The small boy, undersized for his age, scuffled at the ground with the toe of his rubber cleat. It was the bottom of the last inning and his team clung tenaciously to a one run lead — but their opponents had the bases loaded with two outs. He was stationed in right field, his usual spot for the two innings league rules required him to play. He glanced at his parents in the stands. His mom chatted with a teammate’s mother in front of her; his dad sat beside her, arms folded stoically across his chest. Between them, his little sister cradled a doll in her lap.
The boy had walked in his only at-bat, a common occurrence given the tightness of his strike zone. Would that be enough to earn a snowball from the concession stand afterward? Would it satisfy his dad? He heard the crack of the bat and a knot tightened in his stomach. Please God, no.
He lifted his eyes to the darkening sky and spotted the ball — a puff of white smoke descending from the heavens. As if warding off some terrible blow, he thrust his glove skyward and closed his eyes.
A sudden thud jolted his hand. He opened his eyes and searched the ground frantically for the ball. His teammates surrounded him, yelling, slapping him on the back. Stunned, he looked into his mitt — and there it was, the ball nestled safely in the soft leather.
He scanned the bleachers and spotted his mother, jumping up and down, hugging the woman in front of her. His father remained in his seat, arms still folded. Surely the catch would be enough for a snowball.
That was the last baseball game he ever played.
For the past two years, he had spent every day in his dark brown leather chair, a patchwork quilt covering his lap. He stared blankly at the flickering television screen across the room, an untouched sandwich on the tray beside the chair.
His daughter gazed at him from the bedroom doorway, her eyes fixed on the stiff, faded mitt on his right hand. His wife came from the kitchen and rested a light hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“Why is he wearing that baseball glove?” the daughter asked.
A rare smile crept across her mother’s face as she glanced into the room. “I’m not sure,” she said. “A few years ago, we were cleaning out some old boxes and I found it. I asked if he wanted me to toss it.” She paused, her smile widening. “He said yes but the next day I spotted him rummaging through the trash, digging for it.”
“I wonder why?” the daughter asked. “He never really liked sports. He never even watched the Super Bowl.”
Her mother stared at the uneaten sandwich. “No, he never watched sports,” she said softly. “But one day I came into the room and he had the glove on his hand. Now, he wants it every morning.”
The daughter tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Isn’t it funny what becomes important?” She turned to her mother. “You look tired. Why don’t you go out for a bit — do some shopping, get some air. I’ll sit with him.”
Her mother’s smile faded. “No. I’ll stay. He gets upset when I’m not here.”
The theme from Bonanza drifted in from the television; Gunsmoke had just ended. The aroma of freshly popped corn mingled with the scent of cut grass. From somewhere distant came the crack of a bat and then the soft thud as the ball settled gently into the mitt on his hand. He tightened his grip around it, eyes glistening, holding on.
Chris Edwards is a retired educator living in Mississippi with his wife, Ann. His work has appeared in Deep South Magazine. He recently completed his first novel and often writes about memory and the quiet ways it shapes our lives.
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