The smell of leather is such sweet sorrow

I don’t remember my first glove. I remember my first tryout, though. I remember being put at second base and missing a popup with the glove I can’t remember. Even as an eight year old kid I was pretty astute, and when one of the coaches, Mike Brown was his name, moved me to the outfield soon after that popup, I asked him, “Are you moving me because I missed that ball?” He said no.

Turns out, he was telling the truth. He picked me for his team, and I never played outfield again, at least not more than an inning or two. That first glove that I can’t remember caught a lot of popups in the five years it was on my hand. I may not remember what it looked like, but I certainly remember what happened to it. One night, when my innocent 12 year old mind was dreaming, some bastard broke into our Ford Aerostar where my precious was sleeping peacefully with its brothers who belonged to my two sisters and my mother. They were gone forever.

I remember the second glove quite well. My mother took us to a sporting goods store to replace our losses, where I fell in love with a beautiful specimen of a Louisville Slugger model when it was still on the rack. I convinced my mom to pay an exorbitant amount for the treasure since I was playing for the junior high team. The smell of the glove oil still haunts me, Louisville Slugger oil placed lovingly on the fresh leather of my precious. My Uncle Matt helped me break it in before the season started with several games of catch, though I think we played with a baseball rather than a girly softball.

I played mostly third base in the five years since I had started playing, but when I reached eighth grade, our team had a crisis – no one would play catcher. You can guess what happened next.

I was a catcher for the rest of my playing days, but during that first year, tragedy struck. It was nearly time for practice one day when I returned to my locker between the last classes. My heart stopped. There, where my locker door should have been, stood a gaping hole, books and papers strewn about like a tornado existing just for me had struck. Desperation overwhelmed me when I reached the mess, for I knew. My precious was gone.

I’ve never truly recovered. My replacement glove, also a Louisville Slugger, never made my heart flutter. In high school I used softball catcher’s mitts because the pitchers I caught threw so hard they wore them out. Somehow I’ve accumulated about five or six gloves, though I don’t know how. I do know, however, that none of them will ever live up to my precious.