My most valuable possession, lifetime, was my baseball mitt. A fielder's glove, not a catcher's or first baseman's. It was, I think, a Rawlings model, and it was inscribed with the name "Monte Pearson." (Pearson had been a pitcher for the Cleveland Indians.) I remember many hours spent oiling it. I guarantee that it was well cared for.
In the P. S. 217 neighborhood, to possess one's own baseball glove was a marker of class. When we played, there were never enough gloves to go around, so when our team came in to bat, those who had gloves would leave theirs on the field for someone from the other team to use. Although I never articulated it at the time, it felt downright prosperous to be a lender, not a borrower. I think a good glove cost about $15.00 in those days, so it was no trivial expense.
When my brother Jonathan, who was three years younger than I, was presented with his glove, he slept with it every night. I recently asked him if he continued to do so after he was married. He says no, but….
I don't think that anyone who didn't grow up in the 40s and 50s in Brooklyn, in the Jackie Robinson era, can appreciate the importance of baseball to us.
I've tried to think of another possession that ever meant as much to me — a particular book or an automobile, for instance — but nothing compares. Not even slightly.
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