Do you remember when we were kids,
we’d play those simple little games,
without wires, or famous logo names.

Skipping rope, hopscotch, and always ride the bike,
but baseball seemed the best to me,
it seem to fit just right.

I had a glove, a Hutch, its brand,
that I got from a second hand store.
But second hand or not,
to me it meant so much more.

It was big and floppy,
the laces were hard and stiff.
But this glove was my ticket,
with the neighborhood guys I did fit.

There was not pocket to this glove,
just a thin stretch of hide was marked.
and every ball that I seem to catch,
boy it sure did SMART!

My glove would dangle down from its strap,
on the handle bars of my bike,
and they both would go back and forth with me,
regardless if it was day or night.

One day I was playing short,
and a ball came screaming by.
My Hutch seemed to sniff it out,
as if that glove had eyes!

Into the glove the ball went WACK,
and I put on the brake.
I slid a bit in the clay,
then to first my throw would make.

That out was mine, a hero of the day,
but it was the magic of that ole glove,
that put a smile on my face.

I’m much older now, in the autumn of my years,
and sometimes I’d take that ole glove of mine,
and try to hold back the tears.

I’d close my eyes, smell of leather,
and try on that tattered fit,
as I carefully make a pocket,
and gently pound my fist.

There are so many things that a man can say,
while on this earth and towards his final days.
Good family and friends, and folks that he knew,
and a bit of luck would be nice to.
And of this game,
and with memories that I prize so much,
like a ole tattered brown glove, my ole special Hutch.

Coach B,