Crying Foul

I went to a baseball game the other day; Seattle Mariners in Oakland taking on the A's. The game wasn't all that good, two lousy teams each trying to remain relevant in the standings with almost three months of baseball still to play. And, unfortunately, the home team lost. But the sun was out and, as the great Ernie Banks used to say, it was a perfect day to play two- that is, if Major League Baseball still played doubleheaders. But often, what seemed more interesting that afternoon was what was going on in the stands.

Sitting in the second deck, down the left field line, I noticed a guy and his girl friend two sections from where I sat, enjoying each others' company in a vast expanse of otherwise empty seats. But they were the only two people in that entire section. Completely into each other, the couple was paying absolutely no attention to the baseball game. Suddenly, a line drive foul ball was heading straight at them. I knew it, everyone on that side of the stadium knew it. Everyone except the happy couple. Unaware of the incoming missile, neither guy nor girl made a move until the ball suddenly smacked the seat directly behind the chick’s head. Only then did they glance up abruptly to see what happened, like being jarred awake by an early alarm clock.

But the ball struck the seat so hard, there was no ricochet. It just died where it hit and, after dropping to the pavement in the deserted row above her, the chick turned around and picked it up. She didn't even have to stretch to reach it. By her rather muted reaction, though, I'm still not sure the girl even knew how lucky she'd been. One, had its trajectory been six inches lower the ball would've crushed the side of her face and she’d have been leaving in an ambulance. And two, she’d probably just come up with easiest foul ball in history. Geez, I've gone to about a million baseball games and am still waiting to catch a home run or foul ball. Or, like the preoccupied young lady in Oakland, have one practically drop in my lap. Well, to be honest, I did get a foul ball once. But I didn't actually catch it.

I went to a Spokane Indians Triple-A baseball game with some dorm buddies during my first year at Whitworth College. It was a chilly May night and in the second inning, a foul ball hit an empty seat two rows behind me. When I stood up to check for a rebound, it amazingly bounced right back in my hands. I didn’t’ have to move. Oh sure, I spilled the hot chocolate I was holding, but I had the damn baseball. I counted it the first of hopefully many more and a spring semester highlight. Only 20 and being reasonably sure handed, I figured I could probably snag at least one or two a year, depending on where I sat and how many games I could get to. Nope. That baseball in Spokane was the only one I ever came up with at a professional ballgame. And I managed to lose it before I even graduated. 

But back to Oakland and the game the other day. A few innings later, another foul ball looped into the seats in the lower level on the other side of the field, in a section of more populated rows behind the visitor’s bullpen. A man with a glove stood up and, with several other hands reaching as well, snared it. Nice catch. But there was a kid sitting two rows in front of him who’d merely watched as the ball dropped into the man's mitt. Yet before he could even sit down and enjoy the moment, the guy was showered in boos because handed it to the kid, who was still standing and looking at him with his empty glove. And he clearly didn’t want to, but the serenading peer pressure finally got to him and he reluctantly tossed the ball to the kid. His ball. And I wondered why.

The man hadn't stampeded over anybody to make his catch. He hadn't used his height or weight advantage to prevent the boy from making a grab. In fact, the kid hadn't even tried to catch it. The baseball merely found the dude's glove in a small circle of other reaching hands and mitts. Nobody was hurt and no feelings should have been hurt, either.  But the kid was small and cute which, I guess, entitled him to any grown up’s rightfully caught foul ball, whether he did anything to deserve it or not.

I wondered when it became standard ballpark etiquette that every rug rat with a glove and a ticket gets to take home a baseball?  Call me an anarchist, but I need to get this off my chest--getting a foul ball at a baseball game is not a right. Big person or small if you catch it, it should be yours. And nobody should be coerced or guilt tripped by the ‘angry mob’ into a sort of forced reverse age discrimination to give it up. Hey, you're not 12; you can't keep that baseball. Just because we live in a society that embraces an "every-kid-deserves-a prize-simply-for-drawing-breath" mentality, doesn't mean that practice has to apply at the 'ol ballpark.

Heck, I was an adorable little kid once too, but I wasn't that adorable; certainly not enough to get a foul ball simply for showing up. And if it ever came down to me versus a big burly dude vying for the same ball coming into the stands, unless he miffed it I knew the big dude was going to get it, not me. It was every man- or kid- for themselves, which was never more evident than the time a cigar chomping, beer swilling guy at a Giants game splashed his Hamms on me leaning over to try and get a ball landing three rows in front of us. I'm glad he held his balance, too, because he'd have squished me. But he didn't even have the courtesy to apologize. Of course, being a jerk at Candlestick Park has always been an accepted norm.

But this isn't a rant against kids at baseball games, and I think it's great how Major League Baseball has gone out of its way to cater to the youngest generation. Running the bases after Sunday games, guest kid P.A. announcers, big fuzzy mascots and other interactive concepts designed especially for the under 12 set is terrific marketing. I get that. In fact, I wish they'd done things like that when I was little. And I like kids, and if it was my own, or maybe one of my little nephews, and if I caught a ball at a game I'd give it to 'em. No questions asked. I might even be persuaded to present it to the lovely Amy. Or in my bachelor days might have tossed it to my girl friend. I would not, however, hand it over to some random ballpark urchin who just happened to be sitting in the same section as me when it came down, especially if, like me, you've been waiting forever to have that moment yourself.

Its mine, kid. I caught it. Go get your own.

But if some overzealous grown up plows over a youngster in hot pursuit of an errant ball, then I'll be right there demanding  the big lout turn it over to the little fan, and right now! Otherwise, my bottom line is this: if I'm ever lucky enough to catch a foul ball or home run and I haven't had to scramble over anybody- man, woman or child to get it- I'm keeping it. And I don't care how cute you are