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​East Fork:

A Journal of the Arts​​


The Dream Catcher
By: Seth Teegarden

One day I was digging through my closet trying to sort out all the junk that had accumulated there over the years. I never enjoy cleaning, but that day my mother asked me to sort out a few items that I could donate to the needy. “It would mean a lot to me,” she said pleadingly. I never have been able to say no to my mother. While moving aside an old science fair project, I stumbled across my very first baseball glove. I had not seen that glove since I was a kid in little league; I thought that it had been lost after we moved back to Georgetown when I was nine. I could not believe I had found it here, seven years later, instead of lying somewhere in the Maysville dump.
    

My glove’s appearance had stayed the same despite years of isolation and neglect. It was a Rawling’s pitcher’s glove, size 11, frayed and worn from summers of playing out in the backyard with my dad. It was a tan color, the dye from the glove’s hide fading and bleeding out after being stretched to fit my hand. Folds and wrinkles had appeared on the palm where my hand had caught fly ball after fly ball, twisting the leather and giving it the appearance of an aged, wise face.
    

Whenever I played on a new field for the first time, I would take a handful of dirt from the infield and pour it through the webbing in my glove. I used to watch the sand trickle through, leaving a film of dirt, sand and what I hoped would be the skill of people who had played the field before me. It was kind of an odd ritual for a kid, but when you grow up watching The Sandlot and Field of Dreams, you believe in plenty of odd baseball rituals. My glove held onto a good bit of that sand. My mother eventually gave up trying to scrub it off, which gave it an even more aged look. “That old mitt looks like it is about to give up and die,” my grandpa would say to me when he saw me all dressed up on game day. My glove never was embarrassed of its age though; it had not taken the time to learn the words “worn out” and “ragged.” Its aged look gave me a sense of confidence.
    

If my glove would have been able to say anything it would have been: let’s get this done. Its gritty, torn skin had the look of a veteran soldier ready to accompany me into battle. When I began to study history in middle school, I always though of great American heroes playing with a glove like mine; it seemed to have all the aspects of their character. I know it probably sounds silly, but looking back I remember how much I cared about that glove. It almost seemed like a real person when I was a little kid.
    

Growing up changes people, however, and soon I had traded in baseball to pursue other hobbies. By the start of high school, I had probably went through about three or four gloves. Each of them were different, but none could replace my very first baseball glove. While other gloves soon became tools to play the game with, my first glove always remained a cherished childhood memory that I held close to my heart. It made me sad to look back and see how much I have grown over the years.
   

  I sit staring at my glove now and wonder how I could have ever let so much time slip away from me. High school seemed an eternity away back then, and it was so easy to believe that it never really would get here. As the years go by it becomes harder to tell how things are going to eventually work out. Now I am playing golf, track, and soccer. I have not thrown a baseball in years… so why is it that every time I smell spring laced through the wind I think baseball? Memories sweep me off into another world, and I realize that maybe you never really grown out and away completely from anything.                                                                                                 
    

Throughout my life, I have started to think that people behave like trees. We start small, and soon grown as high from the ground as possible. Memories cherished in childhood are soon too hazy to remember. I never worry that I am irrevocably changed. When I see my glove, now laying in a place of honor on top of my bookcase, I have faith that I will always be able to stay true to myself. No matter how we change and grow we will always have roots that will bring us back to certain places, people, and memories. These will help us remain who we are despite how the years may warp us.