(Don't) Give That Fan a Contract

In my 28 years, I would hazard to guess that I've attended upwards of 120 professional baseball games. I've saved every ticket stub from every game I've ever gone to. So I could count them all up to give a more precise number. But that's not really why I save the stubs.

I've sat in nearly every corner of a dozen or so diffent major and minor league parks -- in the upper deck behind the foul pole, in the third row behind home plate, even once in an owner's box. I've seen walk-off homeruns in extra innings of a World Series game. I've seen near no-hitters. I've seen comebacks, blowouts and rainouts. But one experience is still missing.

I've never caught a ball.

A few years ago, I was seated in the left field seats of Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia when Mike Lieberthal launched what would be the game-winning homerun into the air. As it approached, I could start to see the seams of the ball spinning by. I stood, leaned forward and braced my palms for impact. At that moment, a man with a glove reached back a picked it cleany from the air. But that's about as close as I've ever come to catching anything.

As an adult, I've never believed in bringing a glove to a game. I can't remember who said it first, but it's true that a grown man should never bring a glove to a game unless: 1) You're with a young child and so close to the field of play that the glove serves as protection; or 2) Someone in the game is poised to hit a momentus homerun and the ball will be worth six-figures if caught.

So tonight, when I attended the Yankees-Orioles game at Camden Yards, I was true to my principles and went bare-handed. (I was also coming from work, and I don't usually keep a spare mitt in my desk drawer. Although I do keep an extra athletic cup in there. You never know...)

When mitt-less at a game, you always fear the line-drive foul ball. "Would I have the courage to stick out my fleshy palms and take the full force of the ball and all that spin?" You hope that if a foul ball comes to, you can pick it cleanly out of the air, right at the apex of it's arc. All gain and no pain.

Tonight, in the first inning of the game, with Yankee's second baseman Robinson Cano at the plate, this is exactly what happened -- to the fan just above me. Cano lofted a weak foul-pop to the left side. It drifted back toward the upper deck. An eager fan reached out. It slapped against his fingers, then quickly it spilled out and began to drop. Looking up and back, I saw the ball falling right from his hands and into mine. I saw the label on the ball spinning right toward me. I reached up. And it was gone.

For some reason, the ball spun right off one finger tip and into the hands of a Yankee fan two rows down. What happened? How did I miss that? It was coming right to me. I waited my whole life for that moment and I blew it.

Perhaps it was the angle. Maybe it was the lights. Was it just an optical illusion?

Either way, I left yet another game without a souvenir. And it will likely be another 28 years before another one comes even half as close. Had I caught it, I'm convinced I would have had the valor to give the ball to the cute youngster three seats down with ice cream all over his face and glove. Instead that lousy Yankee fan stuck it right in his pocket.

I can't end this entry sounding completely unappreciative. Earlier this year, I attended a Washington Nationals game at RFK. They were playing my hometown team, the Philadelphia Phillies. I showed up early for batting practice. From the outfield seats, I shouted a friendly word of support to a Phillies player shagging flies. To my surprise, he turned around, and tossed me a ball. I didn't catch it. But I was able to scrounge beneath the seats through the week-old peanut shells and beer cups to retreive it. Now that ball has personal value, because it was meant for me. It hadn't just dropped randomly out of the sky. That one I wasn't going to give away. It was mine to keep.

Sure, it's just a ball. But it's also a connection. It's a real connection to a memory. Holding a ball from a game takes you instantly back to that moment. It's the closest thing I know to time travel. But for tonight's game, I'll have to settle for the ticket stub.