Editor’s note: This column first published Dec. 11, 2021.

When I was 10, I got a baseball glove for Christmas.

My dad told me that was the day I also became a man, but I didn’t understand what he was talking about until I had a son of my own 26 years later.

I never considered my family poor. I don’t recall us ever going without anything we needed, but with seven kids and two adults in the house, there wasn’t much money for extra stuff.

Somehow though, my parents (or Santa, depending on how old you were) always managed to get each of the kids at least one “big” gift each Christmas.

Some years, the big gift was really big — like new bicycles for all of us. Most of the time, the big gift was something personal each kid had bugged mom and dad about for months.

Even as kids, we knew the difference between the normal gifts and the big gifts.

A baseball cap, Matchbox car, Nerf football, G.I. Joe, 45 record of the latest song from a group my dad hated or socks and underwear were normal gifts.

A record player, train set, EZ Bake Oven or the aforementioned bicycle fell in the big gift category.

I still remember all of the kids rushing to the tree on Christmas morning when I was 10, finding the presents with our names on them and tearing into the treasures to see what big gift Santa (or mom and dad) had decided to bless us with.

When the carnage ended and the paper and bows quit flying, I did some quick inventory and realized yours truly was lacking a big gift.

Socks? Check.

Underwear? Check.

Baseball cap? Check.

Big gift? What the heck?

I wasn’t a perfect child, but I had followed the same pattern from previous years to make sure I was on the good list. Starting on Nov. 1 and for each day leading up to Christmas, I made my bed, did my chores, brushed my teeth without being told and refrained from tormenting my sisters.

I assumed that was enough, but the socks, underwear and lack of a big gift said otherwise.

I was crushed, but for some reason I decided I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. At least not in front of everyone.

After checking out all of the cool loot my siblings got and making a genuine effort to seem interested in their good fortune, I took my socks and underwear, put them in a drawer and then went behind the barn about 100 yards from our house and cried.

Around 3 p.m. that afternoon, my uncle Gene — dad’s baby brother — and his family arrived from South Carolina to celebrate Christmas with us.

Uncle Gene handed my dad a wrapped present, and dad handed it to me, saying, “Sorry this one wasn’t under the tree this morning. Hope you like it.”

Later that evening, after I had lovingly oiled my new baseball glove, put a baseball in it, wrapped a belt around it and put it between the mattress and box springs of my bed to break it in properly, my dad came into my room and sat down beside me.

He told me he was proud of me, and I said, “Thanks. I can’t wait for baseball season to start so I can show you how good I can be with this new glove.”

“Son,” my dad said. “I don’t care if you ever make a catch with that glove. I’m proud of you for the way you handled things today when you didn’t get as many presents as the rest of the kids. I watched you, and you handled disappointment like a grown man. That’s what I’m proud of.”

I thought about earlier in the day when I cried behind the barn, and suddenly felt guilty.

“Dad,” I asked. “Do grown men ever cry?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “One day you might have a girl break your heart, or lose a good dog. Or, if you’re lucky, you’ll have a son that makes you so proud the tears just sort of come without you even knowing it.”

I have a 20-year-old son now, so I know that feeling and will always consider myself blessed.

And, I’ll always cherish that Christmas I made my dad’s eyes leak a little.