i get a glove

I get a glove

I was not born in the city of angels but it is  my adopted city.  Here I was raised, went to school, became a man.

I grew up in the  60’s in Echo Park, virtually in the shadow of  Dodger Stadium.  Some of my best childhood memories are walking to the ball game with my Dad and brothers to catch a game and watch some of the Dodger greats such as Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale and so many more from the bleachers in left field.

Our home fronted Sunset Blvd. And  I clearly recall the big earth moving equipment roaring up sunset blvd. on the way to build the stadium and watching on TV the Mexican families being forcibly evicted from their homes in Chavez Ravine to make way for the stadium. Baseball became part of the lexicon of our family dinner table talk.  Especially when the hated Giants were in town to play our home town heroes.

      For me the next logical step as a boy was to play baseball on a team.  And so I signed up early one spring morning at the Echo Park playground to play baseball.  The coach called me on the phone to tell me when to report to the ball field for the first practice.  But there was one little problem; I didn’t have a glove.  When I mentioned this to my mom and dad they reminded me that there really wasn’t any extra money for frivolous expenses and that was definitely a non essential  item.

      What was I to do?  I went to my first practice without a glove, feeling out of place   All eyes were on me.  Everyone knew I was at baseball practice without a glove. :Que atrevido”. What nerve to show up to baseball practice without a glove?   

The coach couldn’t  help me.   He didn’t have an extra glove.  Neither did any of the other kids.  I tried to make myself invisible by standing in the background, all the while watching the baseball action intently.  After an eternity, practice was finally over.  The kids slowly went their own ways.  I hung around still mesmerized by the scent of the dirt infield and the symbols of baseball everywhere; bats leaning against the backstop, balls here and there, the catchers equipment slung carelessly around and a few kids lingering after practice to play  catch and run the bases.

      Something caught my eye at the end of one of the benches, a dark object lying on the bench.  I moved over to investigate.  Looking down I saw it was an old beat up baseball glove.  An old beat up glove.  I slipped it into my left hand. It fit perfectly.  Whose glove was it?  It had no name on it, it did have a lot of markings someone had done with a black permanent marker giving it a very beat up look. No one stopped or questioned me.  I walked home with the glove tucked under my arm.

At the next  practice I took my place at the warm up line with the other kids glove in hand, partnered up with my good friend George and warmed up my arm playing catch, starting at close proximity, then slowly moving farther away from each other just as coach had instructed us.

      Finally It was my turn at batting practice what we lived for. I grabbed the bat in my hands, caressed the smooth wood.  Examining it for any nicks or scratches, took a few check swings, then ambled up to the plate.  I was no longer some kid at the Echo Park playground.  I was Willie Davis about to hit, Ron Fairly about to homer.  I grounded out weakly to second base.

It has been a long love affair with baseball. I played high school ball at Cathedral High located next to the stadium, taught my 2 sons to play, coached ball at the Montebello YMCA for 12 years, teaching kids  the nuances of the game, some of whom are now adults and are good friends today.

In spite of the travesty of the McCourt ownership of the Dodgers today I still enjoy going to the stadium, hear the roar of the crowd, have a hot dog and be sure to swing by my childhood haunts of course.  Take in a ballgame,  have a hot dog, a beer and peanuts, root for the hone team and  recall the early days of baseball and  my youth in the city of angels, my adopted town.