by Shilo Dawn Goodson

Created on: May 06, 2011

As I pulled the baseball mitt out of the pile of childhood memories, I smiled to myself. It had been twelve years since I last used that mitt, and I thought back to the last time I’d worn that mitt. I hadn’t even known where that mitt had ended up until now. I was surprised that my mom had kept that mitt so long. I’d been ten years old the last time I’d worn the mitt. My team was playing for the Little League Championship for the town. I was excited. I was convinced my team was going to win. We were the best. We hadn’t been defeated all season. Although the team we were playing was our toughest competition, we’d won by two runs both of the other times we’d played them.

Maybe the problem was that we were too confident. I remember that fly ball coming perfectly at my mitt. I’d caught so many fly balls that season that I guess I hadn’t been paying that much attention. Instead of landing in my mitt, the ball had hit the top of my mitt and bounced over the fence. The other team had won the game by one run.

After that game, I had thrown my mitt in the trash and vowed never to play baseball again. I guess my mom had pulled it out and put it with my other childhood memories. She must have known that one day it would bring back good memories again.

As I attempted to slide my hand into the mitt, I again smiled. Only my fingers would fit into the mitt. The mitt might not fit my hand, but that didn’t mean that baseball had to no longer fit into my life. Maybe I’d have to buy a new mitt and attempt to play this sport again. I had seen a flier the other day at the YMCA about an adult baseball league. I might have to try that. 

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