Letting Go; or, "Not My Beloved Jerseys!"

She doesn't understand it, but my lovely wife has given up on junking the baseball jerseys. See, I have about 15 old jerseys – well, glorified T-shirts is all they are – from my Dixie Youth League days. Only a few still actually fit; I haven't worn one in years. I'd blame it on my packrat nature, but it's much more complicated than that.

Some of the fine companies I represented on the diamond include Milwaukee Tools, Gelston's Chevron, Wal-Mart and Lakewood Cemetery. Which reminds me of a story. During a game with the Lakewood team, our coach looked over to the dugout and urged us to make some noise. "Y'all are as quiet as a cemetery," he said, and after a moment he realized what he'd just said.

OK, so it wasn't that funny a story, but it's representative of why I treasure my wrinkled old jerseys. Those were my best times as a child, smacking singles and diving in the dirt. Baseball was an obsession with me growing up (still is, really). I actually used to dream of the day when I could buy a little – OK, big – display case for my jerseys and trophies. Most of those trophies are now broken and dusty, and I probably should chuck them.

I have trouble letting go of other things: my baseball cards, my many media passes, every Sports Illustrated I've received over the last 10 years. Sure, laugh, but you know you've got your grubby little fingers wrapped around something. We Southerners are sentimental to a fault, I suppose, which in part explains all the Civil War re-enactments and the mullet. That's OK, because it keeps us in touch with our past, which keeps us in touch with reality.

So there. Those ratty old jerseys do have some real value. And I still want that display case.

Today's Redneck Moment: I was completely fascinated by a story about fossilized poo.