I found the hat, the longjohns, and even the original Photon. (Now I’ve got three, no doubt soon to be two. Then one. Then….)
Never did find the sun glasses.
But my mitt. How can this be? It lives primarily in my office these days, an artifact of my own personal Paleozoic. It’s not a mere unbelievably expensive necessity I have to replace. It’s memory and all the senses. The deep pop, the feel and smell of sweaty leather, the salt-dirt taste of playing behind the mask.
My fielder’s glove,* usually snuggled up against the mitt, still sits here attempting to entice me outside for a catch.
Something, as Miss Clavel would say, is not right!
*Something over 25 years ago, I played briefly on a company softball team. (I don’t like softball, but American men no longer play real baseball unless they are paid for it.) In my late 30s, I was our oldest player. I was unsettled, though, to realize that my glove, born in 1962 (a MacGregor GF20
Johnny Temple model), was even then older than all but three of my teammates.
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