Earlier this year, the wife of one of my closest friends contacted me and asked if Andrea and I could meet them in Las Vegas. She wanted my presence to be a surprise for her husband, Noel.
I was an only child, but I've known Noel for over 50 years, and there were countless times growing up when he stepped in and basically became my older brother. We spent the weekend in Vegas rehashing some of those stories and when this one came up we were both howling. When we stopped laughing, I told him this tale was definitely Rock-tober fodder.
As a kid, I wasn't the most gifted athlete. I felt more at home in a library reading a book rather than on an athletic field. But I managed to have enough fun playing pickup baseball games that I decided to try out for Little League when I was 9 years old.
Since I didn't have any of my own gear, Dad and I went to the CB Base Exchange to pick up a bat, ball, and glove. Standing in front of the glove bin, he asked if I needed a right- or left-handed glove. Not being that hip to the basic nuances of the game's vernacular, I told him a needed a "lefty" glove. I still remember the puzzled look he gave me, "'Lefty?' Are you left handed?"
I nodded my assent and was equally confused at his puzzlement. It seemed straightforward to me since I threw with my right hand, I needed a "lefty" glove.
When we got home we started a game of catch in the back yard. I donned my brand new glove, pounding the leather palm with my fist, and ignored the oddness of it on my right hand. Since my right hand was now encumbered by a glove, I was forced to throw with my left, and my first throw was...magnificently awkward.
The ball took a high, lobbing arc and probably made it no more than 10 feet. If Dad was disappointed his son wasn't showing promise as major league player, he didn't show it. Patiently, he went over the mechanics of my stance and follow through. This led to some improvement, but not much.
A few minutes later, Noel, who was living next door at that time, came over. We started a 3-way game of catch and he took note of my struggle to get distance and accuracy with my throws. He held up his hand to pause the action and strode over to where I was standing.
Noel: "Wayne, man, why aren't you throwing right-handed?" I shrugged and in all seriousness replied.
Me: "Cuz I've got a glove on it?"
Noel: deep sigh
Noel: "OK, you doofus. Why are you using a left handed glove?"
I tried to explain my logic, but as I stepped through my thought process it slowly became apparent to me I may have made an error. After another deep sigh, Noel held up his hand to stop my rambling. He took off his own glove and handed it to me. "Here. Try this instead." Removing mine, I slipped his onto my proper hand and not surprisingly, the odd, awkward feeling suddenly disappeared.
"Oh, yeah! That's way better!"
Noel just shook his head. Punching me in the arm, he walked back to his spot. "Doofus."
My next throw to Dad flew straight and true, and he started smiling and laughing. I'm not sure if he was amused at his oddball son not knowing his basic equipment needs or if he was just relieved his son actually could throw a baseball.
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