There were tryouts for a squirt-age team at my school. The deal was that if I made the team, I would get a glove. So I had to use my brother's glove until I did or if I did. The only problem was that he was left-handed and I was right-handed. There I was with this glove awkwardly perched on my hand like the claw of a crab. 

The day finally came where the coaches started signing the players. Unlike today, players could be cut and not make the team. I dreaded walking home in rejection. One by one I watched as my schoolmates were called to the coach to print their name on the registration form. With each one of them, my heart sank. Finally, my name was called. I was the last one to sign. All of the anxiety and worry flushed out of my body in one moment. I made the team, Bellwood and Green, an autobody shop in Willowdale. To this day, I can remember the smell of the sweater. Although it wasn't pleasant, it was the smell of success, one that would be repeated in future years with different teams.

I ran home and the door flew open as if it had no choice. I was through it in a flash. I screamed that I made the team.

The next night my dad and I went to Dobby's Sporting Goods on Yonge Street. I approached the store as if I were visiting a holy shrine. This wasn't any ordinary sports store. This was Dobby's. The whole place smelled like leather. It was intoxicating. The odour added to the sacredness of the place. Mr. Dobson sized up my hand and recommended the glove my dad eventually bought. We also got a can of dubbin to help work in the glove.

If should be noted that my father and I rarely shared moments together, but this one is one of the treasures I keep in my heart. Dad really knew nothing about softball, but he and my mom used to come to my games, about the closest thing to a date that they ever had. Making that team gave me a few moments of my childhood where I felt like I was in a family and that I was good at something.

I got home and slathered the glove with dubbin, put a ball in the pocket and tied it with string to shape the pocket. I had three days before the first practice. My glove would be ready.

When I arrived at the field, my glove fit me, well, like a glove. It fit perfectly, not too snug, but not too loose. I had a look at some of the gloves the other kids had. They were huge, capable of catching small pumpkins. I wasn't intimidated at all. Mr. Dobson, Dobby, had recommended my glove and he was God to me.

I used that glove for several years. Eventually it became too small for my hand, but I pressed it into service for one more year. It was the year we won our first Ontario championship. We were playing the third game of a best of three series against Beamsville. Their cleanup hitter was huge, Steve Earl. I was playing right field and he launched one way over my head. I ran back farther and farther then made an over-the-shoulder catch with my precious glove. Turned out that this catch made the difference between the championship and the long drive home.

So you can see that this was more than "just a glove" to me. It was symbolic of a journey that would take me to some dreams that most kids would have missed. 

If you come here, I have another glove. We'll get out a ball and play catch, me with my first glove. Like me, the old glove isn't what it used to be. But like me, it is still capable of doing the basics. It's full of memories of a part of life that shaped me to be the person I am. In recent years, the guys on the team have gotten together socially. It all started on the 50th anniversary of our first Ontario championship. For all of us, it uncovered a treasure of emotion from our youth and we have occasionally gotten together since. That extra dimension of love has warmed my soul in ways I can't describe. We were legends, and like all legends, they become greater as time passes.