I think I've shared this before but I have a similar story about my dad...
I stopped playing baseball my freshman year in high school. Leading up to that, my dad had probably thrown me thousands of pitches for BP and another thousands of ground balls. When I stopped playing it all kind of just ended.
Flash forward to around 2002 or so and Mrs. Macanudo and we're visiting him and his new wife in Oregon one summer. We went out to the coast for a day trip and had taken two cars. After we got set up on the beach my dad asked me to go back to his car and grab the bag he'd left in the trunk. When I opened the trunk, there was a small bag that I could see two gloves and a couple of balls. One glove was his beat up, but still perfectly good old Wilson one from all those years ago. The other looked nearly new but had clearly been broken in.
I walked back down to the beach and tried to keep it together when I tossed him his glove and said "let's do this."
We played catch for at least 30-45 minutes before taking a break. Between my dad, Mrs. Macanudo (She played softball growing up) and I, the three of us tossed the ball around a good chunk of the day.
God times.