Years ago, when Keenan was nine, he was still playing baseball. He had practice twice a week and one or two games. At least two times a week he would forget his glove. Not an enormous problem for a right handed player, they just glove share with the rest of their right handed friends. However, Keenan is one of those rare lefty kids and when he leaves his glove at home, there is no sharing.
Twice a week I would get a call five minutes after I dropped him off and I would schlep my butt back over to the field, glove in hand, and graciously though I wanted yell, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”, walk it over to Keenan on the field. About halfway through the season, after asking him twice on the drive to practice if he had the glove in his bag and him telling me yes both times, I got the call.
“Um mom, I forgot my glove.” Steam began coming out of my ears and visions of me super gluing that damn thing to his hand were playing in my mind.
“Where is it,” I asked through gritted teeth. “I don’t know,” was his insightful response.
I looked in his room, the garage, under his bed, in the refrigerator, blah, blah, blah. I finally found it and rushed out the door infuriated that I was dealing with this situation A-FREAKING-GAIN.
By the time I got to the field, I was all worked up. Instead of calmly parking my car and delivering the glove as I had done 300 other times that season, I tried a different tactic. As I approached the field, I slowed my car to about 30 miles per hour, rolled down the passenger side window, with my hair blowing all over the place, my face distorted with a crazy grin, my eyes as big as saucers, I laid on the horn and chucked that damn glove as far as I could.
As I drove off cackling, I looked into my rear view mirror to see my mortified son jogging over to the other side of the field, all his friends and coaches staring at him, to retrieve his glove.
He never forgot his glove again.