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and nodded, comforting, confident.
This is Mizuno, he said, holding it out further. Remember?
His family was silent.
Eric, Dad said, are you asking if we remember your Little League mitt?
That’s how it started, Eric said, cradling. We’d see each other every summer, hang out, have fun. But when the season ended I’d pack it away, forget the good times until tryouts the next spring. Remember that catch I made in the championship game, when I was twelve? I didn’t want to take it off for a week. It was harder to put Mizuno away after that; that winter, I dreamed about shagging flies through hockey games and math tests, and dug Mizuno out before the snow melted. Soon I looked forward to spring less for ball and more for Mizuno. I didn’t play this summer, but dug it out to feel the suppleness, smoky, sweet, and couldn’t bear to put it away. I took it to school, and one thing led to...another.
Crickets.
Take your shoes off, Dad said.
Dinner is almost ready, Mom said, smiling clownishly. I made your favourite.
Tacos? Eric said. I should have mentioned – Mizuno is vegan.
Crickets.
Sit, Mom said, teeth and eyes bursting from her face. She bustled back to the kitchen, and the rest settled around the table, silent as a haunted house. Mom carted in taco fixings; Dad and Annie dove in, but Eric hesitated.
What is it, honey? Mom said.
Do you mind if Mizuno sits up here? he said, lifting it from the chair so it peeked over the edge of the table. It can’t see from down there.