Bursting through the grimy attic window, a powerful spotlight of sun cast its rays on an old baseball and mitt, laying on the beaten wooden floor. The glove, once a prize possession of a major-league dreamer, now rests quietly under a thin blanket of dust, among the attic's forgotten memories. The ball, packed into the glove from so many passes and catches, now sits in silence, like a bruised pearl in a dusty old oyster. The memories faintly remain, and quiet times only amplify their distant past: how that old glove stopped countless line drives and barreling base hits. The taste of the dark leather still stings my lips from the many hours in the outfield, chewing on the tips of the glove's fingers and dreaming of that World Series game-winning catch. I remember kicking up golden dandelions, swatting swarms of gnats, and awaiting that familiar crack, which amplifies through every player's mind. The sight of a falling baseball sinking toward the outfield would determine if my glove and I had what it took. I often felt, in those silent moments, staggering in the grass, as if my glove and I were the only two things on earth - this moment when everything went into slow motion, and my mind filled with visions of failure and shattered egos. But I never chased any hits; they always stopped for me and my trusty glove. Sprinting back in the outfield, getting even with the earth-bound meteor, I proved to the team, the crowd, to the runner halfway to first, and to myself, that I had what it took.