by Peter G. Mladinic
When I was a kid, baseball all the rage,
I was lucky to have a few baseball gloves,
though one was a catcher’s mitt. Round,
thick, never called a glove, it was different
from the standard infield/ outfield glove
worn by Wille Mays, the Say Hey Kid,
when he caught the Vic Wertz long fly
to center, that catch an earthly miracle
to Polo Grounds fans. Distinct from Willie’s
glove and the glove with which Yankees’
shortstop Tony Kubek scooped grounders,
the first base glove of Cleveland’s Power,
first name Vic. That glove, banana-shaped,
folded, that fold needed to catch what was
hit, and mostly thrown, to first. It folds.
In form it was my favorite of the three types.
All three, different was they were and are,
have center pockets that have to be oiled.
Yesterday at the gym a tall brunette said
her husband had pitched for Texas Tech.
I didn’t ask, did he oil his glove’s pocket, but
you can bet he had to. All players do this.
Oil softens the leather, which makes a ball
easier to catch. I couldn’t catch or pitch,
or hit. Still, I liked baseball. At one time
I had a glove with that banana shape, like
Vic Power’s, also a catcher’s mitt. Rawlings
and Spalding baseball gloves, I was lucky
to own more than one, lucky to live where
others, too, owned gloves. I never thought:
cows are killed so we can wear gloves.
I got a glove that looked like Whitey Ford’s.
I squirted oil from a dropper into a pocket,
rubbed the oil in with my fingers. Gradually
a pocket darkened. It felt and looked good.
The dark shinny soft center where a ball
was caught. I don’t own a glove now, but a
leather jacket is close by, only one. I don’t
like that cows are slaughtered. Baseball
days, I was a kid, I didn’t think of it at all.