Basic Descriptive essay about a lucky t-shirt.
As we move from being a youngster to an adolescent to an adult, we have possessions that come and go. Those items that we are able to keep for the entire trip becomes a personal treasure; mementos of our life. After years of aging, through these items, we are able to piece together our childhood existence. For me, one of those items was my "lucky" t-shirt.
The back-story to how I received this shirt is rather simple. As I recall, or more like from what I can remember, it was a frigid mid- January morning, but all I could think about was baseball. I was eight years old, but while most kids my age were thinking about building snow forts and starting snowball fights, I was more in the mindset of a little leaguer on a muggy Saturday afternoon in August. I can remember counting down the days until the baseball hitting clinic was to take place; I even crossed off the days on our annual Norman Rockwell calendar on our kitchen refrigerator. As I arrived at the then brand new Anderson Center, I can recall walking into the lobby, and being simply astonished at the shear giganticness of the gymnasium, compared to how small I was. I was your not-so-typical eight-year old. Standing at about four feet tall, all of the other players towered over me like a squirrel standing next to a Redwood tree. I was so small that the t-shirt I received, which fit every other kid like a glove, fit me more like a bed sheet. My group decided that we were all going to wear our shirts while participating in the clinic; that was easier said than done, for me at least. As you could imagine, trying to swing a baseball bat while wearing a t-shirt the length of a wedding dress was not an easy task to accomplish. After my first few swings, I quickly realized that that was a job not able to be completed. I handed the t-shirt to my dad in disgust, feeling like I had somehow failed.
If it weren't for the pictures and written records the original color of my lucky t-shirt may never be known. From what I
The back-story to how I received this shirt is rather simple. As I recall, or more like from what I can remember, it was a frigid mid- January morning, but all I could think about was baseball. I was eight years old, but while most kids my age were thinking about building snow forts and starting snowball fights, I was more in the mindset of a little leaguer on a muggy Saturday afternoon in August. I can remember counting down the days until the baseball hitting clinic was to take place; I even crossed off the days on our annual Norman Rockwell calendar on our kitchen refrigerator. As I arrived at the then brand new Anderson Center, I can recall walking into the lobby, and being simply astonished at the shear giganticness of the gymnasium, compared to how small I was. I was your not-so-typical eight-year old. Standing at about four feet tall, all of the other players towered over me like a squirrel standing next to a Redwood tree. I was so small that the t-shirt I received, which fit every other kid like a glove, fit me more like a bed sheet. My group decided that we were all going to wear our shirts while participating in the clinic; that was easier said than done, for me at least. As you could imagine, trying to swing a baseball bat while wearing a t-shirt the length of a wedding dress was not an easy task to accomplish. After my first few swings, I quickly realized that that was a job not able to be completed. I handed the t-shirt to my dad in disgust, feeling like I had somehow failed.
If it weren't for the pictures and written records the original color of my lucky t-shirt may never be known. From what I