A couple of days ago, I was in a consignment shop for children’s articles. My little man is in the 99% percentile for height and weight, and he outgrows clothes as quickly as I can buy them. I learned quickly that the expense of new clothes wasn’t worth it. While doing a quick browse through the shop’s toy section, a used leather fastpitch softball glove caught my eye. It looked cute–black with pink accents. I picked up the glove. It felt soft and flexed easily. The girl (or progressively minded boy) who owned it before had broken it in nicely. I tried it on, fully not expecting it to fit since it was a child’s glove. To my surprise, it fit, well, like a glove. Having small hands is not always a bad thing, I mused. I tossed it in my shopping cart thinking that maybe someday my 4 year old daughter will use it.
This evening, the weather in Clearwater was particularly pleasant. The summers here may be more humid than a baboon’s rectum, but winter in Florida is perfection. My husband spotted the glove in the garage. “Where did that come from?” I bought it the other day at the consignment shop, I explained. I thought Lana could use it someday, although it fits me well.
Out of nowhere I asked. “Wanna play catch?” Sure, he said. He grabbed his glove and a baseball. I haven’t played catch in at least 20 years, since I was a teen with my dad.
We tossed the ball back and forth in the front yard while the little man watched us from his stroller and my daughter swung happily from her swing. He threw a few balls with some wicked spins, renewing my appreciation for the skill set of baseball professionals that I sometimes take for granted since they make it look so easy. My husband complimented me on my ability to field grounders. It’s the Dominican shortstop in me, I responded. Our neighbor drove by slowly and smiled approvingly at our game of catch. The sound of the ball hitting the leather was so reassuring and made me long for baseball with increased fervor. Gripping the ball in my hand and seeing it spin through the air brought me back to my childhood, to those endless summer evenings in New York spent with dad at the park, fielding balls together. As the sun set to the soothing sound of a baseball slapping leather, the setting couldn’t have been more idyllic. Tonight, I was a kid again, all thanks to an old used glove.