The phone rang.

Telephones do that. Some of them sing, some play music — this one rang.

It was Opportunity Knox calling. He’s either an investment counselor or a financial adviser. He is whichever one pays the highest commission.

He might have said “Hello” before launching into “Fundamental research of the past fiscal year and trend analyses indicate that secondary distribution and price-to-earnings ratios demand that you consider an initial public offering with a dollar-cost-averaging method of hypothecation unless you would rather purchase cumulative preferred stock that involves possible capital gain or capital loss considering an upward tick of a basis point that would enhance your balance sheet regardless of amortization. Your asset allocation should contemplate dead cat bounce implications before the triple witching hour. You need to be bullish, bearish, badgerish, birdish, and beeish.”

At least that’s what I think Opportunity Knox said. Whatever it was, he slobbered a bibfull. The terms befuddled me, and I confused hope with fact.

I tried to make sense of his Super Bowl halftime-length sales pitch, but I was like Sisyphus pushing that boulder up a hill. I nearly understood and then my comprehension rolled back down the hill.

Getting rich by investing is like my old dog chasing chipmunks. Chipmunks were her Holy Grail. She chased them, but she never caught any.

I used to tell winter survival stories. Now I tell investment survival stories. I tell my grandchildren that I’m so poor that I have to wear patches with clothes on them. They don’t care. They are too young to understand inheritance.

I tell my wife, The Queen B, that she should consider taking in washing. Now she wants to turn my den into a car wash.

I remember riding my bicycle into town. My bicycle had a truck steering wheel instead of handlebars. I was ahead of my time — too far ahead.

I pedaled to town because there was a brand of soft drink that promised that if I collected a bazillion of its bottle caps, I would get a baseball glove — not just any glove but an Al Kaline Autographed Model baseball glove. A glove meant for someone named Al.

I’d ride my bike four miles into town to find all the appropriate bottle caps I could around the town’s pop vending machines, each of which had a built-in bottle opener.

It took a couple of years, but I finally accumulated enough bottle caps to get my prize. I packed a huge cardboard box with the bottle caps, filled out the form and used all my discretionary income for stamps to mail it.

A few weeks later, I received the box of bottle caps back in the mail. The promotion had ended eight months earlier.

There would be no Al Kaline glove for me.

I had an Andy Pafko Autographed Model made by Franklin. Pafko had been a fine player with the Braves, Cubs and Dodgers, but he was no Al Kaline. Andy was an all-star and a certain baseball card of his was much in demand. In 17 years in the major leagues, Andy batted .285 and hit 213 home runs. But Al Kaline was Al Kaline.

I used that old glove for many years until it fell apart. I played catch with anyone available until it became too dark to see. I bounced a rubber ball off steps or buildings in a form of catch solitaire.

My glove was not an error-free glove. I had wanted an Al Kaline glove — one that would have cost much more than the glove I owned. It wouldn’t have been a wise investment. Eventually, I realized that it wasn’t the glove that was important. The player made the glove good or bad. Al Kaline would have been Al Kaline even if he were wearing an Andy Pafko Autographed Model glove made by Franklin. My old glove allowed me to play catch with my father, mother, brother, uncle, cousins, friends, neighbors and teammates. It was a great glove that provided me with wondrous gifts.

I thought of that old glove as I played catch with my 9-year-old granddaughter, Joey. She is a fastpitch softball player on a state championship team.

I couldn’t put a price tag on listening to the pop of the glove (not an Al Kaline Autographed Model) as Joey and later, her brother Bailey, fired the ball to me. Their smiles brought mine.

One of my wisest investments was to pick up a ball glove and yell, “How about playing a little catch?”

I think Andy Pafko would be proud. Opportunity Knox would shake his head in despair.

Life doesn’t have much length, but sweet memories of playing catch give it depth.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.