When the homer landed on the grassy backdrop beyond the centerfield fence, a few Cardinal fans scrambled to scoop up the ball as if it were a magical sphere dropped from heaven. David Huyette was the lucky man who grabbed the ball. He gave it to Freese in exchange for a bat and another baseball signed by the whole St. Louis team. I’m glad he did. I hate when fans try to extort tons of money or sellout to the highest bidder. Of course, I’ve never gobbled up a valuable baseball before.
Everybody, including myself, wants to catch a baseball at a major league game. Some people more than others. Somehow getting a ball is some sort of magical blessing from the baseball gods, akin to getting touched by either the Pope or President Obama. If I had been in Huyette’s seat, I probably wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to hop the railing and go for the ball. Why not? Because I’ve never bolted out of my seat, jumped into a pile of arms and legs, or heaven forbid, leaned over a railing to grab a ball that is still in play. It’s not that important. Who cares? It’s just a ball.
However, at one game many moons ago I found myself staring at a screaming foul ball. I was at an Angels game with my buddy Justin. We were sitting in prime foul ball territory, in the middle deck, right on line with third base. There weren’t a lot of people sitting near us. The whole row in front of us was empty. Suddenly, after years of never even sniffing a foul ball, my chance was quickly approaching. I stood up and prepared to snare it with a Willie Mays style basket catch.
But then it all went awry. At the last second, a lady two rows in front of me reached up for the ball and it glanced off her palms like a stone skipping on a lake. The ball was now headed for my face. I was thrown off. The ball not only changed direction, but also its speed. I could only go on instinct. And so I made the only rational move possible.
I ducked.
Yes. I pulled my face out of the way and let the ball plop delicately into the lap of an old lady two rows behind me. It’s a decision that dear Ol’ Justin hasn’t let me live down, or forget.
Thankfully, redemption was in my future years later while on a Midwest ballpark tour. It was at Detroit’s Comerica Park in 2002. I was sitting in centerfield, near the outfield fence, in a triangular-shaped nook. The oddly shaped center field wall actually obscured my view of the outfielders if they approached the warning track. Detroit’s left fielder Rob Fick ended the top half of the fourth inning with a fine running catch in the left-center alley. His momentum carried him into my “blind spot”.
As many outfielders do after the third out, Fick had turned and lobbed the ball into the stands. I couldn’t see Fick, but I divinely noticed his throw. The ball was falling from the parting clouds right to me, as if Fick and I were playing catch. It was an easy grab, as simple as reaching up to pick an apple off of a tree. I stood, stretched my arm upward, and secured the ball tightly in my grip.
I finally had my baseball after 25 years of attending games. For it to happen in my hometown’s new stadium was extra special. I was now in the club of extraordinary fans who are lucky enough to catch a baseball at a game. I certainly would have to get a box to display my prized possession for all the world to see.
A few weeks later I brought the ball to school to demonstrate to my first graders a “get-to-know-me” show-and-tell project I wanted them to do. I remember presenting the ball along a few other favorite things. I think I set it on the desk next to me. From there, I’m not sure what happened. The ball could have rolled off the desk and into a trashcan that sat next to it. Maybe one of my students walked off with it. All I know is that the ball is gone.
I’m not sure what is worse. Ducking to avoid being conked by a foul ball or losing the one I did catch. You tell me. I don’t have the ball, but at least I have all my teeth.
