On Playing Catch

There's a lot that can be said about playing catch. From infancy we are prodded to catch things. If you're a boy, that develops from stuffed plush-toys to baseballs and softballs, footballs and basketballs, and, for some, fish. I've had my own version of catch my brother and I used to play. And it wasn't because regular catch was boring, sometimes a steak just needs a little A1 sauce.

There have been more than a few memorable scenes on television and on the silver screen that involved the playing of catch. Most notably, an entire movie was based around the singular concept of playing catch with Dad. So I don't think I can do much better in romanticizing the particulars on a whole.

But recently my Dad, brother and I played catch in the same street we'd played catch in for years. In front of my Nana's house. Aside from being older, and battling severe tendinitis in my throwing arm, this was not much different. My father, remember I'm 27, was still holding his glove in certain locations, begging me to hit it. Throughout childhood, this was how I learned to aim my throws. Dad wouldn't even move his glove if I was going to miss. And when I did, I had to shag the ball down. Proudly I tell you, this time, I hit the target every time. Thanks, Dad.

A slight addition to this game was the presence of old gloves. Not worn-out discarded remnants of our childhood. Remnants of generations passed. Gloves that looked more like gloves. Leather padding, a small pocket. Gloves that made you feel like playing baseball was like being in the fields, or working in yard, or in woodshop. Gloves that made you feel like you were working with your hands.

They were gloves from my grandfather's childhood. From the 1930s and 40s. And there's only a few ways to catch a ball with these gloves. Which, through trial and error that involved shagging passed balls, my brother and I quickly figured out. Even the "hot-dogging" that comes so easy with 21st century mitts, was nearly impossible. All you could do was use two hands and squeeze the ball when you felt contact. Sometimes it stung. Sometimes it smarted. But there's has yet to be a better way to catch a pop fly than running underneath it and feeling it fall into your leather-bound hand.

Much like an author prefers pen and paper to Microsoft Word, I, the baseball player, prefer to catch a ball this way, with this glove. Even the baseball was "old-world" quality. Not wound as tight. A little deadened. Worn out covering.

We played catch like, for generations, fathers and sons have played catch. And I think, even if we had used our oiled-up, rope bound and car-run-over broken in mitts, not much would have changed about that experience.

Still... There's a lot to be said for an original manuscript.