"Sorry Cuz, some of these lazy slobs won't oil their own mitts" says the Tony the trainer as he wheels over a cart full of baseball gloves. "It ain't training, but we do what's needed."
"No problem boss" I answer, and it really isn't because I desperately miss the springtime ritual of glove oiling, and there on top of the pile is my first glove, a Wilson T1000.
___________
"Joao, did you take five cruzeiros from my wallet while I was down the street in the shower?" asked Jorge on the first cool morning in March.
We lived in southern Brazil so it had started cooling down with the start of American baseball season. Our three little brothers were still asleep, and Mom had not yet gotten home from her all night job at Class Night Clube. We'd been skipping early morning soccer since Jorge had gotten a newspaper route in the rich neighborhood across the highway.
"No" I blurted and then started to turn away, but not before he had seen my face turning red.
"Tell the truth" he commanded, clamping a hand on my shoulder.
"I am, I didn't take your money while you were in the shower" I whined.
"Then why are you blushing?" he growled, squeezing harder as I tried to sink away.
"OK, OK, I took it while you were sleeping" I cried with tears starting down my cheeks.
"Joao, that's not like you" he said, softening his grip. "Why do you need that much money? It's too much for baseball cards."
"There's a glove at the Luncheonette for $4.50" I gushed. "It even comes with a baseball and a little can of glove oil."
"Well let's go get you that glove, you can pay me back a little each week from your car washing change."
We lived in southern Brazil so it had started cooling down with the start of American baseball season. Our three little brothers were still asleep, and Mom had not yet gotten home from her all night job at Class Night Clube. We'd been skipping early morning soccer since Jorge had gotten a newspaper route in the rich neighborhood across the highway.
"No" I blurted and then started to turn away, but not before he had seen my face turning red.
"Tell the truth" he commanded, clamping a hand on my shoulder.
"I am, I didn't take your money while you were in the shower" I whined.
"Then why are you blushing?" he growled, squeezing harder as I tried to sink away.
"OK, OK, I took it while you were sleeping" I cried with tears starting down my cheeks.
"Joao, that's not like you" he said, softening his grip. "Why do you need that much money? It's too much for baseball cards."
"There's a glove at the Luncheonette for $4.50" I gushed. "It even comes with a baseball and a little can of glove oil."
"Well let's go get you that glove, you can pay me back a little each week from your car washing change."
__________
I roll the cart into the dugout and sit at the trainer's section of the long wooden bench toward the left field side.
"Take...me out to the...ballgame" I hum, taking a big whiff of the fresh cut grass on the bright green infield.
The field crew are raking around the mound and homeplate in preparation for tomorrow's arrival of pitchers and catchers.
"Take...me out with the...crowd" I continue, grabbing the Wilson, sliding my left hand into it's five fingers, and squirting a pool of clear oil into it's upturned pocket.
The fingers of my other hand slide the thick oil up the glove's fingers one at time, releasing a musky scent as the old leather turns from tan to earthy brown. Turning it over, I work a little grease along each finger and then finish if off by slipping it onto my lap, rubbing my hands together, and sliding my now coated left hand back in to oil the inside of the short infielder's glove.
"Give me some peanuts and Crack...er Jacks" I sing, grabbing a left-hander's Rawlings glove from the pile in the cart and repeating the oiling process with my hands reversed.
I finish oiling a wierd black Mizuno with the long fingers of an outfielder's glove and a few more Wilsons and Rawlings, leaving only a big Spalding catcher's mitt at the bottom of the cart. Slipping my left hand in and turning it over, I gasp to see the name written on the base of the palm.
"I...don't care...if I never...get back" I hiss, squirting a big pool of glove oil into the Paul Paulino, definitely a name that I do not desperately miss.
"Give me some peanuts and Crack...er Jacks" I sing, grabbing a left-hander's Rawlings glove from the pile in the cart and repeating the oiling process with my hands reversed.
I finish oiling a wierd black Mizuno with the long fingers of an outfielder's glove and a few more Wilsons and Rawlings, leaving only a big Spalding catcher's mitt at the bottom of the cart. Slipping my left hand in and turning it over, I gasp to see the name written on the base of the palm.
"I...don't care...if I never...get back" I hiss, squirting a big pool of glove oil into the Paul Paulino, definitely a name that I do not desperately miss.
No comments:
Post a Comment