I have been waxing nostalgic about my father the past few days, maybe because I couldn't sleep Wednesday night, then was so drowsy on Thursday that I forgot to visit him--probably a good thing for the safety of local motorists.
I have been thinking about the baseball mitt he let me use in high school, his own high school mitt. It was a turning point in my life because then I could catch balls and play second base rather than outfield. And I started hitting balls too--homers even.
This was important to me because I had always been the last one chosen for teams in elementary school. Every recess the teacher would send us out with a kickball or a jump-rope or a ball and bat, and I was lousy at all of them, which meant my social status was nil.
Now at last, thanks to my father's mitt, I had my peers' respect. I was proud of the mitt and didn't want to lose it so I printed my full name and address on it--including "United States" and "Earth." But it must have been picked up by an alien from another universe because after I left it on the baseball field one day, it disappeared forever.
But the respect stayed with me. Thanks, Dad.