The paper gave way in folds and curls, and then he and Lester both held their treasures aloft. "Baseball gloves!" Perry said. "A catcher's mitt and a fielder's glove," Kettlewell said. "You look at that catcher's mitt. 1910!" It was black and bulbous, the leather soft and yielding, with a patina of fine cracks like an old painting. It smelled like oil and leather, an old rich smell like a gentleman's club or an expensive briefcase. Perry tried it on and it molded itself to his hand, snug and comfortable. It practically cried out to have a ball thrown at it. "And this fielder's glove," Kettlewell went on, pointing at the glove Lester held. It was the more traditional tan color, comically large like the glove of a cartoon character. It too had the look of ancient, well-loved leather, the same mysterious smell of hide and oil. Perry touched it with a finger and it felt like a woman's cheek, smooth and soft. "Rawlings XPG6. The Mickey Mantle. Early 1960s -- the ultimate glove." "You got the whole sales pitch, huh, darling?" Eva said, not unkindly, but Kettlewell flushed and glared at her for a moment. Perry broke in. "Guys, these are -- wow. Incredible." "They're better than the modern product," Suzanne said. "That's the point. You can't print these or fab these. They're wonderful because they're so well made *and so well-used*! The only way to make a glove this good would be to fab it and then give it to several generations of baseball players to love and use for fifty to a hundred years." Perry turned over the catcher's mitt. Over a hundred years old. This wasn't something to go in a glass case. Suzanne was right: this was a great glove because people had played with it, all the time. It needed to be played with or it would get out of practice. "I guess we're going to have to buy a baseball," Perry said. The little girl beside him started bouncing up and down. "Show him," Suzanne said, and the girl dove under the table and came up with two white, fresh hard balls. Once he fitted one to the pocket of his glove, it felt so perfectly right -- like a key in a lock. This pocket had held a lot of balls over the years. Lester had put a ball in the pocket of his glove, too. He tossed it lightly in the air and caught it, then repeated the trick. The look of visceral satisfaction on his face was unmistakable. "These are *great* presents, guys," Perry said. "Seriously. Well done." They all beamed and murmured and then the ball Lester was tossing crashed to the table and broke a pitcher of blueberry syrup, upset a carafe of orange juice, and rolled to a stop in the chocolate mess in front of the little girl, who laughed and laughed and laughed. "And *that* is why we don't play with balls indoors," Suzanne said, looking as stern as she could while obviously trying very hard not to bust out laughing.