Mikes Glove

Looking into Mike’s warm blue eyes I found weakness. It was hidden in the back corner concealed by an impenetrable wall of false strength and power, the same strength and power that he used to have only one depressing year ago.

            Sitting next to him, on an ancient maple wood desk was his tan, leather, left handed catcher’s glove. The pocket was worn smooth from hundreds, no thousands, of fastballs, sinkers, and even some curve balls which were very rare for his age. He was only eleven, yet he still managed to be an A+ student, Little League MVP, and he was the most popular kid in his whole elementary school.

The glove was as old as my Great Grandpa Chuck. We called him Chuckles because of his cheerful disposition. He was the very man that gave him that glove when he was only five years old.  Mike had always idolized Chuckles; he thought of him as highly as God himself. To tell you the truth, they were nearly identical. Chuckles played catcher, so Mike played catcher. Chuckles liked Bing Crosby, so Mike liked Bing Crosby; Chuckles loved poetry, so Mike loved poetry. The list went on and on. The last one was the most depressing. Chuckles died of leukemia, and Mike was soon to follow in his footsteps.  

Chuckles gave him the glove on the day he died. Written with green pen in the center of the pocket was a poem called, If You Forget Me. Mike loved the idea of writing poetry in his glove, and after every loss or chemo therapy treatment, he would write another poem as a way to lift his spirits. I slipped my hand into the glove. Its insides had been covered with white, furry hair. The hair had turned a yellowish color and had bunched up into wads from the sweat over the years. I turned it over to read some of the poetry, but to my horror it was all gone, all smudged into a dark green blob. Then I remembered it. It was a terrible memory, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of it

It was a rainy day in late fall, and two important things were happening that day. First, it was the day of the Brooklyn Little League Championship, and second, it was the six year anniversary of Chuckles’ death. Mike had been in a bitter mood all morning. Even though Chuckles had died six years ago, Mike remembered him as if it was just yesterday. The game started at noon, but mom insisted on getting there at 10:30 a.m. to get prime, front row seat. The game started right at noon at lasted for what seemed like forever. After two hours of playing, it was 4-5 in the bottom of the ninth inning. There were two outs and runners on first and third. The championship would be theirs with just two more outs. Jason, the star pitcher, threw a 60 mph fast ball that was just inside. Mike, the catcher, was lost in thought thinking about Chuckles and reading the poetry on his glove. The ball was a little bit inside and hit Mike on the side of his helmet. It bounced off his helmet into the fence. All of a sudden, he stumbled and fell into a deep puddle, unconscious. An ambulance was called and my whole family rushed onto the field. Mike’s glove was all smudged from the puddle and I couldn’t read a single word of it.The next day a doctor told us the most horrific news, Mike had a severe case of leukemia. It was the last thing that I would’ve expected to hear. It left me in shock for almost a whole week.

Here I was now watching my little brother on the cold, white hospital bed. I never told him I kind of idolized him. He was the little brother I had always wanted. In the next few moments I watched my little brother drift away. His eyes gently closed and he lived no more. Only his memory would live on.  Now every time I pick up the glove I feel as if I can almost touch him.