By the time Dad hit fifty-five, the pattern was set: mostly I'd win, occasionally we'd tie.

Dads always hit me on the arm.

Dad hit him; that's why his face was bleeding.

"I've never seen Dad hit anyone, or look like he wanted to keep right on with it."

Librarians didn't look glamorous to me but maybe Dad had hit on a not very obvious truth.

And it's been 37 years since Dad hit 61.

Does he know when Dad hits a home run?

So Dad may hit a bucket of balls while the kids play miniature golf.

Call 911, give the police your name, address, say Dad is hitting Mother and sneak out when Father doesn't know.

Dad hit some keys, too.