Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Baseball Gloves

What I would really like to know is when were certain fundamental and inviolable rules changed by the people in charge of softball so that a batter is permitted only two strikes instead of three? And don't you think it would be a good idea that if you invite someone, namely me, to play for your team, then you tell the person, namely me, about this stupid rule so that the person, namely me, won't be embarrassed when the umpire rings the person, namely me, up after only two strikes?

And is there some kind of three foul balls and you're out rule. I heard the opposing pitcher say, "That's two fouls," at one point when one of our guys was up. So, I asked Greg, who invited me to play when I expressed some mild interest in playing, whether there were any more rules I should know, like whether sliding was permitted. "Yes, you should have let me know about the two strike thing. And if you tell anyone that I struck out, I'll kill you," I laughed. He didn't laugh. He probably heard the story about how I beat an opposing player, who slid into home plate a little high, over the head with my catcher's mask until he was senseless while I was in college. Of course, that happened before the sissy rules they have in effect now about not being able to slide high, trying to kick the ball out of a player's glove. It's better to let that story go uncorrected. It's pretty much true, anyway.

So, this game was not the same as the one I had played back in the day. In fact, I played baseball in the college alumni baseball game several times since I last played softball. I probably should have swung at a few pitches before the game, batting practice, so to speak; but I got into the groove rather quickly. Fortunately, I did not hurt myself.

"What's this? All the printing's worn off," he asked, looking at my baseball glove, turning it over in his hands, as if he had never seen anything like it before. I assumed that he knew it was a baseball glove and that he wanted to know it was a "Rawlings Model 1445," like that meant something to him.

"How long have you had it?" he asked.

"I don't know," I started, trying to figure that out. "Since 1983, I think," I added, that old angry feeling coming back. The glove may have been older than he was; I didn't ask.

"It's a great glove," he pointed out. I thanked him, but the feeling was still gnawing at me, the feeling caused by the guy at a law firm at which I worked who borrowed my Wilson A2000 baseball glove, then lent it to a mother fucker I didn't know, who never gave it back to me. Nobody fucks with another guy's baseball glove. Baseball gloves are a very personal thing, more than just a glove, at least when I'm from.

The first baseball glove I called my own when I was seven was a Ted Williams model from Sears, which I had until I went to college; but that's misleading because when I was eight, after the Minor Red Sox manager brought me up to play with the older kids after I crashed two homers in my first practice game with the PeeWees, I volunteered to take over for the catcher who broke his finger because I was sick and tired of playing two innings in the outfield. A catcher's mitt came with the rest of the tools of ignorance; so, I didn't use my baseball glove very much after that except on the school yards and the street. When I graduated from the Little League, I got my first catcher's mitt, a MacGregor major league model, that I used through high school, re-stringing it a few times on that path.

Before my first fall baseball practice in college, I ordered a Wilson A2000 infielder's glove from the Wilson distributor, whose brother I knew, in Garfield Heights. He supplied some of the Cleveland Indians with gloves, and I also asked him to get me a major league catcher's mitt, Model 2403, I think was the model number. In the spring, I caught only half the games because the other catcher was a junior (and he was having a good year at the plate); I played the outfield the rest of the time (I was having a better year at the plate.). During the following winter, I showered after an indoor baseball workout, foregoing the pick-up basketball game several of the baseball players always took part in. When I was finished (It took longer back then ... more hair on my head.), on my way out of the building, someone grabbed me and told me that Dale, the other catcher, hurt his ankle in the basketball game. I looked into the small gym, and Dale was writhing in pain on the gym floor, the bottom part of his leg laying askew on the wooden floor. He never played again.

I did. And I needed two more catcher's mitts to get through the rest of my college career. I suppose I shouldn't have turned down the invitation to spring training from the Texas Rangers, but knee pain has a tendency to make one re-think his priorities.

I still have my third, and last, Wilson catcher's mitt. The web needs to he re-strung again; but I'm not planning to use it anymore, since the boys are grown. And I did replace the A2000 ... with my Rawlings, Model 1445, red leather, by the way, more than just a glove, at least when I'm from.

Posted by Bill at October 15, 2005 09:19 PM