I own two Yankees baseball caps. The most recent one has the 2024 World Series patch on it. I bought it on impulse this October as soon as they punched their ticket to the Fall Classic by besting the Cleveland Guardians.
After a rather pathetic defeat against the Los Angeles Dodgers, I have not worn it more than a handful of times. It sits upon my shelf in pristine condition.
The second cap has the patch from the day the Yankees retired catcher Jorge Posada’s No. 20. It was gifted to me by my dad for Christmas in 2015 after we went to the ceremonious game that August as a joint birthday present.
The Posada cap is a noticeably more faded shade of blue, is a less profound shape and on the underside of its bill lies a sizable stain.
That being said, more often than not I opt to wear the Posada hat. I do not view its signs of age in a negative light. The faded color is due to the last decade I’ve spent wearing it under the summer sun. The deformed shape is presumably because of all of the sweat I’ve put into it from running around my front yard playing wiffle ball with my brother. The stain on the bill comes from saltwater, as I used the hat as shade after getting out of the ocean while on family vacations.
Essentially, the very things that may make my old cap seem weathered all derive from the love that I put into it.
It may seem corny to say that I love a hat, but I do. Everytime I look at it I’m reminded of that day I spent with my dad at the ballpark, of magical and carefree Christmas mornings and childhood summers.
It’s a concept that is lost on most people today. Oftentimes the first sign of tarnishment spells doom for a given article of clothing. Instead, I think we should be proud to don things that are well-worn, and show that we have poured love into the items.
I think it even goes beyond just clothes. Using worn down pencils, phone cases that are no longer in mint condition and of course, wallets that live forever on their last legs. It’s a common stereotype that most men have just one wallet and use it until it is no longer usable, and I think it has to do with the fact that they aren’t as seen or portrayed as clothes in everyday life.
Or take for example, the stereotype of grandmothers’ couches usually being wrapped in plastic. Sure, it’s to prevent spillage stains but would that change how the couch is used? Probably not.
My mother has fought a losing battle for years now to replace one of the carpets in our house. There is a grape juice stain on one end and a hole that was chewed through by our golden retriever on the other. She says it looks old and dingy, but I love the carpet because I think its imperfections give it character.
Maybe we have to disregard this notion that we cannot outwardly display anything that is not brand new. Now, please don’t interpret this as me saying to wear shoes with holes in them or sweatshirts that have an odor. Obviously, when something has passed the threshold of functionality then there is a time to replace it. It’s just that when exactly that time comes does not have to be so soon. There is nothing wrong with reveling in nostalgia with a given item.
View your belongings as a museum of your life, with each little detail being associated with a different memory. It is simply frivolous to trash something because it is old. In fact, I’ll probably never throw out that Posada hat. Even when I no longer wear it, I’ll find it a permanent home on a shelf somewhere, allowing it to collect dust the same way it compiled memories.
