One of the many disadvantages of getting older is that if you should be at a baseball game, and a ball should come your way, and you should happen to catch it, it's your responsibility to give it to the nearest person eight-years-old or younger, because, c'mon, you're an adult, and the kid brought his glove, and he/she'd be so excited to get a ball, even though you know from having parented a pair of children yourself that the ball will end up lost or under a bed or on the floor so you can trip on it in the dark, while you yourself have waited your whole sports-watching career to catch a ball yourself and have no interested in giving it up to some kid who doesn't even understand the importance of moving a runner from second to third with less than two out, and really just came to the game because he knew his parents would buy him cotton candy AND ice cream.
So, when you watch batting practice, you should find a spot with a lot of empty seats around you. This provides two advantages: One, no little kids will look at you with their pouty eyes when you snare a ball; and two, there's more area that you control, and therefore you have a better chance of catching a ball.
Daniel Murphy hit my ball into the right field seats where I'd found such a spot. It hit the cement stairs 15 feet away from me, bounced up into the steel rafters 20 feet above and 10 feet over from me, rebounded right back at me where I got a hand on it but couldn't make the catch, then rolled under my feet where I picked it up. I glanced around -- nearest kid was 8 rows away -- and determined that the ball was mine to keep.
When I told Emma that I'd gotten a ball, she said, "I want to get a ball!" Too bad for her. Maybe next time.
No comments:
Post a Comment