I can’t remember where I got the catcher’s mitt pictured on the left. (The picture on the right is not a catcher’s mitt. It is a first baseman’s mitt. Or a box of Cracker Jack. If you do or don’t know the difference, keep reading anyway.)
My first catcher’s mitt was bought at Hayes Hardware in Lake View, S.C., population 700ish. In Hayes Hardware, you could buy a chain saw, a hammer, a wash tub, or a catcher’s mitt. And that’s where my glove was hanging, up there with the wash tubs. And what a fine glove it was, a cut above what you’d find in your ordinary sporting goods store, much less what you’d find in a store where you could buy a flathead screwdriver and a pipe wrench.
I remember it was a Saturday morning and my dad took me to Slate’s to eat breakfast — you could buy two over-easy or a washing machine there, I swear (this was a very rural town) — and then we ambled down to Hayes Hardware. I think my dad took me pretending he needed vise grips or something but all along he knew I’d had my eye on that catcher’s mitt.
It served me well. Lord how I wish I still had it or knew where it darted off to. She was a good mitt, and I praise having known her. That was a great Saturday.
The mitt pictured above has been re-strung twice. She was good too. On the Homer American Legion team of 1977, a team that lost only once, 1-0 (dang!), seven of the nine starters made all-district or all-state. The only two who didn’t played third base or catcher. Guess who played third base or catcher, depending on who was pitching? If you guessed me, correct.
Me and that pictured mitt.
Our best times were still ahead, catching Little Leaguers as their coach. It should be illegal for a grown man to have that much fun.
Oh…the Cracker Jack box. The other day, the box above was handed to me. Joy! Ecstasy! But it wasn’t the same. Not many peanuts. The prize was a tattoo. BOO!
But the glove. The smell. The way it feels. The way it looks. All the memories it caught for me. The glove is still the same.
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