The glove is off

We pull off to the school drop-off. A kid gets out, and here's what comes pouring out of our family car:

-- a hockey stick

-- $27.50 in pennies

-- a lacrosse ball

-- a box of tampons

-- two ticket stubs from Hollywood Park

-- a copy of Sports Illustrated

-- a tube of hemorrhoid cream

-- an old pregnancy test (flunked)

-- 14 Starbucks cups

-- a baseball glove

I drive away, leaving all of it, except for the baseball glove, the only thing of value in a car full of crud. See, it's T-ball season and we might need the glove.

The glove is what the little guy sits on when he gobbles treats after the game. The glove is what he uses as an extra hat when the sun gets too hot.

The glove can be a monster mask, a punching bag, a pillow, a pet. The mavericks on our little T-ball team -- there are several -- occasionally use their gloves to catch baseballs, but such occurrences are rare. On this team, any conventional occurrence is pretty rare.

A week or two ago, we had a game during which a helicopter flew over. The entire game just stopped. The batter, I think he was in midswing, dropped the bat and joined his teammates as they gazed up in wonder.

"Look," one gasped as if just born. "A helicopter."

Big deal, a helicopter. But to them, it was almost biblical, as if God were descending from the clouds. It was revelation and science, all wrapped in one loud little moment. Like them, the copter made many annoying noises.

Then the game resumed, and the batter, Scribner, clubbed the ball from here to Toledo.

They have freckles like umlauts and little red mustaches from guzzling postgame juice. They behave almost like mini-men: They don't breathe when they eat, choosing instead to inhale their food, then grunt and gasp as a sign that they are finished.