When I moved to Texas as a single mom in 1982, I did my best to ensure my son, Marty, a mere first-grader, made new friends. I wanted him to belong, to not feel alone in our new place. So, one day at JC Penney’s, he was picking out a new ball glove for his team. And I touched the adult gloves, sliding my right hand into one. The memories flooded back, and my fingers melted inside the molded spots inside the glove.
I, too, longed to belong. To be a part of something. But at that moment, I had no team. No friends. No one in Texas knew my name except my parents and a few cousins I barely knew.
As we lingered in my memories, I told Marty I batted on the wrong side of the batter’s box in the fourth grade because no one told me left-handed players bat on the other side.
