Perhaps you read this blog because you play soccer, or softball, or lacrosse. You might ride horses, or walk on balance beams. Maybe you are a young woman breaking barriers. You spend your time on the wrestling mat, the gridiron, or the ice. Maybe you love just love writing or reading about girls who do.
Whatever the case, I think you will understand the joy I felt when I came downstairs from my home office last week to find a brand new baseball glove on my dining table. “What’s this?” I asked even though I knew. The glove was black leather with pink accents. (Why is it that fitted for women so often means accented with pink?)
“A new glove for you so you can play catch with us,” my younger son said. Both the younger and older stood by with wide grins.
The only glove I've called mine was an ancient catchers mitt from my father. The glove, that I still have, is so old that it has actual sheep fleece on the inside. It’s still too big for me. My Dad, a busy attorney, made time to throw and catch with me. I was never very good at either, so I remember fondly playing alone and throwing the ball up towards the branches of the 200-year-old oak that stood in our Washington, DC yard. Sometimes I caught these “fly balls” as they came down. More often than not the ball skittered across the lawn bumping over acorns so that I’d have to chase it down.
“Put it on,” young son said, pulling me back to the moment. He showed me how it’s cooler to let your index finger rest on the back of the glove. I could immediately feel the extra control that came with that, but anxiety prickled my neck thinking about my wild throws and dropped balls.
“You'll have to teach me how,” I told them.
This winter has been long – too long. Crazy, winter weary, cabin-fever long. My new glove is spring, and the love of my baseball-obsessed sons. Next week, the older will start baseball tryouts for the freshman team at his high school. The junior high starts not long after that. There will be carpools to practices and games. Maybe a new folding chair for me but maybe not. Maybe I'll be busy catching fly balls on the edge of the field with my new glove. Play ball!
***Please note: Anna J. Boll is re-becoming Anna Eleanor Jordan.***