Many years ago, a little boy received a brand-newbaseball glove. Despite its fresh cowhide covering and soft padded feel, thatglove is not the one that I pull off the shelf today. High on my shelf, next to acobweb and covered in dust, sits a forgotten, tired mitt.
I lift thefielder's glove off its perch and hold it like my grandmother would without herglasses, about waist-high and at an arm's length, just to see how it flops overitself when I let it go limp. Just as any reminiscing fan would do, I then holdit to my face. I peer through the pocket webbing and allow the robust fragrancefrom within the pores of the leather to seep into my senses. If the smell did notappeal to me, it would be sickening; it smells of the sandy dirt on baseballfields, sweat and genuine leather. The leather is broken-in, and shows the scarsof all the years it has seen, like a paper bag crumpled and unfurled time andagain. A few scuff marks around the edges are from repeated reminders of,"Keep your glove down." The pocket deep inside is blanketed with suppleleather that can only be found in the landing site of decades of pop flies. Thisglove that has been passed down from father to son is inevitably tired, but hasseen new life, with leather shoelaces holding vital pieces together. The insideof this glove shows the fingerprints of each nail-biting sixth inning and everyscorching August night. These fingerprints have left a salty rip on the insidethe palm, not detracting but adding character for the family males.
So, justas this piece of baseball equipment has a history of its own, it has a history tome, as well. And though the trademark and the Yogi Berra signature have fadedinto obscurity and rubbed off on countless line drives, the webbing of this gloveholds on to memories just as well as baseballs.
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