So, I’m kind of a dork when it comes to American sports, but my friend showed me her softball glove last night. It was her grandfathers glove, and as I took the glove from her, it felt heavy in my hands.
Light brown from wear and tear, the glove looked rugged and resolute. I opened it up and ran my fingers along the inside of it. I wondered how many games this glove had seen, how many great catches it had enabled. How maybe, My friends’ grandfather passed it on to his children as he taught them to catch and pitch. Maybe there had been sunday afternoons, the sun shining brightly where a father had passed on legacy to a child.
There was some kind of security in the glove, some attachment to it. Maybe “The catching machine” is called that, not because its stopped umpteen grounders or gripped and snatched hurtling balls right out of the atmosphere, but because over the span of three generations, it has caught a glimpse of love and affection and bonds between father and child.
