The Glove

A boy, baseball, a father, memories and a letter

Last Sunday

while sitting on the back porch

I oiled your old glove...

 

"Your first ballgame,

Possums vs. the Otters.

You were eight years old.

 

 I remember us in the yard

 playing "pitch and catch"---

sunlight playing tag in your hair;

 

the ball

flying back and forth

between us.

 

Batting practice... the ball cleared

the fence,

shattered Dr. Jenson's kitchen window.

 

We both ran for cover!

 

Your glove was deep brown then,

the color of your mother's hair---

"Ted Willams" scripted on the palm.

 

You would sit on the porch

 oil it  the first Sunday of the month

 just enough to keep it supple.

 

For the next ten years your mom and I

made Little Leauge and school games.

It wasn't baseball your mom enjoyed---

it was watching you play the game.

 

You grew taller, stouter, more confident

in your ability. The glove more supple

as it aged, it fit you like a second skin.

 

You used it in junior high, till the palm

became so thin that the ball stung

when you stopped line drives.

 

Your Junior year in college, scouts watching---

 You having your best year hitting .395.

 making no errors,

 

and some unbelievable plays, whipping

that ball where it was needed---

pounding it time after time into the bleachers---

 

You're gone now, living your dream...

 A major leaguer with the Sox...

 A face on a basball card.

 

 We miss you son----

 

Dad

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Miss Sally Sunshine]

Very nice! This is a very great poem!