There was a time when the only thing that mattered was whether you could catch the ball. The sun burned hot on your back, the grass smelled like summer and sweat, and the popsicle you dropped three minutes ago was already a sticky puddle in the dirt. Your knees were scraped, your socks were wet, and your biggest worry was whether your brother—who was the worst pitcher in the history of backyard baseball—would throw it so hard it grazed your forehead. And if he did, he’d grin, demand the next turn, and somehow everything felt fair in the most unfair way.

Now, you’re grown. Bills arrive in aggressive fonts, emails feel like tiny daggers, and your calendar sneers every time you breathe. Your phone is a relentless referee, blowing whistles for meetings you didn’t want, texts you can’t ignore, reminders about things you’d rather forget. And yet, somewhere in the din, a small, stubborn voice whispers: But I just wanna play catch.

You look around. There is no ball. Only the cat, plotting world domination from the windowsill, and the dog, judging your life choices with a pitiful tilt of the head. You rationalize: “I can’t play catch. I have responsibilities. Meetings. Grocery runs. Existential dread.” But the voice refuses to quit. Just throw it. Just catch it. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

So you improvise. A crumpled piece of paper becomes a ball. Toss. The dog lunges. The cat bolts. The paper ricochets off the counter and clangs against the trash can, narrowly missing your foot. You laugh—a deep, ridiculous laugh—because adulthood’s endless nonsense cannot touch this tiny, rebellious joy.

You remember the real thing: sun-hot back, laughter that hurt your cheeks, the thrill of catching a ball just barely in time, the stomach-flip when it arced through the air like some slow-motion miracle. You remember how everything outside the backyard vanished: homework didn’t exist, chores were myths, parents weren’t hovering with “just one more thing” in their mouths.

You toss again. The paper ball sails a little higher, a little farther. The dog finally decides it’s not a threat, pounces, and sends it skittering under the fridge. You bend down, retrieve it, and grin. Absurdity is perfect. Life is still chaotic, but for a moment, it bends around your little game, accommodates your childish rebellion.

Maybe the neighbor starts their leaf blower. Maybe the phone buzzes with yet another reminder. Maybe the cat knocks over a cup of coffee because balance is clearly not in its vocabulary. Maybe the sprinkler system thinks you’re the enemy. None of it matters. You toss again. You catch. You miss. You fumble. You laugh at yourself, at the chaos, at the ridiculousness of being an adult and still longing for something so simple, so pure, so absurdly necessary.

And yes, some will say, “I don’t even like baseball.” That’s okay. Really, it is. This isn’t about baseball. It’s about principle—the small rebellion against a world that insists you be serious all the time.

You’re the ones who play Paper Toss on your iPhones during meetings, hiding screens under the table while a colleague drones on about synergy and deliverables. You’re the ones who sling birds at pigs with more enthusiasm than you ever showed at last quarter’s budget review. You know who you are. You’re not wrong.

The point remains: life is absurd. Responsibility is relentless. The world demands seriousness. Sometimes, the only way to survive is to throw something—anything—into the air and just… catch it. Not for a scoreboard, a grade, or approval. Just for yourself. Just for that fleeting moment when the weight of deadlines slides off your shoulders and you remember—maybe for the first time that week, that month, that year—that life is still allowed to be fun.

This is the adult version of play: chaotic, fleeting, absurdly necessary, and utterly underappreciated. And for those glorious, ridiculous moments, the weight of the world lifts, the deadlines fade, the emails stop stabbing, and all that matters is the ball, the air, and the unreasonably enduring thrill of just… catching it.

Candy Crush, anyone?

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.