From The Prince of Tides:
My father looked older, but so did I. In his face, I saw Luke’s face. I knew he must have seen my mother’s face. My face hurt him now but neither of us could help that. We talked about sports and coaching. The long clean seasons of football, basketball and baseball that divided all the years of our lives and provided this father and son with the only language of love allowed to pass between them.
“The Braves are only four games out of first, Dad,” I said as we crossed the Savannah River.
“Niekro’s got to get hot for them to have any kind of chance at all. No one in the major leagues can touch his knuckleball when he’s got it dancing good.” Dad answered, but beneath the answer I heard the inarticulate cry, the heartbreaking cry of the father’s clumsy effort to force up all the strength of love he could summon for a child. I heard it and it was enough.