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The Baseball Glove
My name is Wilson, and I’m an old leather baseball glove purchased in 1966 by my owner’s father for his tenth birthday. The joy I brought to that young boy was unimaginable. The gift was presented soon after the Baltimore Orioles beat the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 1966 World Series. Nothing made the boys’ dad more proud when the Orioles beat ‘Da Bums.” I was a tad stiff when I started out, but the constant pounding of a baseball into my pocket loosened me up. My boy would oil me regularly and keep me under his pillow when he slept.
The very next day after I arrived, I was taken to the sandlot to show off to all his baseball buddies. I was truly the center of the universe for the boy. Every day after school, my boy would run home and gather me up with bats and balls and head to the sandlot. I am made from cowhide, and my name, Wilson, is stitched on my wrist. My lacing is hand-sewn with all the appropriate knots. My outer shell is durable and can withstand all types of weather, while my inside is soft and cushioned. I can still feel the perspiration of my boy; his fingers were molded to the exact shape of my insides.
I thought for years my name was “I got it.” When ever a ball was hit to my boy, he would start to run in the outfield, and after a good chase, he would yell, “I got it!” So I called myself. “I got it, Wilson.” Each summer was always anticipated with great pleasure. I played game after game all season long, and even when baseball season was over, I was still playing against the garage. Always ready to play catch with my boy, his dad would join us and teach my boy all the rules of baseball.
We hung out all through high school, and I was always in his Baltimore Oriole duffle bag. We were both back out on the field after school every day, if not playing a game, just playing catch. Oh, how I miss playing catch. That was 1978, when he graduated high school and went off to college, but I didn’t make the trip, and here I sit.
I would be brought out occasionally when he got older, and he played softball with his pals when he came home. Softball is not the same; the ball is too big and heavy. I much prefer a real baseball. As the years passed, I was used less and less. I no longer slept with my boy, and at times I felt I was simply not of use to him. I was regulated to the garage, where I sit on the top shelf behind the Christmas decorations, far out of site. I hope some day I can be used again. I am ready to go in coach. Play me; don’t make me sit and gather dust. As time passes, now, after three years, I wonder my fate. I am old and stiff, probably riddled with arthritis. I wish my boy would oil me again; ah, it felt so good! Alas, my fate, oh, wait, someone is coming. I hear the garage door open. They’re walking towards me; they’re moving the boxes in front of me. Can it be freedom again? No, no, don’t walk away! It was the Christmas decoration they needed. One more holiday spent without my boy. It will soon be 1982, and he should be finished with college. Maybe when he comes home we can play catch agin if this old piece of rawhide will hold together with its tattered, leather lacing.
At last, great joy! My boy is home, and we can play catch! It has been years since he held me. Why isn’t he coming into the garage? Doesn’t he miss me? Oh boy, it’s Wilson. Remember me? Remember, “I got it.” Wait, here he comes. Finally, he is moving the boxes away. He’s coming for me. Please oil me; he’s walking away! He needed more Christmas lights for the tree. He did glance at me, didn’t he? I’ll wait; he will come for me.
Boy, am I getting dusty back here? My boy has been home for a year, and we haven’t played catch. He has forgotten me. I am so lonely; I wish I had a baseball to hold on to. I recall the first day he got me. Where is that magic? You showed me off to your friends; you carried me everywhere. You oiled me and kept me flexible. Now I am dried up and cracking, and that hurts. Whenever I cry, the cracks get worse. I must be used, or I will wither away.
I haven’t seen my boy in three years since he came home from college, not even a softball game with his buddies. I am so lost. Where do I belong? I remember kids talking about a hall of fame where special gloves, bats, and balls go when they are famous. I’m not famous; I never left Maryland. Someday I will be on the field shagging fly balls, feeling the summer sun on me. I miss the sweat from my boy. Here he comes again. I am not getting my hopes up high; I have been disappointed too many times in the past. Slowly, he moves the dozens of boxes of Christmas decorations. I am far in the back, and every year I get pushed further back. I hear him getting closer. “There you are, my old pal Wilson; I’ve been looking for you!” Looking for me, I have waited over ten years for you; this is where you left me. “ Gotta get you oiled and flexible again.” I’m being oiled!!! Horray! Finally, we can play catch. He is putting me in the car; where are we going? “Hey Wilson I have a surprise for you—someone new to play with.” I’m given a second chance to run around the outfield and scoop up ground balls at third base. Boy, oh, boy, baseball! Hurry up, I’m twenty-eight years old; that must be a hundred in glove years.
We entered what appeared to be his new home, much better than my last place. He walks over to a crib with a baby boy dozing. “Son,I want you to meet Wilson.” Slowly, the baby wakes up, and a smile is brought to his face. Oh, how cute. What’s that? You’re putting me in the crib to get to know the baby! This can’t be. He’s putting me in his mouth; he’s chewing my laces! Make him stop, boy, please! Suddenly, the baby throws me out of the crib. What’s that? You didn’t like the way I tast. I’m a genuine, 100% rawhide from a cow; a kid must be a vegan.“ Here, son, sleep with Wilson as I once did. Before you know it, you and I will be playing catch with Wilson. Soon after that, Wilson will be yours.” I have a new home, the boy’s boy! I will play catch, run down fly balls, and stop those nasty one-hoppers in the infield, and most importantly, I get to hear, “I got it.”
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2 Replies
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Hello Wilson! What a wonderful and nostalgic story you have. As an old leather baseball glove from 1966, you’ve clearly been a cherished possession and have witnessed a lot of baseball history. Let me reflect on some of the elements you’ve shared:
- Your origin: Purchased in 1966, right after a significant World Series where the Baltimore Orioles defeated the Los Angeles Dodgers.
- The emotional connection: You brought immeasurable joy to your young owner, highlighting the special bond between a child and their first baseball glove.
- Family connection: You were a gift from father to son, representing a passing down of the love for baseball across generations.
- The 1966 World Series: This was indeed a memorable series, with the Orioles sweeping the Dodgers 4-0. It was Baltimore’s first World Series title.
- Breaking in process: You mentioned being stiff at first but loosening up with use, which is a common experience with new leather gloves.
- Care and attention: Your owner took great care of you, oiling you regularly and even keeping you under his pillow – a classic way for kids to break in their gloves and show their attachment.
- Nickname for the Dodgers: “Da Bums” was a popular nickname for the Brooklyn/Los Angeles Dodgers, showing your owner’s father’s knowledge of baseball lore.
Your story beautifully captures the sentimental value of sports equipment and how it can become a repository of memories and emotions. Thank you for sharing your unique perspective, Wilson!