The inside fastball was turned on and struck hard, but foul. It shot off the dirt in front of the dugout scattering the players who lingered there. After a hard bounce it skipped off the railing, and into the stands where it caught a lady by surprise. Her hands weren’t fast enough to stop the ball, she only managed to slow it down before it clipped her on the side of the face. Nothing serious, just a slight jarring.
Stadium attendants immediately came to her aid. She tried wave them off but they insisted she take an icepack. The gentlemen accompanying her held his “ice cold” beer up to her face as if to say he had the situation covered. Everyone watching shared a chuckle, including the lady, and at that the issue seemed over. Except for one thing: the ball.
The attacker had bounced off the lady’s cheek, a stadium seat, and back onto the field where it was captured by the 3rd base coach. As is common baseball courtesy, the men in uniform often compensate the fans who “take one for the team” by giving them the ball that did the dirty deed.
The coach took the ball, walked casually to the base of the stands, and flipped it underhand to the lady with the beer pressed against her face. This time she caught it. No rookie to foul ball etiquette, she hoisted it up for all the onlookers to see. She even managed to wave at the camera broadcasting the event on the video board. Fans clapped in appreciation, not a roaring cheer, but a gracious happy-ending applause. The drama was over and game resumed.
I imagine that lady will share many conversations about her foul ball experience. Possibly over a few ice cold brews. Maybe after the game she’ll have it signed and give it to her son who loves baseball. Or, she could place it on her mantle next to others she’s collected. Maybe she’ll stare at it and wonder whats so special about it now that she’s got one. Maybe she’ll ride an adrenaline high for the next hour. Who knows? Suffice to say, it will be one fantastic memory.
Getting a baseball at a game is a great moment. I can still remember when I was a boy and a baseball found its way off the stadium roof and into my seat. It fell right into my lap. My heart raced as I clutched it tight. I shot up from my seat and waved the ball all around to the sound of my fellow fans applause. I was to excited I couldn’t speak. I just hyperventilated until my grandfather, calmly sitting next to me, asked to see it. I’ll never forget that moment. He took it gently from my hands and looked at it, into it, like a soldier looks at the flag. Something about it held his eyes. When he finished, he took my hand, placed the ball in it and closed my fingers with his. Then, with a wise smile that I didn’t quite understand, he said, “this is a good one.”
My grandfather is gone now, and so is that ball. I think I used it to play catch one day after I ran out of “borrowed” balls from my little league team. I was just a kid who wanted to play. Ironically, that little white bauble that I coveted so much was just the same as any other ball when played with. It tattered up just the like all the others and eventually it was lost, or thrown away, or eaten by the dog.
Though that ball is gone, the memory it shared with my grandfather and I lives on. As do many others. Sure, it would be nice to still have that little white artifact. A testament to our time together. Yet, when I think of playing catch with grandpa, seeing him at my games, and having ice cream with him afterwards, I realize; those memories are just as priceless though I have no souvenirs to show for them. Baseballs will come and go, but he was a once in a life time experience.
Now, years later, I know it wasn’t a baseball that made that foul ball moment special, It was my grandfather. Baseball was a medium through which we shared a lot of great times. But baseball did not make time with him great, rather, he made time with baseball great.
I look back at the moment he put that ball in my hands and I wish I could have spoken to him with the knowledge I have now. I wish I could go back in time to tell him what those moments were worth to me now that he’s gone. I wish I could take his weathered hand in mine and say, “this is a good one grandpa, but then again, they’re all good ones.”