It's Al's Turn: Glove triggers childhood memories

A friend of mine who I hadn’t seen in ages, “Mo,” came to my office this week to drop off a piece of my childhood – a well-worn baseball glove.

He found it in the basement of his home in Parkers Prairie. How it got there remains a mystery. On the back, in black marker, was my name – Alan E. – followed by my folks’ phone number.

It was a Rawlings “Pro Design” glove with a “Deep Well” pocket and a factory-stamped signature of Yankees legend, Mickey Mantle.

The glove was pretty beat up, blackened in places. Leather laces, broken in spots, still held the glove together.

I hadn’t seen it in more than 50 years.

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I put it on. Pounded the pocket with my right hand. It still felt good.

It was a little small though. Of course, I was only about 10 years old when I last used it. If I remember right, it was my first real baseball glove.

Wow, what a time trip to see that Mickey Mantle glove again!

It took me back to the late 1960s and early 70s when I was growing up in Parkers Prairie as a “town kid.” It was a time filled with endless sunny summers and good times with your pals. We were lucky that our neighborhood was filled with town kids who loved to play rubber-coated baseball (none of that softball stuff). Although we were just a few years apart, we divided ourselves into the “big kids” and “little kids” and God, did we like to play those games.

If the weather was even half-decent, we’d start making phone call after phone call, saying “You wanna play ball?” Once we hit 10 or 12 players, we knew we’d have enough for a game. On some occasions, we were able to round up 15 or 16 players.

We all had nicknames – Mo, Buck, Spike (Buck’s little brother), Copper (my redhead brother), Oyster, Hilgmeyer, Foley and so on. My brother came up with my nickname, Ralph, because it had “Al” in it. I hated it but what are you going to do when you’re part of the “little kids?”

We played in a typical sandlot – a big empty lot – just a block or two from my house. We’d pick teams and we didn’t care if we hurt someone’s feelings by not picking them until the end. And the last person taken didn’t care either – they were just excited to play ball. We marked a path in the outfield and anyone who hit a baseball that far was credited with an automatic home run.

At first, I played right field. Actually, it was “right, right field” – a small corner way back there in right field where not many balls were hit. But I got better, probably because my dad used to hit countless pop-ups to me on the street outside our house. I eventually switched to left field, which got a lot more action. I was known for one thing: Making spectacular catches out of routine fly balls. That’s because I was a little slow off the crack of the bat and to make up for it, I had to frantically dive or leap high in the air to make a catch. But I did catch most of them, no doubt using that Mickey Mantle glove.

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After all these years, I still remember one catch. I had to race way back, running as fast as I could, with my glove already outstretched as far as possible. Just when the ball plopped into my glove, I hit the ground – and planted my face right into a huge mound of red ants. But I hung onto it. My teammates gave me so many slaps on the back, it hurt more than the ants.

Over the years, the “big guys” went off to college and other age groups were formed. Before long, the lot where we played became fully developed with houses and driveways and streets and backyards.

Thinking back, I can’t remember the last time we got a game up but I’m going to keep my glove at the ready – just in case.

“It’s Our Turn” is a weekly column that rotates among members of the Alexandria Echo Press editorial staff.

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