I looked up, and there it stood. The baseball mitt. The thing that has given me strength all these years. Plain, scratched, yet so comforting. Its level of value flies above gold and diamonds, although it’s made out of unknown material and random fur. Sophisticated handwriting was written in green ink all over the fingers and pockets. Everywhere. You really couldn’t imagine a nine-year-old kid writing poems on his baseball mitt in such a beautiful handwriting. But if you knew my little brother, Miguel, you wouldn’t have been surprised.
He possesses big intelligent eyes that look at people as if he were examining a complicated pattern. He speaks in an adult-like manner you would think that he’s fully matured. He wasn’t just smart, everybody I knew adored him. He would laugh at lame jokes, comfort people who are emotionally hurt, and has always been there for everyone. I treasure the mitt so much because of its scent of his loving personality. As I held the mitt between my fingers, a long-ago memory crawled its way into my consciousness.
Miguel loved baseball, he really did. He wasn’t like those kids that would cheer on the top of their voice just to act cool, he watched the games with such intensity that you would think that he’s on the verge of death. My parents soon noticed his passion for baseball, and offered to buy him a mitt. We looked everywhere, but left-handed mitts were uncommon, so we chose to go to a nearby town to look for more options. In the corner of the street, Miguel found a starving beggar wearing rags and homeless. He was a frail old man with a white beard and yellow teeth, missing his right arm.
“Mister I’m sorry I can’t help you much. I left my piggy bank at home. But I really wish to help you, sir” said Miguel in his sincere voice, handing the man the five-dollar bill he had saved for a special occasion. The beggar nodded at him, shaking and with tears glistening in the sides of his cheeks. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t form his words. “Do you by any chance know where there’s a store that makes left-handed baseball mitts?” asked Miguel politely.
“Well, see, there’s rarely any left-handed baseball players, sonny. I love baseball myself, but I’ve never fulfilled my dream in being the baseball player in the town because of my disability, and mainly because I’m missing my right hand ” He replied. His facial expression softened when he saw Miguel scrunching his eyebrows together in disappointment.
He hesitated for a long time and after deep thoughts, he went to a nearby tree and searched inside a pile of fallen leaves and fished out an old baseball mitt. “Mister, I’m sorry I can’t help you much. I don’t have a piggy bank or a home, but I’m the world’s number one baseball lover.” He imitated Miguel’s sincere voice, handing it to him, his eyes twinkling. “See, I don’t have a right hand, so I made the mitt myself out of scraps of clothing material. I’ve never met a kinder boy in my entire life. I’m not going to last long but even if I don’t have the money to help other people, I will rest in peace if I know that my beloved baseball mitt is safe in a caring baseball lover’s hands.” After saying that, he walked away without another word, leaving Miguel dumbfounded.
The man was Miguel’s greatest inspiration ever since. He worked hard and studied even when other kids were having their free time. He listened at class when others students’ minds were wandering off somewhere else. He was truly inspired and collected numerous poems in the honor of the man that gave him the baseball glove. He would always carry a green pen around, and when he finds a satisfactory poem, he would write in on the mitt with his best handwriting.
Soon, his mitt was covered with letters all over. Every time the opposing team bats, he reads one of the poems and remembers the old man who loved baseball and tried everything despite of his disabilities. Before a game, he would always pray with his baseball mitt and refused to replace the mitt with a newer, grander one even if our parents found a baseball mitt covered with diamonds.
He remembered the old man right up until the end, even when he was literally dying from leukemia. He was suffering all the time in the field, but refused to yield his pain. He kept telling us that he was all right, when he was panting with exhaustion. When we noticed that something wasn’t going right, it was already too late. With a blink of the eye, the next thing I saw was him on a bed, barely breathing. He took two quick breaths and held them, with his face as pale as a sheet. He made a little noise that came from the back of his throat, and winced. Soon, his body stopped twitching and lay there, motionless. The doctor's looked up from his glasses and his kind smile disappeared off of his face. He took Miguel's wrist and his brows became all muched up together and his wrinkles sunk deeper, he automatically grew older as he shook his head with a grieved expression.
My brain didn’t react immediately after the gesture. The next thing I knew was that I was banging my fist into anything I could get my hands onto. I crashed into glass, sending shattered pieces flying everywhere. My hand was dripping blood and I didn’t hesitate when I felt my fingers crack. The wounds are still there. The hand will never mend, and neither will I feel any better.
After so long, the baseball glove still stood neatly alongside with my personal belongings inside my suitcase. His poems were still there, the scratched places didn’t fade, and the mitt is perfectly preserved and looks the same way it did five years ago. But the person who prays with this mitt is not there anymore, and will never come back again.
