Another day, another patient,
Another dry report
Another twelve of drips and meds
And paperwork to sort.
So just who are you little man?
No eye contact, no smiles.
You simply sit there with a stare
That goes ten thousand miles.
And strange, he held a baseball glove
While sitting on his bed.
With well-worn stitch and tethered strands
And lettering faded red.
The sunlight through the blinds cast bars
Across his weathered face.
Locked inside an imprisoned mind
That knew not time or place.
I said “How do you feel today?”
My voice he clearly heard.
He looked at me then looked away
And would not speak a word.
His face was gray, his hair unkept
His eyes were troubled deep.
Memories of faces, doors, and names
Had long since gone to sleep.
No doubt that he could hear my words
Yet chose to ignore it.
But when I asked about the glove
He said, “My brother wore it.”
He did not know his age or name
Or what he was there for.
But spoke about a sandlot game
Long before the war.
As words poured out his face transformed
And light now filled his eyes.
His voice was firm, his smile was warm.
His shoulders twice their size.
It was a small town rivalry
The local pennant race.
The bottom of the ninth and he
Was stranded on third base.
Two batters had been at the plate
And watched the ball go by.
They swung too low or swung too late
With one more left to try.
The game was tied, the team was spent
The sun was falling late.
Then walking from the dugout went
His brother to the plate.
A quiet boy, tall and tan
Who rarely spoke a word.
Sized up the fellow on the mound
Then smiled at him on third.
The pitcher held up high his glove
He looked from side to side
He threw the pitch and then his brother
Just gave that ball a ride.
“It was his hit that won the game
But the moment when I scored
The team began to chant my name
The crowd began to roar.”
“My older brother simply smiled
For what we both had done.
But he was the real hero while
All I did was run.”
Three times more on that day
He told me this same story.
About his brother and a game
And long forgotten glory.
Each time when he was done he’d sink
Back deep into his mind.
All forgotten it was the only
Memory he could find.
That afternoon a man showed up
Who wore the Father’s collar.
And joyfully told me that my patient
Had been a priest and scholar.
“We called him Father Catch,” he said
And spoke with loving pride.
“For everywhere that he went
That glove was by his side.”
“From college days when he was
The envy of his peers.
And on his desk at Divinity School
Where he taught for many years.”
“In time he felt the call to go
And serve on distant shores.
It went with him to Africa where
He worked among the poor.”
“Then for years he quietly served
His heart and faith he’d follow.
A clinic in Bogota and
The slums of Sao Paulo.”
“He had an energy, a beaming smile,
And always had that glove.
He laughed, he prayed, and lived his life
With free unfailing love.”
“But then the years took their toll
And his health began to yield.
And so the brothers brought him back
And he left the mission field.”
“What he once was is all but gone
And few no longer know.
But every now and then his eyes
Will have that brilliant glow.”
“He taught us all with such a passion
And raised our minds beyond.
And stirred our hearts to serve but now
Most of us are gone.”
When he was through I told about
The story of the game.
He said he’d never heard of it
Or knew the brother’s name.
The older brother he had been told
Was killed in the attack
Upon the sands of Utah beach
And never made it back.
“He never did talk much about
His brother or his home.
And everyone had always thought
The glove had been his own.”
The Father left, the workday passed,
The card swipe in the hall.
But I was simply at a loss
To understand it all.
It seemed his loves were long since gone
And life was in December,
But the perfect poetry of that day
Was what he still remembered.
