The Regret Catcher

Henry Merkle repairs baseball gloves. He sits in his garage workshop, among musty-smelling boxes, hibernating snow shovels and rusted tin signs, listening to the call of the game on an old transistor radio, re-lacing and re-conditioning and re-stitching. And probably some other things that begin with “re.” Henry Merkle repairs baseball gloves. 

In the process, he also repairs lives.

###

Henry Merkle receives a 1970’s Rawlings GJ90 Reggie Jackson signature edition from a customer. It’s a common glove. Henry knows this because he has repaired dozens of them. This particular specimen is in need of a simple re-lacing. Nonetheless, Henry gives it a thorough once-over to see if there is anything else he can do to restore its former glory. He runs a hand inside the pocket, judging the condition of the leather. He pokes at the webbing. Then, he slides his hand inside. That’s when something extraordinary always happens.

Henry finds himself on a high school ballfield. He is standing between first and second base, his spikes straddling the infield dirt and the outfield grass. The glove on his hand is the Rawlings, but it is in considerably better shape. Crisper. Stiffer. Free of cracks or fading from nights left out on dewy grass. Henry gazes around. Fielders stand at the ready. Stern-faced coaches lean against walls in the dugout. A high school building in the background plays spectator, watching the action. Henry notices he is breathing hard. His heart, anxious. Nervous. Full of fear, excreting a lust to see the ball hit in some other direction than his own.

Henry watches the pitcher wind up and rifle the ball towards home plate. The batter swings, producing a routine ground ball, right in Henry’s direction. He centers himself in front of the skittering ground ball and lowers his glove. But the ball darts through his legs, like a croquet ball through a wicket, and rolls off into the outfield behind him. Two opposing runners cross home plate, and their dugout explodes with jubilant teammates. Henry looks around and notices lowered heads all around him, slowly plodding off the diamond, cursing under their breath. He yanks off the glove to slam it to the ground and…

Henry is back in his workshop. He is still breathing heavy. The anxiousness, disappointment and feeling of worthlessness settle onto him. Into his chest. He sits as calmly as possible, but he finds it difficult. He fights the urge to scream, but it is too great. He shouts, for several, long, agonizing seconds. 

The intensity of the moment subsides. But it doesn’t completely drift away. The pain simply moves to the background, never dulling. Henry knows it will never go away completely. 

This is Henry’s curse.

Every time he puts on a baseball glove, he experiences the most painful, traumatic, regretful moment that occurred for the wearer. He experiences errors. He experiences misplayed balls. Boneheaded decisions. Drops. Bad throws. Yips. Near catches. “What if’s” by the dozen. And in doing so, he removes them from the glove’s memory. And therefore, from the wearer’s memory. He scrubs the regret. Erases it from history.

But he is forced to take each and every one onto himself. Every “if only I had caught that ball” gets transferred to Henry. To many, such a thing may seem trivial…a moment of errant play in what amounts to a game? Some might think that shouldn’t be the kind of regret that weighs on a person’s psyche. But there is something deeper about baseball. Something hardwired into the American spirit. Something that, even though it makes little sense, determines a person’s worth. It’s powerful. 

And now, Henry finds himself playing the part of the worm in a bottle of mezcal, sucking the impurities from leather, returning it to its owner cleaner, filtered and unblemished. And Henry must live with those impurities, muddying up his own soul.

It wasn’t what he expected when he started fixing gloves. How could he? He just wanted to restore things that still had life in them, not knowing the sad parts would be borne on his shoulders. 

Henry struggles with this task, this curse. But he realizes he must do it. And if there is a bright side, Henry thinks, it’s that he is grateful he doesn’t fix toilets.

### 

Henry is not sure what attracted him to glove repair. He is not a good baseball player. He hasn’t played so much as a simple game of catch in decades. From time to time, he wonders if he is capable of throwing a ball across his bathroom, much less across a baseball diamond. It’s not that he dislikes the sport. Quite the opposite, actually. Henry just gave it up. That happens. Sometimes, people give things up. Sometimes it’s for good reasons…they don’t enjoy it or they don’t have the physical gifts. And that’s okay. But sometimes, it’s for other reasons. Reasons that are bothersome. 

Yet, something drew him back to the game, albeit in a different way. The leather kept him connected. Glove laces can bind in more than one way.

And so, he began repairing gloves. And he began having strange, out-of-body encounters. The first time it happened, Henry thought maybe his workshop was in need of better ventilation. He put on a Wilson A2000 and found himself in a minor league ballpark, fielding a ground ball and subsequently overthrowing the first baseman by ten feet. He pulled his hand out and couldn’t shake the embarrassment, even after the glove had been repaired and sent back to its owner. 

Windows were always cracked after that, even in the dead of winter.

But with every new glove came a new moment of humiliation. And with each new moment of humiliation came a new burden to his being.

After the sensation repeated itself a dozen more times…dropping fly balls, running into other fielders, botching pop-ups or failing to block a pitch in the dirt, each an added weight to Henry…he had a conversation with an owner. 

“Tell me about your ballplaying days. It’s interesting for me to hear the history of the glove,” Henry inquired as he handed the spruced-up mitt back.

The owner explained all the joyful moments…the day his father gave it to him, his time playing high school ball, going to the state tournament, even using it to play catch with his own son. There was no mention of any difficult moments. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual. Who tells a stranger about their most painful errors? Henry got more specific.

“I’d love to hear about the state tournament.” Henry knew a drop of a routine fly ball knocked them out of the tournament one game shy of the championship game. “How did you fare?”

The man slid his hand into the glove. “We lost the game before the championship. It was a truly wonderful experience that not many people get to have.”

Henry continued to prod. “What happened in the last game?”

“Hmmm…I can’t recall exactly what happened…,” the man searched his brain.

“Such a monumental event? You cannot recall what happened?”

A sincere smile crossed his face. “All I can remember is how much fun I had with my teammates on the bus and at the hotel. The hopefulness and anticipation for the game. The big field. Playing at night under lights,” the man replied. “I remember the town being behind us, putting up signs in their storefronts, cheering us on. But the game…hmmmm…strange. I don’t remember.”

Henry grew agitated. “Certainly, you must remember something. The score? An at-bat? An ERROR in the outfield?”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember that my friend, Johnny Duckworth, forgot his pants. He had to borrow a pair from a guy who was three sizes bigger than him. Those pants fell off when he was rounding second base. He kept chugging toward third with those things around his ankles! He made it too! Ha ha!”

“Really? No plays? No big ERRORS that you made?”

“Errors? No. Nothing like that.” There was genuineness in his answer. “Anyway, wonderful job on the glove. Thank you!!” He rubbed his fingertips along the pocket of the glove, feeling the slick coating on the leather. There was pure happiness in the grin he shared with Henry at that moment.

Henry began to understand what service he really offered.

###

Henry receives a glove from his neighbor, a gentleman by the name of Don. Don is a nice fellow, but a little chatty for Henry’s taste. Don tends to talk at great length about such subjects as squirrel nests, uses for wingnuts, rutabagas, and the ventriloquist doll museum in Cincinnati, not to mention the befuddling mystery as to why he is still single. Usually, Henry avoids Don at all costs. But today, Don is bringing his mitt to Henry for repair. So, he listens to a long-winded story about Don assembling a high-quality hose reel. Henry feigns interest, mostly because it’s about a hose reel. As soon as Don departs, Henry tries on the glove.

Henry is leaning up against a light pole outside a little league ballpark. He is admiring some older kids playing on the diamond. He creeps closer to the dugout, step by step. He beats his fist into the glove, an attempt to garner the attention of the boys playing. He longs to join them, to be part of the game. One of them finally notices him.

“Donnie!!! We told you…scram…we don’t need ya!!” the boy yells.

Another joins in. “Yeah, beat it, Donnie!! Get the hell out of here!” 

“Donnie, you baby…go home and play with your stupid talking dolls!!” Laughter erupts across the diamond.

The next moment, Henry is running, dashing away from the field and into a nearby grove of trees. He hides behind one, slumping down against the base. Henry can feel tears rolling down his cheeks. And a glove rising to cover his streaked face, sheltering it from the world.

Henry removes the glove. The pain is different from typical in-game errors. But it is no less intense. Another hole is poked in Henry’s soul. 

But that is his duty.

###

Henry’s friend, Cal, is a frequenter of thrift shops and garage sales. Cal finds things that might have value and resells them. He is an amateur picker. Henry has instructed Cal to purchase any reasonably priced baseball gloves he sees during his outings. Henry refurbishes them and sells them, or he uses them for parts for other repairs. Cal drops off only one today.

“Slim pickings, I’m afraid,” Cal says. “But it looks to be a pretty old one. Talked ‘em down to $7 for it. Hope that’s okay.”

“That sure is an oldie. I might be able to bring this one back to life.” Henry flips it around and examines it from both sides. Henry parts with the $7 and pays a gratuity in beer and conversation for the next hour. Anything to delay putting the glove on.

###

The next evening, with trepidation taking the form of bags under his eyes, Henry returns to his workshop. He organizes his tools and places a new tub of leather conditioner on the bench. He is ready to take on yesterday’s acquisition. 

Henry sighs before starting. He considers doing this another night. He considers not putting his hand in and just reconditioning the exterior. Heck, he considers throwing it out and eating the $7. But there is something about this glove. So, he plunges in.

Henry is in a backyard. He is not in a baseball uniform. Rather, he is in a dress shirt, top button loosened and sleeves rolled up. A black buggy-whip tie dangles from his neck. Suit pants and wingtips complete the outfit. No, this is not a baseball uniform. It is the uniform of a middle manager. 

Even though it is evening, it is hot. Muggy. A tiny bit of relief is provided by the shade of a nearby willow tree. Still, a sweat bead drips down his forehead, and gnats swirl above. The glove is on his left hand and a scuffed baseball is in his right. He looks across the yard. There is a boy there.

The boy is Henry.

The man holding the ball is his father. It is his father’s glove.

Henry wishes he could stop this. That he could pull the glove off. That he could run out in the middle of this movie. But he can’t. Once the glove lets you in, you’re all the way in. There is no stopping this scene.

Henry’s father winds up and throws the ball to the boy. He misses it, the ball rolling several feet behind him. He plods on his way to pick it up.

“Awww, c’mon, Dad. Do we hafta play catch? I don’t want to.”

“You think this is fun for me? Pick up that ball and stop your whining. We’re gonna get you playing ball.”

The boy attempts to throw it back. It veers wide left and only makes it half the required distance.

“Hey, girl. What did I tell you about throwin’? Step into it…like this…” Henry’s dad throws it in Henry’s direction. He misses it again. “Dammit, Henry! Catch the goddamn ball!”

Henry proceeds to play more fetch than catch. And with each miss, his father gets more incensed. “The way it works is, I throw it, you catch it… you throw it, I catch it. Repeat. Pretty friggen simple!”

Henry retrieves the baseball. He picks it up and marches toward his father. He stops about ten feet short.

“I hate this stupid game! And I hate you!! If you want to play, here, you chase it for once!!” Henry winds up and whips it with all his might. It soars well over his father’s head. 

CRASH!!!!

The ball smashes into the driver’s side window of his father’s beloved Cadillac, shattering it into the front seat.

The veins in the neck of Henry’s father protrude like a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains. He snorts like a bull, throws the glove down, whips off his belt and grabs Henry by the shirt.

The memory ends there. Although Henry knows everything that follows with clarity. He remembers the lashing he got. He remembers being grounded for a month. He remembers having to work off the repair costs by mowing lawns, collecting bottles, selling his comic books and generally being his father’s servant for the summer. He also remembers never playing catch with his father again, a development he was certain was mutually appreciated.

Henry reasons the regret, in this case, is a good sign – a sign that his father truly wished to erase the moment. But what bothers him is that he is already carrying the burden of the moment. And now, he must bear it from another perspective. It’s the double play of pain. And it may have pushed Henry over a threshold.

Henry puts the glove down. He turns off the light in the workshop and closes the door, locking it behind him. He decides he won’t return to this place for a while.

If ever.

###

Henry refuses to accept more gloves to repair. He tells customers that he has reached capacity; that he simply can’t take on any more gloves at this time. He is not lying. He cannot take on any more regret. He is full. At capacity.

Henry is rankled by the latest experience. He is completely unnerved. And not just because it involves him. Henry wonders why the glove would show him that memory. Why would it thrust that upon him? After all, the owner would not benefit anymore. The regret could not be scrubbed. It went to the grave with him eleven years ago. His father certainly wouldn’t be putting the glove on again to experience the cleansing feeling. And he certainly wouldn’t be filling out a positive Yelp! review. Dead people rarely do things like that.

In essence, Henry is a boiling pot of regret. And as the days creep onward, Henry finds little relief. In fact, he finds himself avoiding anything that has to do with baseball. City parks, sporting goods stores, kids, kids with baseball caps, dirt, hot dogs, chewing tobacco, Cracker Jacks and anything diamond-shaped only bring back one of the many pangs of pain with which he is burdened. Eventually, anything leather becomes a trigger. Do you know how many leather purses, handbags, jackets and shoes are out there? Henry determines the answer is a lot.

To try to clear his mind, Henry goes for a drive in the country. The country has cows. Cows are made of leather. 

Henry is at a loss. He locks himself in a room at his house, one that has been stripped of everything except a bed. 

Even that is unsuccessful. Emptiness only gives his consciousness more room for the thoughts to emerge. Moments of hurt all rise to the surface of his skin, vying for his undivided attention, like schoolchildren raising their hands in a classroom. And one man can only live with so much regret, even if it’s not his own.

Henry decides there is only one solution. That solution is found at the hardware store. It is a length of rope.

###

Garages are good for many things. Perhaps their most important attribute is that they are places where you can make a mess, and it really doesn’t matter. Cars can leak oil. Paint can get spilled. Sawdust can float into every crack and crevice. And a troubled man can put an end to all things. This is the conclusion to which Henry Merkle has come. Plus, the garage features a nice, sturdy truss, capable of supporting the weight of a grown man.

Henry is on his way out there, still pondering a bobbled double-play from some guy in a town ball game, when Cal pulls up. 

“Got a few more that I found out in Gardendale. Thought these were in decent shape.” Cal holds them out for Henry to take.

“Oh, thanks,” Henry waves a shaking hand. “But I’m not really needing any more gloves.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“I think I’m done.”

“Done fixing gloves?”

Henry doesn’t wish to explain. “Something like that. I just don’t enjoy it anymore.”

“That’s too bad,” Cal says. Then he pauses, contemplating before speaking again. “You know,” Cal begins. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget why we do the things we do. You can get all caught up in deadlines and money and demanding customers. But I find if I think about the very first time I did that thing, if I go back to the very beginning, it reminds me about the joy and the excitement it brought me.”

“The beginning?”

“Yeah. Like I remember the first time I made money on something. My neighbor had a yard sale, and I spotted a lamp for $2. I thought, that lamp is actually an antique. I sold it for $175. Not every piece is that profitable. But every time I get tired of driving and bartering with people who think their junk is really valuable and all that jazz, I think of that lamp. And I get excited again. Reinvigorated. Renewed.” 

“Renewed, huh?” Henry leans against his workbench, feeling the rope with his fingertips. He wishes Cal would finish. He’s got things to do, after all. His neck won’t stretch itself.

“Yeah. Renewed. Well, anyway, you can have these. No charge.” Cal hands the gloves to Henry. “Say, whatcha planning on doing with that rope? Gonna lasso something?”

“Oh, this? That’s nothing. Just some rope. You know how they’re always putting stuff you don’t really need next to the checkout counter at the hardware store to remind you that you might need some of it and you should buy it now? Well, they had some rope, and I said to myself, you never know when you’ll need some rope. So I bought some rope.” Henry’s hand tightens around it. “Yep, you never know when you’ll be wanting to use some rope to…you know… tie things up.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Those displays of nut rolls always seem to remind that I really am hungry for a nut roll.” Cal takes Henry’s explanation at face value. Because Henry has never given him any reason not to take what he says at face value. “Anyway, let me know if you change your mind and want me to stay on the lookout for more gloves.” Cal leaves. Henry watches him drive off, fingers still coiled around the rough braids of the rope. He looks down at the gloves. One is a catcher’s mitt with a tear in the wrist strap. One is a newer model Mizuno, creased so harshly along the webbing that it appears to be folded in half. And the last one is a vintage Nokona, similar to the one Henry owned growing up.

He puts the gloves down and stands on a chair. He hangs from the truss to double check it will support his weight. Then he ties the rope to it, double checking the knots are snug. As he secures them, pulling the rope taught, he can’t help but be reminded of all the knots he tied with glove laces. The pain of each one pokes at him, like an army of bees. 

And now, Henry is ready to tie one last knot.

He looks around at his workshop. One final glimpse, he thinks. As he does, the Nokona that Cal just brought catches his attention. “The beginning…” Henry mumbles. 

Henry pauses.

The next moment, Henry pushes off the chair.

But the noose is not around his neck. 

“The beginning,” he thinks. He leaves the rope swinging, dashing into the house. “Renewed…it’s worth a try,” he says aloud. “Where would I have put it?” he mutters.

Henry returns to the garage, carrying a box. He dumps the contents onto the ground, sifting through the pile. There is a souvenir baseball helmet bank. There is a smattering of random trading cards. There are pencils and bottlecaps and a rabbit’s foot keychain and other random junk kids tend to collect. And there is a glove. A Nokona, a near mate to the one Cal just handed him.

“The beginning…just maybe,” Henry says. He hesitates slightly, before plunging his hand into the glove.

Henry is in his childhood backyard. Opposite, a man in a sweaty, yellowing dress shirt, suit trousers and a black buggy-whip tie faces back. It is the same scene Henry experienced a few days ago, only this time it reveals itself from 180 degrees. The sequence plays out the same. Henry misses the ball. It rolls by him. Henry’s dad insults him. This goes on for a bit. Henry notices there is a lack of sharpness from this perspective as he endures the scene through wet, blurry eyes. Yet, he can still see enough to understand the anger that is building up inside. He picks up the ball and marches toward his father. Before he yells and throws it, he spies the Cadillac. Why not, he thinks. He takes aim and chucks it with all his might. He succeeds. He hits it. It was no accident. Henry sees his father’s rage, and immediately wishes he hadn’t thrown that ball. Henry feels a meaty hand grab his shirt. The glove falls off his hand just before he’s tossed over his father’s knee.

Anyone who may have been standing outside Henry Merkle’s garage at that moment would have seen a cloud of dust billow out of the open window, a tsunami of infield dirt that swirled in a tight spiral. They would have seen it rise upward and gather in a ball right over the roof, dense and thick, like a charcoal-colored raincloud ready to burst. They would have felt the intense charge in each one of those particles of dust, some magnetic force drawing them all together. And they would have experienced the profound, but soundless explosion as it finally popped, dissipating into a lazy breeze, disappearing into a clear blue sky. 

But nobody is standing outside Henry Merkle’s garage. And nobody sees a thing. 

After all, true forgiveness can be like that – shy and personal, often elusive and mysterious. At least, when it comes to yourself.

And now, Henry Merkle returns to repairing baseball gloves. He sits in his garage workshop, among musty-smelling boxes, hibernating snow shovels and rusted tin signs. He enjoys zero recollection of recent events. His pain, along with that of so many others, is scrubbed. His curse is lifted. And when he sticks his hand into a glove, all he experiences is joyfulness and happiness and gladness. And probably some other words that end in “ness.” Henry Merkle repairs baseball gloves. 

In the process, he also learns to let go. 

The Regret Catcher

A Short Story by Tom Witkowski

9 Circles Fiction

Photo Credit: Ben Hershey

Inspired by my friends, Jim and Dominic Lonetti, dedicated craftsmen at D&J Glove Repair. Visit djgloverepair.com to see their exceptional work.

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