By Will McIlroy

I know my baseball glove like the back of my hand, which is, coincidentally, often covered by this very same glove.

From a young age, I was raised between the foul lines at High Park, playing t-ball at age three and carrying the same love for the game to the present day. In my twelve-year career, I have owned two gloves. At a glance, this stat is outstanding. However, considering the repetitive nature of the way baseball is played, the sheer number of groundballs, line drives, and pop flies I’ve caught with my current glove is surely in the tens of thousands. So, it’s safe to say, this glove has seen better days.

At a glance, the glove looks like any other, walnut-coloured leather with a pocket and five fingers. It’s safe to say my glove holds its charm despite its scuffs, stains, and scratches. When the imperfections really become apparent is when I put the beast on my hand.

On the inside, the glove is an absolute wreck. The five, finely-crafted leather finger holes have long since lost their form. The perfect shape of the glove that once resembled a golden horseshoe could now more aptly be described as a sad taco. The perfectly tailored leather straps that once allowed me to tighten and loosen my glove now whip around in the heat of the moment like unkempt dreadlocks. However, this is what makes this glove my own. Were it not for the worn-down patches of leather that mark where my fingers rest, my hand would not feel at home in this glove.

The very same flaws that make my coach question how I am even able to use my glove are the very same flaws that allow me to do so in such a deft manner. Were my glove not so perfectly messy, it would not be the glove I am so proud to call my own.