The Holy Grail of baseball gloves for a time was this, the Wilson A2000, with its big web, ergonomic shape and “Grip-Tite Pocket.” I got this at a thrift store.
By John Murphy
It happens repeatedly. I can’t help it. Whenever I see an old baseball glove at a swap meet or a thrift store, I check it out.
I stick my left hand into the glove. I eyeball it. Then I pound my fist into the pocket to see how it feels. Maybe I even smell the leather.
My first glove was a hand-me-down from my older brother Jim. It was a great glove, but I lost it one day in San Bruno Park. I had joined a rowdy game of “king of the hill” with a bunch of other kids. When we got done pushing and shoving and frolicking about, I forgot the glove. Left it behind.
“I didn’t give you that mitt to lose it,” my brother said sternly. The words stung. I don’t think I ever felt so bad.
I muddled through Midget League with a Nokona Don Mossi model. It was a piece of crap, but I made do.
A few years later I got another hand-me-down glove from my brother — a perfectly molded Rawlings Brooks Robinson Fastback model. It had an Edge-U-Cated Heel, Flex-O-Matic Palm, Basket Web and “Deep-Well” Pocket. Nobody knew what all that crap meant — it was just stuff Rawlings stamped on the leather. Anyway, it was a damned good mitt.
Preparing our gloves was a yearly ritual. I’d watch my brother intently as he sat on his twin bed and took out a small container of Rawlings Glovolium. He squeezed a few drops into his hand and then kneaded it into the pocket of the glove. He hit a few other key points on the glove as well. Then he took a tennis ball and placed it in the pocket, then wrapped a rubber band around it all. Finally, he tucked the treasured package of leather under his mattress for a few months. And I did the same with mine.
A player and his glove are hard to separate. It’s said former Houston Astros third baseman Doug Rader used his Marty Marion-autograph glove from Little League until he was 23 years old. Then it fell apart.
It’s been a long time since my last hardball game. But come baseball season, I like to get the old gloves out and smell the leather and pound my fist into the pocket once again. It takes me back to a time when life was simpler and victory was just three outs away.
Main Street Dog 