The Finest In The Field!

Finding clarity in the helmet aisle

Welcome to Warning Track Power, a weekly newsletter of baseball stories and analysis grounded in front office and scouting experiences and the personalities encountered along the way.

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As I shared recently, the magnetic force of professional baseball still pulls at me. Innocent fandom was unconditionally released as soon as I set foot in the Petco Park administrative offices years ago. Sometimes I feel caught in a perpetual rundown between third and home.

But for the sake of my kids and their current and future relationship with the game, I’ve embraced basic fan behavior, like buying team hats and shirts and complaining about the price of parking at the ballpark. It was a process, I figured.

Then, amidst my rehabilitation efforts, something funny happened. I found my pathway from recovering baseball ops cynic to fan. How?

By reclassifying myself as a softball dad.

It began in the helmet aisle at a Dick’s a couple weeks ago. My daughter and I were having trouble finding the right fit for the head of a soon-to-be seven-year-old with hair that could fill Bruce Bochy’s hat. We’re dealing with a circumference vs. volume dynamic that is defying one-size-fits-all claims. I’m beginning to have concerns about the need for custom headgear.

Fortunately, we had much better luck finding softballs. While my daughter and I have been playing catch around the house for years, hardballs and gloves are new. I was happy to find slightly softer balls that, as the packaging claims, “help reduce the severity of impact.” Yeah, we were going to need a few of those.

Let me ask you: When was the last time you broke in a baseball glove?

If, like me, it was in the pre-internet era, you might be surprised at some of the advice circulating now. Have any of you ever “saturated” a glove with warm water? That sounds more like a junior varsity bus ride prank than standard mitt maintenance.

What’s wrong with using a little oil or leather conditioner and tying the glove shut with a ball in the pocket?

I asked around. I asked people who work in MLB clubhouses. I asked former big leaguers. My favorite piece of advice was: “The longer it takes to break in, the longer the glove will last.” And while this glove will be outgrown before it disintegrates, respecting the leather is part of respecting the game.

As long as there was time, I figured, we could continue to work the glove in slowly. Well, I neglected to consider the challenge of breaking in a stiff glove by playing catch with someone who is still very much learning to play catch.

When time permitted, I pounded a ball into the webbing, hoping to soften the leather enough so that the glove might one day close easily. Hypnotized by the rhythm and sound, I was transported back about 40 years.

I thought of Joe Rudi. The A’s outfielder had won three World Series and made three All-Star teams before I was born. His career lasted 16 seasons, ending in 1982.

As a child, I was unaware of his on-field accomplishments. Rudi’s signature, however, was imprinted across the palm of the glove I was given when I started Little League.

A hand-me-down. The perfect starter glove for any beginning player.

My Joe Rudi model, dubbed Daddy Long Legs by my friends because it was bigger than their newer gloves, caught everything. We had no idea who Rudi was, only that he wasn’t Robin Yount, Dale Murphy, Rickey Henderson, or any of the other names that were found stamped inside a Rawlings — names we could attach a face and stance to.

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Continuing to work the ball into the still-stiff leather, I realized that in my excitement to buy gloves for the kids, I hadn’t considered their immediate functionality.

There’s a quote that I think of a few times a year: “At some point in your childhood, you and your friends went outside to play together for the last time and nobody knew it.”

I feel fortunate that, with baseball, I was able to extend “childhood” through college. But since engaging with the game as a critical spectator, I’ve lost touch with the simple joys of the game, the daily ritual of playing catch and swinging a bat.

For my daughter, the window of playing ball with friends opens very soon.

The first softball practice — and maybe game — is one week away. We received an email from the league a couple days ago notifying us that coaches would be reaching out this weekend.

Upon learning this news, my daughter asked if I would be coaching. Before I could offer any kind of measured response, I felt the excitement throughout my body.

Since becoming a father, I’ve been conditioning myself to play it cool when it comes to my kids’ recreational activities. I wanted to give them both their space. I didn’t want either to feel like they had to play because I had or because I expected them to.

But who am I kidding? I think this is why I wanted kids! And I think this is what my kids want. (And I assume the established coaches have room for an assistant.)

Pennant races and prospect debuts felt instantly insignificant. My daughter still might be waiting for a well-fitting helmet. She still might be waiting for her glove to close easily around the ball. But — damnit — she sure as hell is going to know the difference between a force play and a tag play by the opening day of fall ball, and she’s going to know what base to throw to (eventually).

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I’m now realizing how many good used glove options there are on eBay, including a few Joe Rudi models — the same ones as mine. My old piece of leather is still hanging around in my parents’ house, and I’ve found a father-and-son team that restores gloves and can breathe new life into what was once The Finest In The Field.

That glove hasn’t seen regular playing time since 1988.

Sometime during middle school, right around the time ground balls stopped finding their way into my palm, a coach recommended that I buy an infielder’s glove. Joe Rudi was benched.

My father and I got new gloves together: mine a Cal Ripken Jr. model and his Darryl Strawberry.

I know you’ll be shocked to learn that it wasn’t Joe Rudi’s fault that I wasn’t fielding grounders cleanly. Cal couldn’t help me either.

My daughter is a lefty. I’m happy about that. When she takes the field, she’ll write her own story between the lines.

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Thank you for being a part of the Warning Track Power community. Have a relaxing and safe holiday weekend.

What are your baseball gloves memories? What was your favorite glove? How did you break it in?