A Modern Day Fable

When I was ten, I played softball. Not my favorite sport, but I gave it a decent go for several years. I took to third base, and occasionally pitcher.

Being the third child in the birth order with two older brothers usually meant that I got the equipment leftovers when it came to sports. We typically ascribed to the, 'you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit’ motto and prior to ten that worked for me. At the time, I was using my older brother’s broken in Wilson baseball glove, which in hindsight was not only practical but was a beautiful glove. Exactly the type I would insist my own youngest child use as a hand-me-down. It was perfectly worn in. There was no fussing with rubber-banding it to break it in. Just some soft, quality leather.

But it wasn’t my own.

And that was important for a young girl, coming into her own. So I insisted on the baseball glove that all the cool kids were using - solid black nylon outer, black leather inner. Incredibly cheap. But that didn’t matter because, the heart wants what the heart wants.

You can imagine my joy the day my Dad picked me up from school and sitting on the seat of the passenger side of his truck was none other than my new glove. The black inner leather was glowing. I picked it up to hug it and that’s when discovered my Dad had made a terrible mistake. The inside of the glove passed inspection, but when turned over, the outer section was an unacceptable light grey tone.

“Nope. This isn’t the one,” I insisted.

“Corri! This glove is exactly what you wanted. Maybe you’ll start a trend with the grey.”

“No way,” I doubled down.

He bargained with me, “Let’s take it home, you can try it out and then make your decision.”

I’m a Taurus. At ten years old, I already knew what my decision was. But I humored him anyway.

We got home and threw the ball back and forth, both of us ready to prove our points. I must have stopped at least five times to remove the glove and dramatically shake my hand out and adjust it.

I started laying it on thick, “I kinda think this glove might be making me play worse, Dad.”

(I half laugh, half cringe imagining the mental gymnastics it took dealing with me as a child.)

(Don’t worry though…karma’s taking care of that just fine.)

Alas, he caved.

“Alright. I’ll take it back and get the black one.”

I very casually agreed that it was for the best, meanwhile jumping up and down on the inside.

A few days later when he picked me up from school, there she was. My beautiful, solid black, cheap as all get-out, Franklin baseball glove. She was glistening as the sunlight hit her just perfectly through the windshield. I’m fairly certain Queen’s, You’re My Best Friend, was playing on the radio. I clutched her tightly the entire ride home, insisting we play catch before homework.

I treated her like my baby. We don’t rip tags off of our babies. We cut them off gently with scissors. And then we save the tag in our jewelry box.

It only took a few throws for me to ensure my Dad that this, in fact, was the one.

Solid throws. Smooth catches. Perfect Pitches.

I had arrived in all of my ten year old softball glory.

My Dad went inside and I decided to stay out awhile longer. Break her in a little.

After awhile, I was called in for dinner. I took her off and squeezed her tightly under my arm, beaming with pride. As I made my way in through the garage, I was mindful to step around one of my Dad’s current projects.

Hmmm. That’s interesting.

What’s he doing with all this newspaper?

And black spray paint?

In that moment, time stood still. It didn’t take longer than two seconds for things to start clicking, the way they do at the end of a suspenseful movie when everything comes together.

Yep. That’s right. My perfect, beautiful, beaming baby was a total fraud.

I barged inside the house, my dad flashing an impish grin before I even said a word. I demanded answers. How could he do such a thing?

“The good news is that we know it’s the one” he said.

Solid throws. Smooth catches. Perfect pitches.

Touché Dad. Touché.

What I didn’t know then but have grown to understand and cherish now, is that my Dad was playing out a real-life fable. He was modern Aesop of sorts and although the moral was lost on me at the time, it lives deeply in my heart to this day.

Moral of the story: The glove didn’t change. What changed was my mind about the glove.

Thanks Dad.

You did good.