Sixty-five years ago, when I was 9 years old, my dad bought me my first (and only) baseball glove. My Big Bill mitt was made of genuine cowhide and fit my hand like a glove. It was made by the Cragstan sports equipment company. I learned that my model was named for Bill Renna who played for the Yankees and Red Sox in the 1950s and earned his nickname from his imposing physical stature.

As Father’s Day approached this year, I retrieved my glove from the attic. Inserting my fingers into the well-worn leather, I contemplated the countless baseballs my glove has caught. Smelling the familiar fragrance, I realized that this symbol of my childhood has also caught a multitude of memories.

I remember playing catch in the backyard with my dad and my brother. Dad would throw Marc and me grounders and fly balls. I would pretend that I was Bobby Richardson, the shortstop for the New York Yankees and my brother would pretend he was Willie Mays, the San Francisco Giants centerfielder.

I have great memories of my dad taking my brother and me to watch the Seattle Rainiers play in the shadow of the mountain after which they were named. They weren’t a major league team, but they were a farm club for the Boston Red Sox. I insisted on taking my glove in hopes of catching a foul ball.

Another memory my Big Bill glove calls to mind is a big injustice I experienced in Little League. Our coach Mr. Steffenhagen promised that anyone who hit a home run would be treated to a milkshake. Well, even though I was far from the most athletic kid on our team, I succeeded in hitting a line drive into the outfield. Because the ball was bobbled, I made it home without being tagged. I was elated.

But when I asked Coach Steffenhagen about my milkshake, he told me I didn’t qualify. What I considered a home run, he insisted was a double at best. He said the outfielder’s error was the reason I’d made it home. I was devastated. But when my father heard what had happened, Dad made good on the treat I was denied.

That old glove also reminds me of how my dad maintained his perch on the pedestal of heroism. One day after school when I visited my pastor-father at his office, I left my mitt outside the church. When we were about to get into the car and head for home, I couldn’t find my glove anywhere. Someone had stolen it. I was heartsick. My treasured Big Bill was gone for good. Or so I thought.

A week or so later, my dad saw a couple kids playing catch near the church. He noticed that one of the boys had a mitt that resembled mine. He asked to see it. Sure enough, it was mine. My name and address on the outside pocket had been inked out with a ballpoint pen. I can’t describe the joy I felt when my dad returned it to me at dinner. I’m pretty sure I slept with it under my pillow that night.

My short-lived baseball career ended as a seventh grader when I made the Babe Ruth Division. My trusty Big Bill and I did our best to capture balls hit to right field. But, alas, our best was not enough to make the cut for the junior high school team.

Yet, in spite of my lack of ability, I remain an avid baseball fan. I follow the Seattle Mariners religiously. I guard my boyhood baseball card collection with my life. And even though I no longer sleep with my mitt under my pillow, I dream of the Mariners making it to the World Series this year.

Like many men my age, I credit my dad for a love of the game that punctuated my formative years and beyond. It is because of his influence that I have successfully passed on an appreciation for baseball to my adult children and my grandchildren. And while I’m grateful for that success, I want even more to pass on to them a love for their Creator.