When I was nine, my father handed me a leather glove that felt like a promise.
The Glove That Started It All
It was made by Cragstan, a sports‑equipment company that named the model after Bill Renna, a figure whose name still resonated on the diamond.
Backyard evenings were filled with the thud of a ball against leather as my dad and brother chased fly balls under the fading light.
Weekends often meant a short drive to the stadium where we watched the Seattle Rainiers, the farm club of the Boston Red Sox, cheering for prospects who might one day wear the big‑league uniform.
One summer, a home run I hit was dismissed by the umpire, a slight that stung until my father spun a story of a famous Yankees player who faced a similar snub and turned it into motivation.
Later, the glove was stolen in a moment of carelessness, only to be recovered by my father’s quiet determination, reinforcing the lesson that love can retrieve what is lost.
My competitive playing ended when I earned a spot in the Babe Ruth Division, after which I shifted from swinging a bat to collecting cards and following the Seattle Mariners with fervent interest.
Through it all, the game became a conduit for something deeper — a way to guide my children and grandchildren toward a love that transcends statistics, pointing them toward the Creator we cherish.
The glove, now a relic, still sits on a shelf, reminding me that the bonds forged on the field echo in the larger story of family, faith, and forgiveness.