The Golden Glove by Fred Bowen

Author:Fred Bowen [Bowen, Fred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-4312-9
Publisher: Peachtree Publishers
Published: 1996-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

TEN

A small bell jingled above his head as Jamie opened the door to Pete’s Sports Shop. The late afternoon sun slanted through the front store window and cast an orange glow into the crowded little shop.

Inside, Greta Pemberton sat next to her mother, lacing up a new pair of sneakers.

“I hope these last, Pete,” Greta’s mom said. “She wears them out before she outgrows them.”

Greta got up and bounced on her shoes like a restless fighter waiting for the bell.

“Hey, Gretzky,” Jamie said. “Nice shoes.”

“Hey, Jamie,” Greta smiled, looking at her sneakers and then at Jamie.

Pete Bikakis stood up. He was a trim, bald man with close-cropped gray hair along the sides of his head. Although Pete was in his eighties, he didn’t look that old to Jamie. He still moved with the ease of an athlete.

As he waited, Jamie fingered the baseball gloves that hung on the wall. He shook his head when he saw the price tags. Man, he thought, I’d have to do chores for a year to earn the money to buy one of these things.

“See you at the park, Jamie,” Greta called out as she left the store with her new sneakers slung over her shoulder.

“See ya around, Gretzky.”

“How can I help you, Jamie?” Pete asked as he walked across the store.

“Actually, Pete, it’s my glove that needs help,” Jamie said, showing Pete the old leather mitt.

“This isn’t the one you bought last spring.”

“No, I lost that one.”

Pete shook his head sympathetically. “Ooh. Lost your gamer, Jamie. That’s too bad.”

“Gamer? What do you mean, gamer?”

“You know, the glove you use in the game. Lots of the pros have a bunch of gloves they are breaking in. But a ballplayer usually only has one gamer.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” Pete continued. “A player takes special care of his gamer.” The old man put out his hand. “Let’s take a look at that glove of yours.”

Jamie handed the glove over. Pete stretched the glove out, carefully inspecting each part. Jamie watched the old man’s hands skillfully move over the mitt. Pete’s hands were so tough and leathery that it was hard to tell his skin from the glove.

“This one isn’t so bad. Leather’s in pretty good shape. Laces aren’t frayed. How’s it treating you?”

Jamie shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m borrowing it from someone until I find mine. It feels kinda stiff—not like the one I had. That one was perfect.”

“Well,” said Pete, handing the glove back to Jamie. “You gotta break this one in all over again.”

“How do I do that?” Jamie asked. “First game is in a week.”

“You can use that neat’s-foot oil I gave you last fall and work it into the pocket, but ballplayers use all kinds of stuff to break in their gloves.”

“Like what?”

Pete laughed and scratched his chin. “Some players soak their glove in warm water. I read once where Robin Yount used to throw his glove into a Jacuzzi and then let it dry out. Must have worked. Yount was the American League’s Most Valuable Player in the 1980s as a shortstop and again as a center fielder.

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