Big leaguers can go through more baseball gloves in a season than most of us
go through in a lifetime. Long after we've tossed away our waffle-soled
shoes and Pat Benatar t-shirts, some of us still cling to the gloves we wore
along with a jersey for Vern's Texaco.
The circumstances surrounding the unfortunate loss of my last glove after 14
years are too long, dull and embarrassing to elaborate here, other than to
say they involved a company softball game, a collision in the outfield,
several broken bones and a hasty departure to the emergency room. If there
are any lessons to be learned from the heart-wrenching experience, they are
these: Always remember to pick up your glove, even when blinded by pain. And
kids, when the center fielder calls you off on a flyball into the gap, for
God's sake, get out of the way.
With my season ended, I didn't immediately replace the glove, just as I
wouldn't immediately replace a cherished pet. I held out dim hopes that
someone would find the glove and return it to me, but because I never
bothered to write my name, address or phone number on it, the only person
anyone could possibly return it to is Dwight Evans.
So last weekend when there was a hint of spring in the air and a sky as
brilliant a blue as a Dodgers cap, I knew it was time to face facts and buy
another glove.
Having not bought a glove in 15 years, I was a little apprehensive. A friend
had called me at Christmas, in a panic that he still needed to buy his wife
of more than 30 years a present but that Sears no longer sold baseball
gloves (yes, she is a saint, in addition to a great baseball fan).
Imagine. Sears, that most American of department stores, the store of Ted
Williams, no longer in the baseball glove business. What's next?
McDonald's dumping the Big Mac? Fortunately, the first sporting goods store
I went to had a fine selection of leather from Wilson,
Mizuno and Rawlings.
It didn't take me long. Being a Rawlings man, the way some are Lutherans or
Baptists or Ford or Chevy men, I chose a Rawlings Ken Griffey Jr.
"fastback" model. It wasn't a difficult choice. You know when you have the
right glove as soon as you put it on. It just feels right.
I took my new glove home and prepared it in the traditional manner: I oiled
it carefully, placed a Willie Mays autographed baseball inside its pocket,
bound it tightly with twine and stuck it between the mattresses of my bed
where it will remain for the next several weeks.
Of course, it won't be broken in when I remove it next month. Like a fine
wine, it takes years to properly break in a glove.
You first must wear the glove while playing burnout with your best friend,
both of you tearing your rotator cuffs while you try to make the other
howl in pain. You must wear it while sitting in the upper deck of the
bleachers, some 550 feet from home plate, all the while yelling, "C'mon
Junior, hit it here!" You must slap it repeatedly against your knee while
you watch your pitcher walk the bases loaded again. You must pat it lovingly
after you range into the hole behind second base, scooping up a grounder
with the grace of Omar Vizquel (well, at least that's how you'll remember it). You must toss it aside in disgust after dropping
a routine popup with the bases loaded in the championship game. You must
pound your fist into it after a difficult loss, saying, "That's all right.
We'll get them next year." And most importantly, you must use it while
playing catch with your parent or your child.
After years of collecting dirt from dozens of infields and teeth marks from
the family dog, after summers in the park and winters in the garage, after
countless grounders and flyballs and errors, the glove will feel as natural
on your hand as your wedding ring. It will be yours and you will jealously
guard it, looking the other way when someone rudely asks to borrow it at the
company softball game.
Few things feel better sticking your hand into than a baseball glove.
Jim Caple of Seattle Post-Intelligencer is a regular contributor to ESPN.com.
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