Donning a glove for a backyard toss, or watching a ball game, we are players again, forever young.~ John Thorn; baseball historian.
Its baseball season again. Time to dig into the closet and pull out the
glove. I did that last year about this
time and went through some moments of panic when I couldn’t find it, tearing
the closet apart, shouting at my wife, "Cora, Where in hell is my glove?"
"I don't know. I don't play baseball." she yelled back.
Then I remembered that I’d loaned it to my son. I asked him to give it back which gave me an
idea for a present for his upcoming birthday.
That choice of present gave me some pause. You see giving someone a baseball glove is a
lot like giving a dog. It isn’t so much
like giving an object as it is giving a relationship. That’s why I couldn’t just give him my glove
and take the opportunity to buy myself a new one. Hell, I’ve had that glove since before I got
married. In glove years that’s more than
32. Like some of those ball players that
come out of South America or little leaguers out of Taiwan I don’t really know
its age. You don’t just give up an old
friend and decide to go out and get another.
So I chose my son’s glove with care. Went to two or three stores before I found
the one I thought most suitable. Along
with the glove I gave him the two accessories that are as necessary as the not
included batteries that those Christmas toys all need; a ball and glove oil to
properly break it in. When I was a kid
we all knew how to break in a glove; rub it with glove oil, slap a baseball in
the glove's pocket, wrap a rubber band around it and put it under your
mattress. It’s one of those things that,
when the time comes, you just know how to do – kind of like sex.
Like I said, my glove is of unknown age and forgotten
origin. It’s well-worn now and has that
unmistakable aroma of old leather, oil, baseball hide and grass. The webbing is as soft and supple as a pair
of overpriced Gucci dress gloves, just more valuable and it seems as if it no longer has the
strength to hold up against a hot shot. My glove long ago molded itself to the contours of my hand so that putting it
on is like putting on a natural extension.
When I was a kid, gloves used to have a player's name
burned into the leather; a Willie Mays model or a Mickey Mantle or a Duke
Snider. You were often judged by which player's name was on your
glove. Player's names no longer adorn baseball gloves.
At various times in the life of a glove it risks being
separated from its person. If you ever
play in a game from pickup to a community league invariably at some time
someone will come up to you and ask the question, "Can I borrow your glove
while you guys are up?" There's that awkward pause. What did
he ask? Borrow my glove? It's as if he'd just asked if he could French
kiss your wife; maybe worse. You look him over from head to foot and then from
foot to head and you ask yourself, "Is he going to treat it
right?" You give it a little toss to him along with the "take
care of it or else" stare and then during the entire half inning you watch
him to be sure he’s treating the glove with the proper reverence. Over the years a glove's owner will slam it
into the infield dirt, spit in it, throw it vainly at a just out of reach line drive or even use it as a base; but those are the prerogatives of the owner.
At the end of the game you swell with pride when the guy that borrowed your
glove hands it to you with a sort of deference, looks you in the eye and says,
"Nice glove."
Nowadays I only use the glove to play catch with my son
or to take to the ballgame in the rare event that a fly ball comes my way. I’m not sure but at this stage it might be
more hazard than help. When I was a kid
I could track a fly ball from the moment it left the bat. Now the ball simply becomes lost in the sky
and I can no more see it at the top of its arc than I could see a moth in the
stadium lights. I might be better served
with a good stout helmet. At a game last
year I got up to go to the concessions, gently placing the glove in Cora's
hands, "Guard this with your life,” I told her. “Do you know what to do
with it?" She giggled, went into a crouch and enveloped the top of
her head with the glove. "Perfect." I laughed.
If you’ve never owned a glove or you don’t like baseball
you can never appreciate the relationship between glove and player. It isn’t like a runner and his shoes. Once shoes start to wear you look forward to
replacing them with new ones and relegating the old ones to the humiliation of
being yard work shoes or a final burial in the potter’s field that is a trash
can. There’s no sense of loss; no
emotional tie.
Cora's so funny! I can totally picture the exchange lol
ReplyDeleteWell articulated, my friend, and you exactly captured the emotions that a glove's owner has about his/her glove. That emotional bond explains why a guy keeps his glove even after he has reached AARP age. Partly in preparation for moving sometime in the next few months or so, I recently sold my glove and hockey sticks. Even though I hadn't used the glove in years, it felt as if I had left my life behind when the glove changed hands. Strangely, the act of relinquishing the glove was more unsettling than the thought of possibly moving out of state.
ReplyDeleteCora's response to you not being able to locate your glove is priceless and explains why gloves mean so much to those who own them. It's not just playing ball, it's having grown up watching major league baseball. It's the kids who watch a game on TV, glove on hand. It's the kids who attend games and bring their gloves. It's the kids who read the backs of baseball cards and probably had a better idea of the location of Altoona than some major cities halfway around the world. It's the adults who get somewhat choked up when reading about the death of a Hall of Famer who they remember watching play when they were kids.
It wasn't that long ago that it was standard practice for major league players to leave their gloves on the outfield grass when returning to the dugout for their team's offensive half of the inning. I never understood why that was done; what, they couldn't be bothered to take the gloves into the dugout with them? What happened when occasionally a batted ball hit the glove? I've read stories of practical jokers who would stuff a glove's fingers full of grass, gum, and chewing tobacco to watch the expression of the glove's owner when he attempted to put it on upon returning to the field.
The NFL may have eclipsed baseball in popularity, it doesn't evoke the same emotions as baseball does. I have never seen a Ken Burns production that I didn't like. His series simply titled Baseball is the one I have watched more times than the others combined. The segments on the 1940s-1960s are absolute gems. There has been the stain of the steroid years, the strikes, the pathetic joke of Bud Selig as commissioner. With all those, the game is constant. There is not much difference between the games to be played this year in the majors compared to the games played at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn through 1957, when Walter O'Malley moved the Dodgers to Los Angeles and became the most hated man in Brooklyn in perpetuity.
This year, Vin Scully will once again be the broadcast voice of the Dodgers. He has done so since the early 1950s in Brooklyn. Anyone who has never heard him do a game has missed out on a true master of his craft. He is not only the best in the business, he is arguably the best who has ever been.
It's interesting how gloves have changed over the years. My first couple gloves had almost no pocket. Now the ball gets lost in the pocket. I've even seen pros double clutch trying to find the ball in the glove.
DeleteHyper-dittos on the glove. I still remember with real pain the day I arrived at my PE locker in 7th grade to find someone had forced the lock and stolen my Willie Mays model glove. I did not play ball for nearly 30 years after that - it just didn't feel right. I too take my glove to games. One day I was watching batting practice before a day game. John Franco was catching flies. He snagged one, turn 180 degree to scan the bleachers for someone to toss the ball to and his eye settled on me. He arched it to me and I raised my glove. I was soooo nervous watching that ball sail directly toward my glove. I was so nervous I'd drop it!. A jerk nearby lunged to intercept the ball but was just too far away to snatch it without an outright dive. I caught a ball at the game with my glove! I would so like to buy John Franco a drink, maybe two.
ReplyDeleteThe first glove I owned was reminiscent of the gloves from the 30s. Kind of flat, just fit your hand, had almost no pocket and thus required a certain amount of skill to catch the ball. My second glove was a fielder's glove (Brooks Robinson if I recall correctly). I gravitated to first base and got a first baseman's glove and then in young adulthood got the glove seen in the picture.
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