(This is one of several essays that did not make my memoir that I have just completed. It just didn’t flow with the arc of the story. Later this summer my memoir will be available. More about that soon. It is called Leaving the Land of Numb–A Journey To Connect My Emotional and Spiritual Lives. More information to follow in the coming weeks.)
For now, here’s a sweet surprise that came to me from my dad on a June summer afternoon in 1964 when I was playing baseball with the neighbor kids in the vacant lot behind our new house in Hoxie, Kansas.
When I was in elementary school, one summer night I showed off in front my grandparents and neighborhood kids at a weekend cookout at our home. For four minutes—nonstop—I bounded on my Pogo stick in front of a neighborhood audience sitting in lawn chairs circling our driveway. At four minutes, Dad finally brought it to an end. “Okay. That’s it. You are the world champion. Time for homemade ice cream.”
But it was baseball that won my heart—not being the “world champion” on the Pogo stick. As a left-handed Little Leaguer in June 1964, I had a faux-leather glove that was in shreds. That pitiful glove was held together by white string.
You’ll never guess what happened. One lazy June afternoon Dad drove up in his red and yellow natural gas company pick-up, stopping alongside the empty lot behind our house, where a neighborhood baseball game was in full swing. With his left arm hanging out the driver’s side of the pick-up, he motioned for us to come to his truck.
“Hello boys,” Dad said. “I need to borrow Don for a little while. Don’t worry. We’ll be right back. Hop in, Son.”
“Where are we going, Dad?”
“You’ll see.”
Two minutes later Dad pulled his pick-up into a spot directly in front of Mickey’s Hardware Store in downtown Hoxie, Kansas.
“Hop out. Let’s go into Mickey’s,” Dad said. “I want to get something.”
“What do we need to get?” I asked.
“You’ll see. It’s just a little something.”
When we stepped inside, Vernon Mickey, wearing his signature bow tie, welcomed us from behind the counter. “Well hello, Follis boys. What brings you in here on this fine afternoon?”
Pointing to a well-used softball glove sitting on the shelf on the counter behind the cash register, Dad said, “We’d like to see that baseball glove.” Mr. Mickey, winking at my Dad, pulled the glove off the shelf and handed it to me. (Mr. Mickey had said it was a softball mitt; Dad called it a baseball glove.)
“I hope you are left-handed,” Mr. Mickey said, nodding and smiling at my Dad. “This glove is for lefthanders.”
“I am lefthanded.”
“Well, try it on, young Mr. Follis.”
After pulling the well-worn glove on my right hand, I made a fist with my left hand and hit the center of the glove. Mr. Mickey grabbed the leather strap on the back and tightened it.
“What do you think? Dad asked.
“I like it.” I said.
“It is too big?”
It was way too big, but it was obvious it was either that glove or no glove.
So I said, “It’s good. I like it.”
“We’ll make it work,” Dad said.
“Yeah, Dad, we’ll make it work.”
“We’ll take it,” Dad said, nodding toward Mr. Mickey. Pulling out a quarter from his pocket, he handed it to the hardware store owner.
“You’ll be the best fielder out there,” Mr. Mickey said. Writing out a receipt, he gave Dad the top copy. “Baseball glove – $0.25.” With the glove still attached to my right hand, Dad and I walked out to his truck. Black lettering on the side read, “Kansas-Nebraska Natural Gas Company.”
When Dad drove me back to the vacant lot, the other boys were sitting underneath a tree kicking up dirt. When they saw me wave the glove high in the air, they jumped to their feet and came running. The game resumed with me playing catcher and the others taking turns pitching. Crouched in a catcher’s stance, Donny Follis, age 9, was the new neighborhood celebrity, the proud owner of a used baseball glove.
After Dad got home from work, he picked up my little fake-leather glove lying in our backyard. He walked it to the metal trash barrel at the back of our yard, threw it in our trash barrel and rubbed his hands together as if to say, “That’s it with that old thing.” Dad stood in the middle of the backyard throwing me pitches while I crouched down and played catcher. When Dad’s pitches hit my glove, they made a popping sound. That night Dad pulled out a can of saddle soap and rubbed it into every crevice of that glove. Even today if someone stuck an open can of saddle soap under my nose while my eyes were closed, I’d immediately say, “Hoxie, Kansas, summer baseball, June 1964. Used baseball glove at Mickey Hardware—$.025.”
“She’s going to serve you well,” Dad said. “Don’t leave it out in the yard at night where the dog might chew on it.”
“Dad, thank you for buying me a glove today.”
“You’re welcome, son. Mr. Mickey was right today when he said ‘With that glove you’ll be the best fielder out there.’”
donfollis.com 