what lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters, compared to what lies within us ~ emerson

while i was watching this brief clip a little bit ago of a father lifting up his son at a major league baseball game
to catch a foul ball
i remembered that my dad used to do the same thing with me and my brothers
when we were kids
if my memory serves me
i think one of my brothers actually caught a pop up that drifted over the line into the stands
although
if you held an electric mixer to my eyeball
i couldn't tell you which brother it was


as i reminisced about hot plastic seats and sneaking pop into the stadium in our oversized pants pockets
my eyes caught on the black leather rawlings glove my dad got for me when i was about ten or eleven years old
resting on a shelf in my bedroom
shoved between my purple boxing gloves and a motorcycle helmet modified with copper sheeting to emanate EMF waves


i remember when he first brought the glove home
and the look of anticipation on his face when he pulled it out to give me

i was disappointed because it wasn't tan cowhide brown like the other kids' gloves
and i did a poor job of concealing my dismay
"but, dad....it's BLACK..."
a memory that still grieves me when i think about my lack of appreciation
because it was an insightful move on his part
to get me something that wasn't like what the other kids had

because i wasn't like the other kids

and i wanted to be
i knew i didn't fit in and i wanted to badly



over time the glove grew on me
as i rubbed oil into it
and rubberbanded it around a baseball at night
and got dirt all over it during late summer afternoons on the ball field
where i awkwardly tripped over the bases and dropped as many baseballs as i caught


i even wrote my name on the label in fine tip sharpie
the equivalent of a long term commitment in those adolescent years

with time and multiple moves around the world
the black glove spent years in different boxes and storage facilities
and i forgot about it


until today
when i pulled it out
to play catch with a little boy who has down syndrome
and no daddy

he told me that it's hard to be different
and i said
yeah
yeah it is

but that it's okay
we aren't all made the same

and the more different we are
the more we have the chance to open the hearts of those who may forget
to see the beauty in all the shapes and colors that people come in


he stood still for a moment
carefully watching my face
his eyes blinking owlishly behind his thick glasses

i could see he was assessing whether or not i really meant what i said
or if i was just feeding him the usual adult platitudes


"how would you know?", he challenged me

i held up my gloved left hand
"let me tell you a thing i learned once..."


we played catch until it was too dark to see
and when his mom called him in
he ran over and hugged me
whispering fiercely in my ear,

"i'm gonna get a red glove!
" 'cause that's the color of my heart!"

then he barreled up the porch steps before i could think of anything to reply

i stood there for a few minutes in the dusk
absently swatting mosquitoes
and wondering if red baseball gloves even existed
worrying that it would just be just one more way the world would let him down


until i realized that i was forgetting
the strength and resilience inherent in the children that love hard
in spite of how many times they get hurt

if he couldn't find a red glove
this was the kind of kid that would make his own
he didn't need my pity
he deserved my respect


as i walked home
a worn out leather story dangling from the fingers of a little girl
in a grown woman's tired body
the dancing shadows of the dying sun
twisted and burned around me
and i felt the heaviness in my belly dissipate into the quiet wet air





*author's note:
a brief google search informed me that actually, there are quite a few red baseball gloves on the market these days
i guess that kid will have to develop character through some other gauntlet of fiery danger and almost certain death