I keep a stack of ball caps hanging on an old bottle on my dresser. One day, Big G happened to take notice of my little ornamental tree. “Hat! Hat!” he cried whiel pointing. So I pulled one off and have it to him. It was a Cleveland Indians hat, one I bought more than 10 years ago.
I put it on his head and told him, “It’s a baseball hat!”
He was smittin’ with the fittin’. For three days he refused to take it off. He wore it to school. He wore it outside. He even wore it when begging for cookies at the neighbor’s house.
“Bah-ball hat!” he’d said, when asked about it.
His fascination came to an untimely end when, for lack of rocks and sticks, he decided to throw the hat into the creek by our house. I saved it, but it was rather muddy. It went into a dirty clothes pile and, like most all things drawn to this pile, it disappeared. It was found yesterday. He promptly wanted to wear it to school.
Big G pretending to drive the neighbor’s riding lawn mower