Foul Ball

After a long delay and a busy month, I offer you my latest selection:

There haven't been many high points in this increasingly morbid baseball season. But I managed to steal a couple of great ones recently. I've attended five Royals games this year and have the distinction of witnessing both of their home wins (against 12 losses). The second of these wins is where this story begins.

It was Tuesday the 19th and the Cleveland Indians were in town. It was a "Business Man's Special", a 1:10 start. Luckily, I was able to ditch out of the office at noon and head to the ballpark. The forecast left the afternoon as a small window in which there would be the least possibility of rain. Thankfully, that prediction held up.

So I bought my cheap, upper-deck ticket, and, having plagiarized the "Ryan Thye System of Seat Upgrades", headed for the lower deck. The RTSSU calls for subtlety when choosing your improved viewing station. This means resisting the temptation to head directly for the front row, all the while looking nervously over your shoulder for the impending doom of the stadium usher. No, the key is to stay in the upper half of the lower deck where ushers never tread. Sure, the seats aren't as good, but you get to sit there instead of being humiliated and kicked out to some less desirable seats. This being a weekday afternoon game and the crowd being far from numerous, I did not have to resort to using an accompanying technique: pulling out my ticket and pretending to look at it and then at the row numbers until having "found" my seat.

As I sat there waiting for the game to start, though, I noticed that there did not appear to be an usher in sight. A few people who obviously lacked the tickets for the lower section meandered past me (all the while, looking nervously over their shoulders) and took up their places in the primo seats. And the game began with still no sign of ushers. "Wouldn't that be cool if I could actually get down there," I thought. "I'll give it a couple of innings though, and see if those rascally ushers are just lying in wait, ready to bust the whole section, en masse."

An inning passed. The Indians couldn't touch the fastball of young Denny Bautista. And still no ushers. "Okay, I'm going down there. If they kick me out, they'll have to kick the whole lot of us out and I can accept that." So at the beginning of the second inning, I made my way down to the fourth row from the field, halfway between first base and the right field foul pole. I sat behind a couple a little older than myself and a couple who I assumed to be the wife's older parents. There were a few people in the section to my left and a couple of young guys two rows in front of me to my right. It was overcast, but the temperature was pleasant. I was going to thoroughly enjoy not being in the office this afternoon.

The bottom of the second inning arrived and up to bat came backup catcher Alberto Castillo. One of the bad things about weekday afternoon games is that you often get a lineup full of backups (irregulars?) to give the regulars a rest after a night game. To be honest, I don't recall the pitch sequence that preceded what I'm about to tell you, because I was most likely still in a dreamy state given my fantastic seats, lovely weather, and the fact that our light-hitting backup catcher was at the plate. But I was awoken quickly when Castillo hit a hard and slicing foul ball in our direction. "Whoa," my brain registered. "This ball is coming right at us." The couple and their parents stood up in front of me and I stood up too. This wasn't a pop-up that we were waiting to fall relatively gently from the sky. No, this was an instance when quick action was going to be required. As dumbfounded awe transformed to impending reality, the man in front of me shielded his wife from the incoming projectile. Her elderly-looking father nobly reached his hand out to catch the ball as it sailed over his daughter's head. But he didn't manage to get even a fingernail on it and I instinctively stuck out my bare right hand only to have it struck instantly, sending the ball directly to the ground two feet to my right. I immediately bent over and picked up my new-found trophy and held it up for all to behold. Applause went up from the crowd as I sat down to inspect my souvenir and cherry-red palm.

Both couples in front of me were inspecting themselves and one another, taking inventory of body parts and making sure their party still consisted of four living persons. The two guys in front of them looked back with expressions of envy and incredulity. Thankfully for me, there were no children in the vicinity that would have forced me to give up the only foul ball I had ever "caught". (In fact, the only other time I had even gotten a finger on a foul ball came last season at a weekday afternoon game. Nick Nave, Ryan Thye, Dan Swanson and I had all utilized the aforementioned RTSSU and were sitting along the third base side. Angel Berroa ripped an absolute bullet right in our direction. Nick ducked (with good reason), but I leaned over him and put my hands together like a wide receiver trying to catch a pass. The ball ripped right through my fingers and landed several rows behind us and ended up in someone else's clutches. My finger tip was numb for the better part of the next 24 hours.)

As I spun the ball in my hand, a horrible realization struck me: they always send ushers to make sure foul ball catchers aren't injured. I'm going to get booted from this great seat just moments after recording the most memorable personal moment I had ever experienced at the ballpark. And just as I was thinking this, who saunters up behind me but a young lady wearing the uniform of an usher.

"Are you okay, sir?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Thanks."

She smiled and apparently went back to the secret "Usher's Lounge" where they had all been hiding during this game. "Whew," I thought. "My perfect afternoon will continue unspoiled. Except, of course, for when the Royals find some heart-wrenching way to blow this game."
Then I turn around to see some guy who appears to be the "Head Usher" behind me. He asks if I'm alright and I again reply that I am. He then goes on to say that if I need an icepack or anything else I should just go see him. I thanked him and he, too, returned to the "Usher's Lounge".

Denny Bautista alternated dominating innings with shaky innings and the Royals batters actually scored some runs, leaving the score tied 5-5 with two out in the bottom of the ninth. And who should come up? None other than the man from whose bat I received my new treasure, Alberto Castillo. Unfortunately, I wasn't thrilled to see him at this point. For some idiotic reason, Manager Tony Pena refused to call on John Buck to pinch hit, even though his power was exactly what was needed in this situation.

But wait. That just sounded like a solid crack of the bat. And the ball is sailing toward the left field bullpen. Woo hoo! The guy who provided me with a story that I can tell for the rest of my life just delivered a walk-off, game-winning homerun!

And I had salvaged two memorable moments from an already foul season.