The Baseball Glove

With Kaifas, our five-year-old, on his first tee-ball team I’ve been wishing I had still had my old glove, one Pa passed down to me. It was the only thing Pa gave to me from his childhood that I actually used – a real deal family heirloom, and one of those perfectly beaten, oiled-to-the-hilt, grey leather things that had been run over by grandpa’s station wagon about fifty times. It looked like it was going to petrify but when you slipped it on, it was more supple than anything you could get at the shop.

So two nights ago I had a dream that I found the glove. Later that day, the boys and grammy and I were all playing a baseball game at the local diamond – pretending it was Cubs versus Giants – and a white truck screeches into the parking lot a bit recklessly. A grey-haired guy in a Giants hat lumbers up to us with two beautiful, well-worn leather gloves in his hands. I was sure he was going to kick us off the field because he had a practice to start, but, saying nothing, he just puts the gloves in my hands.

“They’re yours,” he says. “For the boys, for the boys! You know… when they grow up.”

He turned around and got in the truck.

I’m not sure how these things work, but I’m pretty sure Pa arranged that. Thanks old man!