It Came With the Shoes
The Bronx 1943
“It came with the shoes,” said Jerry.
“What do you mean, It came with the shoes? When I buy shoes. They put it in a box and I go home.”
“They gave me a baseball glove when my mother paid for the shoes.”
“Can I see it?”
The person who designed the shoes obviously was the one who designed this glove. It had laces with eyelets, it had a heel, but it also had a thumb whose length was equal to the tongue of an L.L. Bean woodsman boot. The remaining four fingers, resembling old, discarded banana peels huddled together in fear of the adjoining this mammoth thumb. I christened his glove “The Thumb” but I wouldn’t tell him. He was a lefty, I was a lefty. He had a glove, I didn’t. Whenever we played stickball I prayed he would be on the opposing team so I could borrow his glove to catch those nasty ground balls without bobbling them as they came rocketing towards me at third base.
Jerry always offered “The Thumb” I gratefully accepted. As the four fingers continued to soften, the thumb began to calcify and became an impediment in trying to catch a rubber ball. Before a ball had reached the glove pocket, it was speared by the thumb. This will never do. I had small hands. I needed a glove to catch a spinning rubber ball. Jerry was the only lefty. All the other boys were right handed. They had their own glove except The Creep whose hands dangling from his wrists were hands the size of a baseball glove; therefore, a glove for him was moot.
My father didn’t have a lefty glove. What would he do with it if he had one? Probably squeeze it into the kitchen junk drawer. He wouldn’t hesitate to buy me a glove had I asked. But, in my mind I had to present a logical argument to satisfy the investment. I told Ma I was short, my hands were small so I had difficulty catching the ball. She sagely counseled,
“So, when you grow, your hands will grow and you’ll catch the ball.”
At thirteen, the boys hit the pink Spaulding hard and fast.
“Ma, I can’t catch the ball now without a glove, a lefty glove. Are you left handed or right handed?”
“Ich kenn shaierenn tepp mitt beideh hent.” )I can scour pots with either hand), was her reply.
“Oh, so it’s a glove you want. Why didn’t you say so? Morris, he wants a baseball glove. Let’s go with him.”
Across the street and around the corner from my apartment building, Crotona Felt Sporting Goods occupied three contiguous stores on Boston Road. They had two pathetic lefty gloves. The oil on one did not mask its use. It probably was a return. The other glove was for a major leaguer.
“Let’s go to Southern Boulevard. They have sports stores there,” suggested my father.
It was about a mile walk under the Southern Blvd. el to Vim and Davega. With a spring in my step, my parents at my side, we left for the stores.
Visions of sugargloves danced in my head when suddenly, my previous night’s panic barged into my happiness. It might have been an asthmatic attack. Whatever it was, I awoke, I couldn’t breathe. I thought it was the end. A few deep, frantic inhales put a stop to it.
What if this happens again and I die? Why should Ma and Pa be left with a baseball glove? Pa doesn’t play stickball. Should I tell them what happened last night?
Oh no, that would frighten them. I’ll let it pass this time, but if it happens again and I live, I’ll tell them for sure.
Before the Loew’s Spooner, the competing, tall, art-deco, multitubed red neon lights of Davega and VIM outshone all the other signs on Southern Blvd. Davega was a large, brightly lit store. I was wearing their black, high top handball sneakers with a big, black rubber bumper in the front. Maybe they had a glove that would hold up as well as these sneakers. We were directed downstairs to the baseball equipment. We looked around. Where’s a salesman? I guess we disturbed his break. He darted out from behind a door. With a strong scent of tuna fish on his breath. He handed me a glove and assured me this was the best glove in our price range. I looked at the inside liner. It had a rough nap, then looked at my father.
“Pa, it looks like it needs a shave.”
It resembled the gray leather gloves Mr. Tekula wore when he rolled his garbage barrels to the edge of the sidewalk. On to VIM, a few stores to the right. A friendly salesman showed me two dark brown gloves that were perfect. The larger one was a $5.99 Red Rolfe; the smaller one was a $3.99 Ken Keltner. I placed my right hand in one and punched it’s pocket a few times. Then I punched the other.
“Which one do you like?” Pa asked.
“I like both of them.”
“So, take the better one.”
I looked at the two gloves. What if I get the $5.99 glove and that frightening breathing problem returns? Pa will be left with the expensive glove. What will he do with it? Should I tell him to give it to Jerry?
“The $3.99 Kenny Keltner glove is smaller but it will be fine. Yes, I like the $3.99 glove.”
The salesman placed the glove into a bag. The following day, I burned my name onto the back of the glove with the help of the sun and a magnifying glass.
Jerry was left with the glove that came with the shoes, but he could borrow my glove whenever he needed it. My Kenny Keltner joined “The Thumb” and all the righty gloves on the stickball field. Now I felt, I really belonged.