The Old Baseball Glove

Jackson stared at the old baseball glove sitting on his shelf. It had belonged to his dad, who had passed it down to him when Jackson turned ten. At the time, Jackson didn’t care much for baseball. He found it boring and never understood why his dad loved it so much. It was just a game where you threw a ball around, hit it, and then ran. What was the big deal?

Every Saturday morning, Jackson’s dad would invite him to toss a ball around in the backyard. "Come on, champ," he'd say, with a grin that made it hard to say no. "Let’s have some fun!" Jackson would groan and sigh, dragging his feet as if he were walking to his doom. Once they got outside, his dad would hand him the glove. Jackson didn’t understand why his dad insisted on this ritual every weekend. He didn’t see the point of throwing a ball back and forth, especially when he could be inside playing video games or hanging out with his friends.

His dad, however, never seemed to mind Jackson’s reluctance. He’d just smile, that same patient smile, and toss the ball gently. “One day, you'll get it,” his dad always said with a grin, as if Jackson was on the verge of a grand discovery. Jackson didn’t believe him, though. The glove always felt awkward in his hand. It was too big, too stiff, and no matter how many times his dad showed him how to position his hand, he never seemed to catch the ball just right. “I’m no good at this,” Jackson would complain, tossing the glove aside in frustration.

But his dad never gave up. He would simply pick the glove back up, place it in Jackson’s hand, and say, “You’ll get there. Just takes practice.” And while Jackson didn’t see it then, those moments meant the world to his dad. His dad wasn’t just teaching him baseball. He was teaching him patience, perseverance, and the importance of spending time together, even if Jackson didn’t fully appreciate it at the time.

Then, everything changed. When Jackson turned thirteen, his dad passed away suddenly. It happened so quickly that Jackson barely had time to process it. One moment, his dad was there, healthy and full of life. The next, he was gone, leaving Jackson and his mom with an emptiness that couldn’t be filled. It was the hardest thing Jackson had ever gone through. The house felt cold and silent, like it had lost its warmth. Everywhere Jackson looked, he saw reminders of his dad—his baseball cap hanging on the coat rack, his favorite coffee mug on the kitchen counter, and, of course, the old baseball glove sitting on Jackson’s shelf, gathering dust.

For weeks, Jackson couldn’t bring himself to touch the glove. He couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything, really. He avoided the backyard entirely. The thought of playing catch without his dad was too painful to bear. The memories of their Saturdays together, once annoying and dull, now felt like cherished moments he could never get back.

One afternoon, a few months after his dad’s passing, Jackson was cleaning his room. His mom had been gently encouraging him to tidy up, hoping it might help him feel better, or at least distracted. As he sorted through old clothes and toys, Jackson’s eyes fell on the glove. It was covered in a thin layer of dust, a relic from a time that felt so distant now. For the first time in what felt like forever, Jackson reached out and picked it up. The leather was worn and soft from years of use, and as Jackson slipped it onto his hand, he realized it fit perfectly. It wasn’t too big or awkward anymore. It was like it had been waiting for this moment.

Jackson stood there for a long time, staring at the glove, feeling its weight. Memories of his dad came flooding back—the way he laughed when Jackson made a good catch, the way he’d always encourage him to keep trying, the way he never seemed frustrated, even when Jackson wanted to quit. For the first time in a long time, Jackson felt connected to his dad. Not through words, but through the simple act of holding that glove.

Suddenly, the glove wasn’t just an object anymore. It was a reminder of his dad’s love, his dad’s patience, and all the Saturdays they spent together. It was a bridge to the past, to a time when things were simpler, when his dad was still there, guiding him. Jackson walked outside with the glove in hand, something he hadn’t done since his dad’s passing. The backyard felt strange without his dad, but somehow, it also felt comforting, like being there brought him closer to the man who had taught him so much without Jackson even realizing it.

He tossed the ball up in the air and caught it, just like his dad had taught him. This time, it didn’t feel forced or awkward. It felt natural. The glove wasn’t just a thing anymore; it was a way to remember his dad and keep a part of him alive. Each toss of the ball felt like a conversation with his dad, a silent exchange of memories and love.

As Jackson grew older, he found himself playing baseball more often. It started out small—just him in the backyard, tossing the ball and remembering his dad. But then, one day, he decided to try out for the school team. To his surprise, he made the cut. His teammates were impressed by his throwing arm, something that had developed over all those hours of practice with his dad. Jackson played with a new sense of purpose, knowing that every time he stepped onto the field, he was honoring his dad’s memory.

The old glove, once just an annoying piece of equipment, had become his most treasured possession. He took care of it meticulously, oiling the leather just like his dad had taught him, making sure it stayed soft and flexible. Every time he put it on, it felt like slipping into a part of his past, a past that was filled with love, patience, and the quiet strength his dad had always shown him.

By the time Jackson was a senior in high school, he had become one of the best players on his team. He even had a few offers from colleges to play baseball. But no matter how far he went, or how much success he had, that old glove remained his most prized possession. It hadn’t changed much over the years—there were more cracks in the leather now, and the laces were starting to fray—but to Jackson, it was perfect just the way it was. Every time he looked at it, he saw more than just a glove. He saw his dad, standing in the backyard, smiling at him with that patient grin, telling him he’d get it one day.

And now, Jackson finally understood what his dad meant all those years ago. It wasn’t about the game. It was about the time they spent together, the lessons his dad had been teaching him all along without Jackson even realizing it. The glove hadn’t changed, but Jackson had. And with that change, the glove’s meaning had shifted from being just a tool for a game to a symbol of his dad’s love, support, and the bond that would never be broken, even by death.