Allie's Baseball mitt

I didn't have a date or anything so I stuck around my dorm and decided to to Stradlater's crappy composition.
I stared out of the window for what must've been like an hour. I was staring at the snow. Like I said, I thought it was pretty, it looked nice and white. Anyway, I couldn't really think of a room, or a house, or anything like that. I put on my red hunting hat and tried to think. Besides, I ain't too crazy about describing houses or rooms anyway. I wrote about my Brother, Allie's baseball mitt. It was a really descriptive subject. It really was. It was a left-handed fielder's mitt. Allie was left handed. It had loadsa' poetry scribbled all over it. It was all over the fingers and the pockets, everywhere. In green ink. Allie's dead now. He died of leukemia on July 18th 1946. He was eleven. Two years my junior. He's been dead three years. He was terrifically intelligent, he really was. His teachers were always sending letters to my Mother telling her just how intelligent he was. He was probably the most intelligent member of the family. I guess I kinda idolize him because of it. Sounds weird I know. Idolizing my kid Brother. He had red hair and the weird thing is, people with red hair are supposed to be really angry. Not Allie. He couldn't get mad at anything. He was the nicest guy ever. God he was a nice kid.

I cried like hell when he died. I was only thirteen and they were going to have me psychoanalyzed. All because I broke all the windows in the garage. I don't balme them though. I really don't. I slept in the grage for a while. I slept there the night he died. I broke all the goddam windows with my fits. Just for the hell of it. Damn near broke my hand. I can't make a proper fist with it anymore. Anyway, that's what I wrote Stradlater's goddam composition about. Allie's baseball mitt.