What’s up, guys? I don’t care!
I’m here to say goodbye to an old friend. Last night (a humid Thursday) I went to play softball in a rough neck of the woods. I don’t want to offend anyone so let’s just call it Lawrence, Massachusetts. I showed up to fill in for my friend’s team. I went 2 for 4 and will most likely not be invited back. It was a pretty lackluster performance from the milk man (that’s what I call myself when I play softball).
Anyhow, after the game I changed out of my of my cleats and back into those Adidas sandals everyone had in 8th grade. Looking back I guess I got in my truck and drove away, leaving my baseball glove to fend for itself. It sat alone on a concrete bench as the lights from the field were turned off.
Now for those of you out there who don’t know much about sports, baseball gloves can’t move — unless someone with 4.4 speed and a rocket fucking arm sticks his hand in it. Without my fingers inside its holes its basically just an expensive oven mitt. It doesn’t stand a chance alone on the streets. It can barely use a phone.
I’d like to take a quick second to explain I have no idea why I’m writing this blog. I guess I’m hoping someone sees how much I cared about this glove person and gives me a call if they have any information about its where………abouts.
Part of me takes comfort in knowing there’s a small chance that a man with no home found my glove last night and used it as a place to rest his weary head after a long day—–Even though most of my friends assured me there’s a much greater chance that the man with no home is having sex with my glove as we speak.
I hate softball.
-Steak Jones