The little piece of tape that connects a father and son

It's been at least 20 years, but that little piece of tape is still stuck just inside the top drawer of my desk.
It's brittle and yellowish now, but somehow it's still stuck there, right where I put it years ago, sometime after my oldest son went in for surgery on his wrist.
Because I'm a father, not a mother, I can't remember when it happened, nor do I recall all the specifics of it, like how old he was or how long the surgery lasted. But I do remember him going into the hospital that day.

Doctors needed to remove a cyst from his wrist. Again, because I'm a dad and not a mom, I knew it probably wasn't going to be a life-threatening situation. Of course that doesn't mean I wasn't terribly worried about my son.
Honestly, I can't even remember how I ended up with the tape. Maybe it was stuck to his little hospital bed or maybe it was on his chart. But somehow, it wound up in my hands and then on the inside of my desk drawer.
My son, Grant, isn't my little boy anymore. He's a grown man, with a wife and a job and college classes. I'm as proud of him today as I was worried about him the day he went in for that surgery.
I love him now as much as I did back then. Of course I also worry about him now just as much as I did when he was little.
That never changes. 

Here it is, the tape with Grant's name on it. Been stuck to the inside of my desk draw for long, long time.

Look, I don't pretend to be the world's best father (in fact, I don't even have a mug or a T-shirt or plaque with those words on it). Heaven knows I wasn't always there for him and even when I was I didn't set a great example.
Sometimes I yelled. Sometimes I fussed. Sometimes I barely looked up from the newspaper when he was trying to talk to me.
But I also coached little league and went to school plays and scout meetings. I took him on a trip to Montana to cover some minor league baseball playoffs and we had an absolutely wonderful time.
When he was barely able to walk I put a ball in his left hand and taught him to throw because I understood the importance of left-handed pitching in baseball.
Today, he pretty much does everything with his right hand. But he still loves baseball, still plays and still throws (and bats) left-handed.
To me, that's pretty cool. It doesn't erase the mistakes I made with him, but it does give us a kind of connection ... a sort of inside joke between father and son.
Oh, I think I forgot to mention that surgery was on his left wrist. Yet another inside joke, I suppose.