"You can tell that glove has some age on it," the new client said while examining my office and spotting the 'artifact' on a bookshelf. "Yes, it's the one I used when I played baseball in high school," I answered. Embarrassed, he sputtered, "Open mouth, insert foot." "It's o.k.", I assured him. "It is old."
As a newbie in town in my junior year, I decided to try out for the team as the veteran first baseman, Robert, had graduated the previous year. Turns out that I was not the only aspirant to the position. Joe, knowing that the spot was open, had purchased a new mitt in anticipation of being the starter. When the coach selected me as Robert's replacement, I struck a deal with Joe and bought his mitt (the one pictured above).
It Happens Every Spring was a 1949 baseball movie starring Ray Milland as a hapless chemist who discovered a formula that made a baseball repellant to wood (remember wooden bats?!). (The movie is available on You Tube.) The "Every Spring" appeal to "play ball" is real. My uncle who pitched in the Minor Leagues said that he got the 'itch' to play every Spring. And, while my playing was restricted to high school, I appreciate the urge. And, I suppose, that was what brought the old mitt to mind today. The Major League teams began the season a dozen or so games ago.
Our teams in 1955 and 1956 played well enough that we enjoyed the game. Our coach (all sports) also taught Chemistry, Physics, and French I and II, as well as PE classes. Students nicknamed him Curly because he was as bald as the proverbial billiard ball. He had two signs . . . crossing his arms meant we were to bunt and crossing his legs meant 'steal'. On separate occasions, I missed both signs . . . once to a reprimand when I was called 'out' on an attempted steal and the other to a mildly sarcastic 'Nice bunt, my Name' when I ignored his bunt sign and hit my only high school home run.
In my Senior year, we were playing a cross-county rival. With a runner on first base their batter hit a grounder to our shortstop. Classic double play setup. He scooped the ball to the second baseman who caught it, pivoted and threw to me. I stretched, caught the ball which promptly broke every string in my mitt and continued its trajectory. Curly was not pleased and let me know that ---as if I had 'caused' the situation. I finished the game with a regular glove and took the mitt to the local shoe repair shop for a retread. My 'career' ended that Summer. The American Legion coach invited me to try out for his team. My dad told it to me straight: if I were going to college that Fall, I would need to work during the Summer to help meet expenses.
Several years ago, a therapy client was reminiscing about his father whom he had barely known, since the man had died when his son was five years old. As the conversation progressed, I learned that his dad had graduated high school in the same year as I, that he had played first base on his school team. I mentioned the coincidence. At his next session, he brought in dad's mitt. Except that his father had been a 'lefty' and I a 'righty', the mitt was identical to mine. At the time for his subsequent session, I had brought my mitt, and I decided that an appropriate 'therapeutic intervention' was to go outside and play catch.
So, the client called it correctly, it is an old glove, perhaps even nearly an antique. But that's o.k., I probably am also.
Satchel
