I bought a mitt today.
The last time I did that I was thirteen, and if I’m honest it was my mom who bought me the baseball glove, a Larry Hisle model that lasted me more than three decades.
By the end there wasn’t much left, just some well worn leather and more than a handful of memories of being a kid.
That mitt saw me through the ups and downs of little league, lay in a trunk for a spell, and then reemerged to see action in staff vs. student softball games, my coaching stint of my son’s t-ball team, and hours of catch when my daughter started playing softball.
Sometime over this last wet winter it disappeared, probably tucked away in a forgotten corner of the garage, and certainly not available to say “put me in coach.” I searched for it a time or two, but with snow on the ground those efforts lacked urgency. Spring rains further slowed the priority of my search. Had I left it in the trunk of the car? No. Up by the suitcases? No again.
Then, over the weekend, on a trip to the beach, I was tossing around a tennis ball with my kids. It was a perfect night. The sun was setting, my wife sat by our fire on the sand, and the little green ball flew through the dusk in a big familial triangle. This was one of those moments I’ll tell my grandkids about, a memory I hope will be as rich for my own kids.
The next day my wife reminded me that I was missing my mitt.
I told her that I’d noticed Larry Hisle’s absence a few weeks earlier, but the bustle of life got in the way and it was so easy to forget searching or running to the store for a replacement.
She’d noticed it too, but had the presence of mind to also know how important it was. “Henry is ten,” she reminded me. “How much longer do you think he’ll be excited to play catch?”
Forever? I wanted to answer, knowing it was a lie.
As a principal, as an educator, it’s easy to find ourselves caught up in the current of “must-be-dones.” In May and early June that number of required tasks swells. Nights out pile up, and working every weekend and every evening still doesn’t guarantee that all the items will come off the to do list. It can feel overwhelming.
For those of us who strive to be productive and responsible the pressure of doing it all has the power to blot out better perspective. Planning, preparing, finishing, writing, signing, answering, diffusing, solving, responding… the list is endless. Life will feel different in July, but in the mad scramble from spring break to graduation the world of a school is more frantic and filled with obligations than most of us like to admit. It’s easy to lose perspective.
And when we do, what’s left?
I’ve long celebrated the notion, shared with my by a teacher who had it right: “The best teachers teach from a full life.”
But I’ll admin that as a principal I was certainly not embracing a “full life.” Caught up in the sturm und drang of late spring, I had allowed myself to focus on one thing at a time: my job, sure, something I care deeply about, too easily all consuming.
Until my wise wife caught me after that weekend at the beach.
I won’t go into our conversation that morning, other than to say there is a reason she is the best part of my life. Then today I bought a mitt.
I’m not so foolish or filled with hubris to imagine that I’ll never struggle with balance again. Looking back at this little collection of posts that have piled up over the past six years I see more than a couple of times I’ve acknowledged being out of balance. But today, as the summer sun peeks over the trees and makes it easier to imagine that I can life the “full life” that teacher talked about, I’m seeing as clearly as I have in a while.
When I get home from work today I hope to go to the park with both my kids and have a catch.