The rhythmic thumping of a baseball smacking into my baseball glove lulled me to sleep on a lot of nights when I was a kid. I would lie on the top bunk of the bunk bed I shared with my brother, Byron, tossing the ball up until it almost hit the ceiling, and then catch it as it fell toward my head.
“Thwock.”
Repeat.
“Thwock.”
Repeat.
After a while, it became second nature. I needed the feel of my glove on my left hand, and the smooth, worn leather of the baseball in my right hand. I couldn’t fall asleep otherwise. I needed to feel the weight of the ball as it fell into the pocket of my glove.
Of course, it annoyed my brother. But he was two years younger than me, so I didn’t care. I would continue to toss the ball up until my eyelids grew heavy, then I would tuck the ball into the glove and put it under my pillow so even in sleep I was forming that
all-important pocket.
I was in love with baseball growing up. My dad’s side of the family was full of baseball players, and his four brothers all played in college. During family gatherings, we would sneak into the backyard of my grandparent’s yard in Idaho and play catch or even get a game of Wiffle ball going. We’d play for hours into the fading light and wouldn’t come in until it was too dark to see.
Back home, my brother and I would throw the baseball back and forth after school, creating games to hone our accuracy. It was two points if you threw a ball that he caught at chest height. It was five he caught it in front of his face.
The sound of our gloves smacking as we rocketed baseballs back and forth was comforting. The satisfying feel of a baseball slamming into the webbing of my glove was
priceless. I lived for it.
A baseball player forms a special bond with his glove. Maybe it’s because it’s one of the few things in life that gets better with age instead of worse. A new glove smells of fresh leather and chemicals. It’s tough, and doesn’t envelope a baseball when it is caught. But as you play catch with it, and sweat in it, it loosens up. The more time you play catch, pounding the ball deep into the pocket, the more you will be rewarded.
I went to battle with my glove. It was my companion through the summer days for 10 years. It accumulated dirt and grass stains, and there was even a blood spot by the pocket where my index finger on my left hand lost its fingernail after being stepped on when I was turning a double play.
But that was four years ago. Now, when I look at my yellow Louisville Slugger TPX baseball glove, all I experience are memories.
There are few things that can evoke as much emotion and memory as putting on a baseball glove. With pictures you just see the memory. With your glove, you feel the memory. You even smell it. You are transported back to a different time, a different place, and instead of just remembering, you relive the moment. When I slip my hand inside the smooth leather, my fingers slide easily into their respective places, and I remember blue skies, green grass, and the wind blowing across my face.
It’s a scene that could be from any time from my childhood, but it doesn’t matter when. What matters is the feeling I get when I remember these moments. It calms me, and my worries melt away. That’s what baseball was for me: my release. Between the two chalk lines of the diamond, I was free. I could run and dive and throw and catch. I could laugh and have fun on a level that I couldn’t find anywhere else.
It wasn’t just game. It was necessary to learn about life.
I will always dearly love baseball because of the good times I’ve had on the diamond. I no longer need the “thwock” of the ball hitting the glove to lull me to sleep, but when I do hear it, the sound resonates to my core.
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