A SURPRISE GIFT RINGS IN THE NEW YEAR ON AN ASPHALT FIELD OF DREAMS

MY STANDARD reply to the question of what I want for Christmas is “nothing.” It simplifies things.

I get the perfect presents: Gift Cards. They always fit, don’t go out of style, and you never have to exchange them. The downside is that you’re never surprised because where you can use them is prominently displayed. Besides, it’s hard to surprise someone who has decked the halls as many times as I have. This year was different. I received a gift that was so amazing, it sent me down a memory lane that was more than 50 years long. Hint: Suddenly I need neatsfoot oil.

I joined the old Burroughs Adding Machine Company in Detroit, Michigan, right out of college. The company kindly sponsored a fast-pitch softball league. I played for the Advertising Department’s team. I needed a baseball glove so I bought a Louisville Slugger “Big Daddy” leather glove with TRI-Action, Premium Cowhide Palm, and Rawhide Lacing for about ten bucks. It served me well, efficiently trapping baseballs in its deep pocket.

I didn’t use it much for the next several years. Making a living and raising a family got in the way of recreational baseball. Plus, for more than 20 years I was working alone as a salesman, often on the road. When my son, Tony, began playing T-Ball and little league baseball I got it out to play catch with him. “How about a game of catch,” became a familiar call to action for something we both cherished.

I coached his little league team, so “Big Daddy,” became useful showing the kids how to snag ground balls and catch pop-ups. Little league, high school, college, moving to California, Tony getting married—the years flew by speedier than a Nolan Ryan fastball.
I always brought the glove with me when we moved. As the decades piled up, merely thinking about playing catch might induce the need for Tommy John surgery.

I kept it in the storage unit of our carport. This past summer the carport needed a new roof. I moved the car out and kept away from the storage unit while the work was being done. When I did open the storage unit, I found everything was soaked. The contractor had left the unit’s ceiling uncovered while it rained. “Big Daddy,” was beyond reclamation.

Tony visited at Christmas. We had lunch at Woody’s at Del Mesa. He took me over to his car after lunch, opened the trunk and brought out a new Easton baseball glove with Flex-Action Palm. Then he pulled out his own mitt, along with a ball and said: “How about a game of catch?”

There we were in the parking lot tossing around a baseball. We were only 25 or 30 feet apart. My hand/eye coordination had deteriorated, but my errors were overlooked. To anyone passing by, it looked like a casual game of catch, Tony and me tossing an official major league baseball, hearing it thwack into our soft leather mitts. Me imagining grounders and pop-ups, short hops, pegs to second, around the horn – the heater! I was Mays making “The Catch,” Brooks going far to his right to snag a screaming grounder, Kaline firing a one hopper to Freehan to nab the runner at the plate.

We were sharing a pleasure so simple, poets and philosophers have struck out trying to measure it; as if a gift from God needs explaining. It was the spiritual connection of two generations coming together savoring one of life’s sweet spots. It was endless giving and receiving, love and happiness pitched and caught, tossed back, caught once more, again and again, back and forth, across the parking lot, across the years, with each catch becoming a memory nesting in the webbing of my new glove.

Something magical happened. For a few brief moments the years faded away. Suddenly the father was child to the man. As an adult I was enjoying something I loved as a young boy. I had not lost the joys of youth. They had stayed with me all my life and were being replayed on an asphalt field of dreams.

My arm is just a little sore as I write this, even though I doubt my fastball exceeded Del Mesa’s 25-MPH speed limit. It took hours to get the smile off my face. I didn’t sleep with the new mitt, but I thought about it.

I’m looking forward to the new baseball season with a rejuvenated enthusiasm. I’ll watch the Giants play on television. And I’ll wear my mitt, often smacking my fist into the well-oiled deep pocket, ready to react, because as my youngest brother, Jim told me, “You just never know when one will come whistling through the TV.”

Contact Jerry at jerrygervase@yahoo.com