It was Saturday morning and the baseball season was about to begin. I had a game on the big field in my town, the one with the 90-foot base paths and the outfield that went on forever. This was the beginning of a new era of Little League. The game would be bigger now.
We pulled up in my father’s gigantic burgundy Lincoln Town car. It was so big and rectangular many of them ended up experiencing a second life as limousines. It was a car I affectionately called The Batmobile.
My dad told me had to run an errand but would be back for the game. I grabbed my bag, got out of the car and walked onto the field to join my team.
Spring hadn’t quite yet arrived. The air was still a bit chilly, the trees were still trying to sprout leaves. And I was nervous because I had didn’t have any batting gloves.
The batting gloves I had used last season had worn out and I had forgotten to tell my parents until the morning of my game. There was no time to get me new ones.
My parents weren’t cheap or frivolous. They were always firmly budget conscious. They bought the gear that would do the job. And I knew better than to ask for the fancy equipment simply because it would make me look cool in front of my friends. Sure I wanted it but I knew it couldn’t be rationalized. While I didn’t truly understand it then, the value of things had been built into me by my parents.
They always made sure I had what I needed for the sports I played. Knee pads for basketball because I couldn’t stay on my feet. Good footwear that accommodated the orthotics I had been wearing since 4th grade. And of course, batting gloves to protect my hands from the sting of the aluminum bat.
There were other kids who didn’t wear batting gloves, but I liked having them. It wasn’t just how they protected my hands; they were part of the uniform, the final touch. So much of sports is confidence that you can do the thing you have endeavored to do. And feeling put together in my uniform, cleats tied tight, stirrups pulled up high, hat perfectly curved, gave me the confidence of a ballplayer.
The batting gloves were especially important. I wore the left one for the whole game, insulating my mitt from the sweat of my hand during summer afternoon games. Standing in the on-deck circle before my turn at the plate I would pull the velcro straps to just the appropriate tightness giving me the security to feel like my hands could make contact at the plate.
I had played games without batting gloves before. Certainly when I was younger. But as I went through batting practice at the plate without gloves I felt unprepared, like standing before the teacher when I had forgotten my homework.
Afterwards, as last preparations took place before the game started, I was in the dugout, leaning against the fence separating me from the stands. And then there they were, laid on my shoulder like a gentle hand.
A pair of brand new Ken Griffey Jr. Nike batting gloves. Navy blue with silver trim and the Ken Griffey Jr. logo, a silhouette of him with his hat on backward completing a homerun swing, the trace outline of the path of his bat like a tilted halo around him.
Ken Griffey Jr. was one of the coolest baseball players of the time, and a future hall of famer. A home run hitter with a sweet swing, the gear with his name on it was top notch.
I grabbed them and turned around to see my dad, standing on the other side of the fence, smiling.
I knew where my dad had run his errand. He had left the ballpark, and driven to the local sporting goods store, 10 minutes away and bought me the coolest pair of batting gloves, hustling back in time to give them to me before the first pitch.
I couldn’t believe it. I knew they were expensive, at least as far as batting gloves went. My excitement was always obvious and I know it showed. My dad had nailed it.
“Good?” he asked.
Very. I would have expected a standard pair of black and white Franklin batting gloves. They would have done the job just fine, but these far surpassed any I ever had before. I felt so much gratitude.
I didn’t even ask for them, didn’t subtly try to convince my parents to buy them for me. I didn’t go with my dad to the store. There was no internal monologue as I tried to figure out which item to present to my parents as the pair I was most likely to get. These gloves just showed up.
They were perfect. They gave me confidence. My language then was insufficient to describe most of my feelings, but I felt full up to the brim. My dad knew I needed a piece of equipment, and he went and got me the best. There was nothing I wanted more as a child than to feel cool. At that moment I felt like the coolest kid on the team.
That was over 20 years ago, and the memory replays itself often. I do not remember what happened immediately after I got those gloves, or in the game itself. But that minute of time is perfectly preserved. Something unplanned, a last minute, literal game-time decision. And my dad turned it into something I’ve never forgotten.
The small moments are of course what gets talked up when people reflect on their lives. And I know that, but I am still amazed at the resonance of those moments. How they pay dividends. How they will continue to make me feel as warm as they did the first time I reflected on them.
I doubt my father was wondering if I would remember that gesture two decades later. I only hope I am as aware of those small moments, those opportunities for delight when I am a father.
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