Asked for a game of catch, the father stands up with alacrity. Never mind that he is tired after a long day, never mind that he might not feel well, that his cares weigh on his heart. He knows this is all too fleeting.

When the child comes in, small fist deep in the glove, and asks hopefully: will you play catch with me? the father springs out of his chair, grabs his own old glove from his youth. Its long-ago games, it turns out, were not the glove’s highest purpose. Out in the yard, each one's hands mirror the other's—the throw, the satisfying thwack of the ball in the leather, the deep, warm smell of the thing, the creak of it. All of the father’s patient demonstrations—lacing, oiling, tying it like a bundle around two balls to cure, untouched, for a couple of days—all to share the undiluted pleasure of catching something from the sky, cradling it against the chest.

Both wearing gloves given by their fathers, they do not speak in the summer evening’s long, slow light. It no longer occurs to the father—throwing, catching, throwing, catching—to be surprised at how fiercely, how boundlessly, he could love another person.

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Special thanks to David Jenemann, Dean of the Patrick Leahy Honors College, University of Vermont, for sharing his essay “The Gloves of Summer” with me.

Links:

• The Green Fields of the Mind - A. Bartlett Giamatti, 1998

• Glove at first sight: Major leaguers recall getting their first mitts – Jim Caple, ESPN, June 16, 2016

This post is part of The American 250, a series featuring 250 objects made by Americans, located in America, in honor of the country's 250th anniversary. 250 words on 250 works, from January 1 to December 31, 2026.

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