Sweet Memories
The mitt was brown, a light hazel brown. A colour which was worn down by tiredness. It stood by the shoes. There with the bat and ball, both exhausted. It was stained by the green ink. The ink which had once been a vibrant green, like the freshest morning of a spring day, that’s how green. It had been tattooed by this ink, like a trademark written in poems. Poems of hope like those of bigger things. The seams were loose, like they were slowly falling from the mitt, losing their grip, a feeling the player may have felt, many times. It was also discoloured; the sand and sweat had overridden the once fresh white seams turning them an old brick red. The smooth leather was ragged, ripped and torn, tiny grazes embellished the leather. What was, the former vivid logo of the mitt now appeared old and faded. No longer striking, it appeared distant. The ink was also smudged, smeared across the palm due to wear. It became a merged dull palm, the red sand had grinded into it, along with the ink, and few words remained visible.
You could tell the mitt was worn by a caring child, although it was worn it remained high in pride sitting by its other tools. It looked old, around 7 or 8 years now. It had endured many games, many losses but many wins. Soaked in tears and sweat, but serenaded in applause. Worn with pride, honour and, commitment. Never left behind, the last thing to be placed in the bag, on top of all others, how they wished the league table was too. The weary leather produced the aged smell. It reminded you of the old leather jacket your grandfather wore, or the boots your mother made you polish every Sunday. That rugged smell lingered softly over the mitt but wasn’t overpowering. The beads of sweat played a small part in the smell, combined with the glory of winning.
The touch was soft. Delicate and fragile, the mitt appeared. Each finger had its own scar. The thumb had a lengthy graze down its inner side. It looked deep, a fall for victory perhaps ending in
You could tell the mitt was worn by a caring child, although it was worn it remained high in pride sitting by its other tools. It looked old, around 7 or 8 years now. It had endured many games, many losses but many wins. Soaked in tears and sweat, but serenaded in applause. Worn with pride, honour and, commitment. Never left behind, the last thing to be placed in the bag, on top of all others, how they wished the league table was too. The weary leather produced the aged smell. It reminded you of the old leather jacket your grandfather wore, or the boots your mother made you polish every Sunday. That rugged smell lingered softly over the mitt but wasn’t overpowering. The beads of sweat played a small part in the smell, combined with the glory of winning.
The touch was soft. Delicate and fragile, the mitt appeared. Each finger had its own scar. The thumb had a lengthy graze down its inner side. It looked deep, a fall for victory perhaps ending in