The First Glove

 

I love baseball gloves. How they feel on your hand, how they smell, how they become an extension of your arm, how they gather battle scars over the years. I love pulling on the laces, breaking a new glove in, keeping it near my bed, and the sound of a fresh pearl smacking the pocket. I love knowing that none of this is unique to me. Everyone who loves baseball and their baseball glove feels these same things. Everyone who has played baseball, no matter the level, has had to break in a glove or play with a backup glove or retire a veteran glove. 

I was sitting with a college baseball buddy at a hockey game a few nights ago -– an exciting, close hockey game -– and we found ourselves talking about baseball gloves for some reason. He was a catcher, and he was reminiscing about how his dad got him his first catcher’s glove and wrote his name and phone number in marker on the outside. He loved the glove but he somehow, on more than one occasion, got the phone call from someone at the park that his glove was there. He had to hop in a cab to get the glove and get back home before his dad found out he’d forgotten it again.

For some reason, I think, baseball creates those kinds of memories. Something about the game, about your first piece of leather, stays with you. I remember my first baseball glove -– it was a used Spaulding Rod Carew model that my dad got me. It was brownish-red and some of the leather was cracking, but it was my first glove, and I loved it. I oiled it, tried to make it fit my hand like it should, and ran my dad ragged chasing balls down the alley after he got home from work.

We at Buckler all have these stories; it’s why we love talking about our gloves so much. I’d be willing to bet that all you glove dogs out there have these stories, too, each one specific and personal. And we want to hear about them! What was your first glove? How many times did you leave it at the park? Send us a note, a tweet, a postcard, whatever!