struck here has all to do with the narrator’s backstory, that stepson doing all he can to bond with his new and somewhat distant stepdad. And I have to admit, when they finally have that seemingly mundane moment, playing catch in the backyard, it’s all I can do to hold back a sob.

Funny thing is, so was my husband.