Centerfield

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] saw him trying on ball gloves, he was the only boy in the aisle. He had a confused look on his face, wearing a mitt three sizes too small for his growing hand.It made me smile.

Picking out a glove is a big event in a boy’s life. Monumental. Second only to choosing a puppy – or a girlfriend. I remember my leather mitts. I still have them. They’re in good shape because I oiled them often as a child. They smell like axel grease and bacon to this day.

“Hey slugger,” I said to the boy. “You need help?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know what I’m looking for. I need a bat and a glove.”

“Well, let’s start with your position. What’re you playing?”

“Centerfield.”

“Easy, that’s at least a twelve inch glove.” I selected a nice one and handed it to him. “Try that on Willie Mays.”

It was a perfect fit.

He inspected the price tag, then dug into his pocket. I knew what he was doing. I’ve done the same thing myself.

Counting pennies.

“You don’t want to skimp on your glove Old Timer,” I cautioned. “It’s worth the extra money.”

He sighed. “I guess I can always use someone else’s bat.”

I winked at him. “Good call.”

I waved goodbye. When I turned the corner, I plucked a big barreled baseball bat from the rack, and left it up front with the cashier.

It was only a twenty dollar bat.

But every boy needs his own thunderstick.

 

 

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