I stopped by Mom and Dad's house today, to pick up some fresh tomatoes, a couple of cucumbers, and to look for my old childhood baseball glove. I knew exactly where to find it. Since retiring from organized baseball 38 years ago, my glove has sat on the same shelf in the garage, alongside a few baseballs, a wiffle ball, and a US Army recruitment frisbee.
I know that it belonged to my brother Danny before it was handed down to me, but I don't remember a time when it wasn't mine. I slept with this glove. It spent entire summers on my hand, or hanging from my bicycle handle bars. It was used to kill bugs, to carry pop cans, and as a hotbox base. It looks weathered but, in hindsight, I'm surprised that it is in as good a shape as it is.
I was always proud of how the leather was tanned from catching so many fastballs. Truth be told, it was like that long before it was handed down to me by my brother Danny. I guess he is the one that caught a lot of fastballs. The leather was beaten so thin that you'd pay the price if you didn't catch the ball in the webbing. Catch the ball in the sweet spot and you could make any pitch sound like a 90 mile an hour fastball.
When I first got the glove, I didn’t know who Ron Santo was or that he was a Chicago Cub. Because of this glove, I was always a fan of his, even though I wished for the Cubs to lose every game. I met him once and showed him my autographed glove. I’m sure he was impressed.
I remember nervously chewing on this piece of leather as I stood in the field, hoping for the ball to be hit to me. Or sometimes hoping for the ball not to be hit to me. I guess that depended on how close the game was or how big of a kid the batter was. I chewed on it today, just for old times’s sake. Still tastes the same.
Trying to be artsy, for this picture, I laid my glove on a bed of 1970 Topps baseball cards. I'm pretty sure these cards used to belong to Danny too.
11-year old, skinny, shaggy haired, Little League me. Choking up, wearing blue jeans and a MoorMan's hat. Busted up bike rack and a '75 Buick Century in the background. This picture sums up my childhood.
I truly wasn't worthy of a baseball glove as cool as mine. I'm still not, but I'm trying.
