What may merely look like a pile
of old, tattered baseballs
to one person
looks like beloved memories to me.
I think about all the hands,
both young and old,
that have thrown and hit and
“had a catch”
with these over the years.

I think of my dad
coaching my childhood softball team,
which he affectionately named
The Golden Retrievers,
and how he still brags about the time
after I rocketed the ball all the way
from third to first to make an out.
“What an arm!” he exclaims
whenever retelling the story
of my third-grade feat on the field.

Each of these
old, tattered baseballs
has a tale like that to tell.
They should be 
worth their weight in gold,
thanks to all the precious memories
they’ve helped create.