FIELD OF DREAMS

 I got my first baseball glove when I was 5 years old.  It was plastic and shabby, but I loved it.  I remember making some pretty flashy plays, catching with my dad, my first best friend.  Of course, I no longer have that glove.  That would be ridiculous.

I got my next glove, a leather one, when I was 7.  That one is displayed, quite inconspicuously, in our New Milford bedroom.  It, 2 statues of Willie Mays, and a picture of "The Naked Truth," are my only decorative contributions to our living space.

Two more gloves came in my twelfth year, when I started playing organized baseball with kids 10 to 12 years old. (Twelve year olds were not supposed to pitch in that league, but my team was so bad, and I was so small, that I was allowed to pitch.)

You get my drift; baseball, and especially baseball gloves, have always been important to me.  So when I see an 11 year old boy without a baseball glove, I basically see a boy without a limb.

That was Henry, until just 10 days ago.

Henry started a new school this year.  I was concerned for him.  I had to start at a new school for the seventh grade, and it was brutal.  Sports, especially baseball, helped, somewhat, during that transition.  I just wasn't sure that playing the cello was going to be enough for Henry to create a bond with his new classmates.

My concerns were totally unnecessary.  Last March, Henry's dad sent me a video of a class assembly.  The speaker was explaining that an award was being given to one of the students for basically being a well rounded, good kid.

When Henry's name was announced, his classmates burst into spontaneous cheers and applause.  Goosebumps rising, eyes swelling with happy tears, my first thought was that I couldn't imagine how proud Sara must have felt.

Then I quicky realized that I knew exactly how Sara felt.

I am so proud of my kids, who they have become as daughters, sisters, spouses/partners, parents, pet owners, nieces, cousins, friends.  And, as I have said before, I think my grandchildren have the greatest aunts in the whole world. My children are my blessings, my legacy.

But back to Henry.  He now has a baseball glove, a new tool in his toolbox.  It may not be his favorite, and it may not consume his entire adolescent life like it did mine.  That's okay, that's better than okay. Henry's toolbox is filled with charm, humor, and grace.  He is a great kid, and he even has a brick to prove it.

For the time being, at least, I don't have to worry about him.  I can simply love and enjoy him.