Micah, ill-prepared for last season.
This is my Glove. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
Sitting here, with the gear laid out on the bed, I begin my meditation for the new season. It’s been a long year to consider the lessons learned of the past. What could I do to better contribute to that wonderful corps, the 20-Minutemen?
My glove is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I master my life. My glove, without me, is useless. Without my glove, I am useless.
In some ways, I feel that I had the most to prove during the offseason out of anyone else on the team. After all, I did show up to the first game in a pair of jeans, because of a complete lack of ownership of shorts. So a thorough shakedown was in order. In order to fully meditate on the situation, I traveled to the wild desert region of New Mexico known only as Las Cruces.
I must use my glove true. I must catch better than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must catch him before he catches me. I will….
As the plane touched down in the land of my forefather (the parents retired out there eight years ago, making me practically a native New Mexican), that deep connection with the land was already there, reinvigorating the competitive spirit needed to defeat our enemies at ABC and FOX. It had after all, only been six years since the first and last visit, and so our bond was strong.
My glove and myself know that what counts in this war are not the balls we catch, the noise of our cheer, or the dust we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit…
As Dad greeted the weary warrior, he could see that there was a purpose to the visit other than to consume many of what the locals of this magic land call Margaritas and bask in the glow of the Sun God Quetzalcoatl. There was a larger purpose: the task of preparation. With a solemn nod, he drove us both back across the desert to the Casa de Pearson, wherein laid an ancient artifact (30 years old, at least), an ark if you will, that contained many a relic of an almost forgotten bygone era: My youth.
My glove is human, even as I, because it is my life.
The bag contained many things of great import. The first of which, were the cleats. Many was the time last season where rather than making the play, I slipped in defeat, occasionally causing injury. No more would this burden my back, legs and feet.
Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weakness, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its weave and its webbing.
Next, there was the knee brace. The first-ever to guard joints that had a nasty tendency to get misaligned when running from base to base, dodging the fire of our enemies. This armor, this shield, would guard through many a battle. But it paled in comparison to the next item in terms of importance…
I will keep my glove clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will…
The Glove. The one artifact that has been in my family for years, this was the first, last, and only glove I could ever use. Even though I am left-handed, it’s a righty. But it is the glove I’ve used since I was eight years old, and over the 26 years we’ve known each other, it has become my Excalibur, a metaphor one would think would be more apropos to a bat, but no…not this time. Not now. For this is my glove.
Before the Corps I swear this creed. My glove and myself are the defenders of my team. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life. So be it, until victory is the 20-Minutemen’s and there is no enemy, but Trophies.
On April 10th, 2010, the battle begins anew. Friends, colleagues, and teammates: We are ready. We have had many a fallen comrade, but their memories will only spur us onward to greater victory! We can, we must, and we will…
Play ball.
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