Night has fallen on the football field. The Flash joins Dawson where he sits pensively on the bench. "The night you were born, I bawled like a baby," The Flash tells him, without preamble. Frankly, if a head that oversized issued from my wife's womb, I too would weep, but anyway, Dawson smiles and says with sincere affection, "Really? I didn't know that." The Flash admits to crying for the next twenty-four hours: "Holding you so small in my arms -- I never knew I could love anything so much -- so fast -- so utterly." Well, except free weights. "Part of me was terrified," he continues, adding, "Raising a son is more a matter of faith than most people know." "So is being one," Dawson responds. The Flash says, "You're right." Father and son exchange a level look before The Flash says, "I think I realized something today," and when Dawson asks what, The Flash tells him, "That my job as a father isn't to give you the whole picture, because the truth is, I can't see it myself. My job is to try and help [sic], every now and then, with a piece of the puzzle." Huh? Dawson says The Flash has helped him, and The Flash says he hopes so, but Dawson's future and expectations belong to Dawson, and he shouldn't let anyone stand in the way, not even The Flash. Dawson remembers that The Flash always taught him "to be my own person, to think for myself. I just did what you taught me." After a manly silence, which I thank the heavens above neither of them ruined by choking out a tearful "I love you, [insert nickname here]," The Flash does the next cheesiest thing, suggesting they go home and "pop in a little Close Encounters or something." Uh -- nope, no comment on that. Dawson gets up and proposes tossing the old pigskin around instead, but The Flash declines, saying, "Gimme that. Why don't we leave the football here on the field where it belongs," and he hurls the football . . .
. . . into the past. Cut to the home movie of Young Dawson and The Flash playing catch in -- all together now -- slo-mo. The strains of a nostalgic song twang away on the soundtrack as Joey watches the home movie. Attired in a tank top so strappy that it barely has straps at all, and strangely formal hair-and-makeup for an evening at home watching videos, she smiles through tears while watching her younger self clown around on a swing-set with Young Dawson and her late mother. The nostalgic song croons, "You think that I don't love you / You're just wrong," and I head out my front door and up to the roof with an armful kindling and a towel, the better to spell out the words "we get it" using smoke signals, because yes indeedy, WE GET IT. Joey smiles as her younger self chases Dawson around his backyard, then gets sad again, then smiles again, and as the screen fades to credits, the soundtrack of the home movie pipes up, "Bye, Joey." "Bye, Dawson." Bye, cornea. Bye, stomach lining.