The skiver has been the more straightforward machine so far. Once you get the feel for how much to take off the leather and how it reacts, it becomes a pretty intuitive tool.

The sewing machine, on the other hand… that’s been a different story. Threading it properly took longer to learn than I expected, and getting the tension right has been tricky. If the tension’s off, the stitch either skips or the leather bunches, and there’s no cheating that part, you have to stop, adjust, and start again. It’s a delicate balance.

What’s surprised me the most is how hard it is to put the leather together before you even start sewing. You can’t just line up three pieces and go. You’ve got to understand how the seams will fold, how the leather will pull under pressure, and where the tension will be when it’s on a hand. It’s not just about joining leather; it’s about shaping something that has to feel right when it’s worn.

All that said, I’m not rushing the process. This is about craftsmanship, not speed. Every mistake is a lesson; every stitch teaches me something. I’ll share more soon, photos, maybe even some video, but for now, just know that the learning curve is real, and I’m here for it.

Both machines came on two pallets. I didn’t have time to do an unboxing video since I had to break them down right there to get everything into my apartment.

Over the weekend, I got both machines assembled and set up. The 2750 is a cylinder arm machine with a walking foot, built for stitching heavy materials like the leather I’m using for glove work. The SK-4 will be used to skive—thin down the edges of leather for binding and welting.

Right now, I’m focused on learning how to operate both machines. I won’t be doing any test runs until I feel comfortable with the controls and maintenance.

Photos below show the setup and where I’ll be working. More to come as I get familiar with everything and begin making a glove.

While I’ve been waiting, I’ve been making templates and studying glove construction. What I’ve started to notice is that a lot of glove designs are basically the same. The differences come down to small details, pocket shape, welting, finger stalls—but most brands are working from the same basic structure. I’m trying to understand that foundation before I put my own spin on it. Once the machine arrives, I’ll be ready to start sewing and bring something new to the table.

I just picked up a new hot foil stamping machine from Dream Factory. I’ll be using it to add the Baseball Buddha logo to the gloves I build and restore. This video shows the unboxing and the first test of the stamp — no voiceover, just the machine in action.

Watch it on YouTube, and if you like what you see, click the thumbs up and subscribe to the channel. It helps more than you think.

More glove-making videos are on the way. Thanks for being part of it.

One of the first things that stood out when I started researching Japanese gloves was the color. You can spot one across the field, fiery orange, deep red, royal blue. At first, I thought it was just a style choice. Something aesthetic. But the more I looked into it, the more I realized this is philosophy. In Japan, color isn’t just flair. It’s intentionality. It reflects pride, craftsmanship, and individuality within discipline. Gloves are expressive but not rebellious. They’re personal, but not performative, if that makes sense. American gloves have long been utilitarian in tone, tan, black, dark brown. Quiet. Serious. Built to function, not necessarily to stand out.

As I started deconstructing gloves, I began noticing structural differences that went deeper than appearance. One major element is welting, those strips of leather that reinforce the fingers. American gloves, especially those built for pro-level longevity, often feature thick, dual welting. It helps the glove maintain its shape longer and stand up to heavier use. The glove becomes a rigid, reliable tool. Japanese gloves often use single welting or a thinner welt design. It’s a different kind of performance. A glove that’s lighter, more flexible, and breaks in quicker. The philosophy there values fluidity. The hand becomes a part of the play. Even the pocket shape tells a story. U.S. gloves often go deep for control. Japanese gloves stay shallow for speed. In Japan, where quick transfers, bunts, and precision rule, the glove is tuned to the rhythm of the game. It’s not a better glove. It’s a glove shaped by a different heartbeat.

This is the part that really got to me. In the U.S., glove making has long followed a mass production model. Big brands operate on scale, efficiency, uniformity, volume. You can still find great gloves, no doubt. Some of them beautiful, some customizable. But there’s often a distance between the glove and the hands that built it. In Japan, especially in small or family-owned workshops, glove making is often personal. One artisan may build a glove start to finish, selecting the leather, shaping the shell, stitching the seams. Even if machines are involved, the process is ritualized. There’s a rhythm and care in every motion. The glove doesn’t just pass through a factory. It’s formed in a studio.

I’ve learned that most Japanese gloves are not fully hand stitched, but they are hand finished with incredible precision. The difference is in the care, the repetition, the intentionality. In Japan, glove making is treated like shokunin, a disciplined pursuit of mastery. And that’s where I want to go with my own work.

I’m just getting started in the world of glove making. I’ve purchased the tools and set up a bench. I’m studying leather, how it behaves, how it bonds, how it speaks. I’m tearing down old gloves and mapping their bones. I’ve started designing my own, some for restoration, some for play, and some to exist as symbolic objects, statements about the game and what it means. But this isn’t just technical for me. It’s personal.

What I see in these differences, Japanese and American, utility versus expression, mass versus ritual, are competing philosophies of how we approach craft, identity, and tradition. And I don’t think you have to choose one or the other. I think there’s something beautiful in the tension between them. Maybe the American glove says I’ve been through it. I hold up. And the Japanese glove says I’m still being shaped. I honor the form. I want my gloves to hold both truths. I want them to be functional, beautiful, symbolic, and personal. Made to be worn. Made to be understood.

If you want to see how these two glove philosophies are starting to bleed into each other, look no further than Shohei Ohtani. He’s more than a two-way player. He’s a cultural ambassador. When he stepped onto American soil, he brought more than talent. He brought design language. Ohtani’s gloves carry that unmistakable Japanese look, sleek, structured, often with elegant color pops and tailored craftsmanship. Even when toned down for MLB’s aesthetics, the shape, feel, and intentionality remain. It’s a glove that looks like it was designed in a dojo and finished in a museum.

Other Japanese players, Ichiro, Tanaka, Darvish, and now Yamamoto, carry the same thread. Their gloves don’t just work, they speak. Meanwhile, American players are starting to listen. Mookie Betts is one of the most visible adopters of the modern, expressive glove. He’s worn royal blue, navy, camel, and even red gloves, all tastefully done. The design is dialed, not loud for the sake of being loud, but precise, personal, and full of quiet swagger. That’s where the shift is happening. Not just in color, but in the care behind the design.

But there’s still one position that remains chained to the past, pitchers. Unlike infielders or outfielders, pitchers still face strict limits on glove color due to MLB regulations. According to the official rules:

“The pitcher’s glove may not, exclusive of piping, be white, gray, nor, in the judgment of an umpire, distracting in any manner.”

That line still shapes what a pitcher can or can’t bring to the mound. The rule is rooted in fairness, keeping hitters from losing the ball in a glove that blends with the sky or the ball itself. But it also means that the most visible player on the field is the most limited in how they express themselves. So while other players might be experimenting with leathers and colors and embroidery, pitchers are mostly stuck in the palette of mud: black, tan, and conservative contrast.

That’s why it’s notable when someone like Nestor Cortes Jr. sneaks in a mint green glove or Matt Strahm flashes a custom tribute to the Declaration of Independence. These gloves still pass the umpire’s test, but they’re pushing the boundary just enough to say this is still mine.

A glove isn’t just what you wear. It’s what you carry. It absorbs your sweat, your repetition, your habits. It remembers. I’ve come to believe that every glove has a philosophy. Some are loud. Some are quiet. Some are still waiting to be revealed.

This is the first video in what I hope becomes a long, imperfect, meaningful journey.

I’ve always loved the game of baseball, not just the players or the plays, but everything around it. The fans. The memories. The feeling of holding a glove that’s been broken in over years. Lately, I’ve been feeling the urge to reconnect with the game in a more physical way. So I decided to try something completely new: making baseball gloves from scratch.

It’s not polished. It’s me, figuring out how to talk to a camera, stumbling over my words, and trying to explain why I’m doing this.

Because it’s not just about gloves. It’s about honoring the craft, the history, and the quiet parts of baseball that have always mattered to me.

I’ll be documenting the whole process, the learning, the mistakes, and the little moments that make it all worth it. This is where I start

.

But it’s the first glove I’ve remade.
And it already feels like it’s been with me forever.

Because a baseball glove is never just a glove.
It’s a story.
It’s a place.
It’s a time machine.

I remember mine.

I remember the one that got stiff from being left out in the rain. I remember the way it smelled, the sound it made when a ball landed in the pocket just right. I remember breaking it in with a ball wrapped in rubber bands. I remember the glove I wore when I didn’t make the team and the one, I wore when I finally did, even though I barely played.

The glove was there through it all.
Disappointment. Joy. Boredom. Determination.

You don’t use a glove. You become familiar with it. You break it in. You shape it to your hand, and over time it shapes you a little too. You learn how to squeeze it just right, how to hear when the leather speaks back. You learn to feel something in it that’s hard to name.

That’s what I’m chasing now. That feeling.

I live in a small apartment in the city. I travel a lot for work. My days are long and fragmented, meetings, airports, fast food, emails, more meetings. At the end of the day, my head is full, but my hands are empty.

So, I sit down.
Game on in the background.
Glove in hand.
And I go quiet.

I’m learning how to make them not just fix them. Building gloves from scratch. Stitching, lacing, cutting. I’m not fast. I’m not perfect. But I care. And in a world, that’s obsessed with speed and scale and shortcuts, care feels like rebellion.

I’m not doing this to sell something. I’m doing it to stay connected.
To baseball.
To my childhood.
To craftsmanship.
To a kind of clarity, I rarely feel anywhere else.

You might know me as Baseball Buddha. For years now, I’ve been writing about baseball, walking stadiums, photographing fans, chasing the spirit of the game in the stands instead of the box score. I’ve always believed that baseball isn’t just a sport, it’s a mirror.

This is part of that.

I’m starting a series of gloves under the Baseball Buddha name. Here’s what they are:

The Tendō Series – These are old gloves, restored and improved. They’re not brought back to their “original state”, they’re given another life. New laces, new welting, new character. These gloves carry scars, and they wear them with pride.

The Shinkō Series – These are new gloves, built from scratch. Inspired by vintage models, made for the modern hand. They’re built to be used, but also to be appreciated. A blend of tradition and refinement.

There’s something else I’m working on too, something more conceptual. A glove you don’t play with but maybe think about. I’m not ready to explain it just yet. You’ll know it when you see it.

What I’m learning is that real craftsmanship isn’t just about skill. It’s about attention. The tools I’m investing in aren’t for show. They force me to slow down. To measure twice. To make deliberate choices. When you work with leather, you can’t rush. It pushes back. It demands presence.

There’s something sacred in that.

This isn’t a tutorial channel. I’m not handing out lessons.
But I will share what I’m learning.
The missteps. The wins. The weird little details that only show up when you really look.

Photos soon.
Videos later.
Stories always.

Because a baseball glove isn’t just a glove.
It’s the memory of playing catch with your dad, or your kid, or your best friend.
It’s the sound of the game before the noise took over.
It’s the hope of being chosen.
It’s the heartbreak of being cut.
It’s the persistence of trying again anyway.

It’s leather and lace and everything in between.
It’s the shape of the game when you hold it in your hand.

This is my practice.
This is how I stay in it.
This is how I remember.
Enlightenment thru Baseball.