Spring training had finally arrived. Major League baseball players had reported to camp a week ago. Justin, who just turned twelve, couldn’t be more excited. His team, the Detroit Tigers, were scheduled to play their first exhibition game.  Although it was a cold Saturday in February, he was sure his friend Lucas would be up for a game of catch. Why not? Lucas was a pitcher on their little league team, and this year, Justin planned to try out for catcher.

His new catcher’s mitt securely snuggling his left hand, he called his buddy. “Hey! You want to throw a ball around this afternoon?” He fingered his new baseball while they talked.

“Uhm, I don’t know. I heard it’s gonna snow.”

“You sure, man? I didn’t hear that.”

“Yeah, well that’s what my dad said a little while ago. Anyway, it’s probably too cold for me to do any pitching. I don’t want to hurt my arm.”

He checked his mother’s phone. It was true. Snow was in the forecast, maybe a lot of snow. He placed the mitt in his lap and thought back to Christmas morning when he didn’t get the catcher’s mitt he had practically begged for since last fall. Not quite good enough to start for the Cougars, he had been relegated to his team’s bench for most of last season. He thought of himself as an outfielder in the Juan Soto mold. The coaches didn’t see that in him.

But then, the team’s regular catcher moved away with two games left in the season. Taking pity on him, Coach Crandell asked him if he’d like to catch the last two games. “Yeah, but I don’t have a catcher’s mitt,” he said.

“I got one in my garage. It’s old but it will do,” Crandell said. Justin did a decent job. He had a good arm. He threw out two baserunners trying to steal second. He even managed to hit a single in the last game. When he stopped by Coach Crandell’s house to return the mitt, the coach said, “You might want to go out for catcher next season.”

Justin couldn’t have been happier. That fall the weather was warmer than usual, which gave Justin a chance to mow a few lawns. He spent the money on a book about being a catcher. It had plenty of pictures and good instructions. He read and re-read it until it was dog-eared.

He just needed a catcher’s mitt. On Christmas morning he tore open his gifts faster than a Gerrit Cole fastball. He got a new bat, a new baseball, Pokémon cards and a hot computer game that was also on his Christmas list. But no catcher’s mitt. He did his best to hide his disappointment.

His mother always made a huge breakfast on Christmas morning, including his favorite chocolate chip pancakes. He tried hard to eat, but his heart wasn’t in it. His older sister, Jane, noticed.  “What’s wrong, Justin? “Didn’t get what you wanted this year? I did!” He didn’t answer, but he noticed his mother and father exchanging a quick glance that somehow seemed significant. Or was that just his imagination?

Aunts, uncles and cousins arrived for dinner. More gifts but still no mitt. By the time everyone left, he had decided he would save his allowance, cut more grass, do odd jobs and buy himself a catcher’s mitt. How, he didn’t know. A good one would cost upwards of $100, maybe more.   

When it was time for bed, he went to his room. There he discovered a box, wrapped in Christmas paper, on his bed. He stared at it for a moment, not even wanting to hope. He picked it up and opened it. It was the exact mitt he had asked for. He turned to see his parents standing in the doorway, smiling. “We just wanted to keep you in suspense, Justin,” his father said.

“I’m sorry,” his mother added. “You know your father.” Justin fought back tears and quickly went to his mother’s side, burying his face into her midsection. She kissed the top of his head and gave him a hug. His father patted his son on the back and said, “That’s a fine catcher’s mitt, son. You won’t be able to blame it for any passed balls, I’ll tell ya that.”

Disappointed that he wouldn’t get the chance to try out his new mitt, he sat on the couch next to his father, who was watching the start of the Tigers game in Lakeland, Florida. His mother walked in and spied the look on Justin’s face. “Lucas didn’t want to have a catch?” She asked.

“Nope. He’s afraid he’ll hurt his pitching arm.”

“I see.” She looked at her husband. “How’s your arm, Ray?”

He stretched. “It’s twenty-something degrees out there, Mona.”

Mona picked up Ray’s phone and showed it to him. “By any chance are you expecting a call from the Tigers?”

He looked at her and saw she was looking at Justin. He nodded. “Want me to throw a few pitches your way, kid?”

“Really?”

“Let’s go.”

Justin was already running to the back door. She gave her husband a kiss. “Let him decide when he’s had enough, ok?”

“Ok. Do me a favor though. Get me an appointment with Doctor Freehan now. Tell him I have bronchitis.”

Once outside Justin quickly squatted into the catcher’s position. His father performed a modified windup and threw his first pitch. Ten minutes later, it started to snow. It was coming down hard and fast.

“Should we quit, Dad?” Justin asked.

“That’s up to you. Catchers call the game, right?”

“Right!”

They played catch until Justin couldn’t see the ball coming toward him. His mother had hot chocolate with marshmallows waiting for them.