Essay: Foul Balls: For the Kids

I tend not to worry about the fate of the United States of America. Through two bungled wars in the Middle East, Hurricane Katrina, a mortgage and financial crisis, the debt ceiling fiasco, the most partisan of partisan politics, and today’s threats of another recession, I’ve never doubted the American spirit. When faced with adversity, America endures. I’ve always believed that.

Until yesterday, when I watched video of two grown men tussle for a foul ball that landed in a trash bin at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg. There was nothing exceptional about those two Americans, and their despicable actions forced me to ask a most difficult question: Where did America go wrong?

After much deep introspection, I know that America hasn’t gone wrong. It might be on the brink, but I still have hope for you, our southern neighbors. Because those two clowns at The Trop don’t represent America. Not the one I know, and have experienced. I still believe in America.

The foul ball episode in Florida reminded me of one I had at the ballpark about a week and a half ago. I was at the Rogers Centre SkyDome with two of my mates, the Texas Rangers in town, on a brilliant summer evening. We were seated in section 116, first base side, row 37, only three rows from the section’s entrance. The game began, and immediately we knew: We were in foul ball territory. A couple of screamers landed to our right, and our left, and I told the boys to stay alert. I had a feeling we’d get a turn, that there’d be action.

Full disclosure: I’ve been to hundreds of baseball games in my life, and to a ridiculous amount over the last three years, and have yet to come away with a baseball, foul or fair. I did take a foul ball off my right hand two summers ago, my index finger left black and bruised. It happened in Toronto, with the Baltimore Orioles in town, and batting at the time. It was karma; I talk an inordinate amount of shit about the Orioles. My point is: I’m due.

It was the home half of the 5th inning when right-handed batter and Blue Jay Aaron Hill stepped up to the plate. He fouled off a pitch, sending the ball soaring through the air. We — my friends Ryan and Winson, and me — stood up. It was headed right for us. It was our time. Section 116 was hardly full that night, and the three of us were seated together, but with ample buffer space. Ryan was in row 37, I was behind him in row 38, to his left, and Winson was three seats to my and Ryan’s right, also in row 38. With our buffer space, we’d essentially formed a triangle.

The three of us were an outfield, and the ball was headed towards right-center. I stood up, thought back to my cricket playing days — cradle the ball! — and readied my hands. As the baseball neared, I could see from the corner of my eye that Ryan was ready, too, and that he had a better angle on the ball. I thought about reaching up with my right hand, but I knew I would only get in Ryan’s way. At that particular moment in time, Ryan was the center fielder, the general, and that baseball was his. He didn’t call for it, not that I recall, anyway, but I backed off. And Ryan made the catch.

“You got it?!” I asked, as the few people around us began to cheer the catch. Before Ryan could answer me, and before he could even toss me the ball, a fellow wearing a Kelly Gruber jersey three or four rows in front of us yelled, “Give it to the kid!” A young boy with a baseball glove had tracked the foul ball into our row, and was standing just a few feet to Ryan’s right, hoping he might be able to make the grab. Ryan didn’t hesitate, not for one second. He tossed the ball to the kid, who, with a big smile on his face, said, “Really?” His night was made. What can I say, Ryan’s a gentleman; a Canadian. It was the first foul ball he’d ever caught, and he gave it up.

Ryan knew the rule. And a rule’s a rule. If you catch a foul ball in the vicinity of a young person, it’s your civic duty to give him or her the ball.

Immediately, three young boys, who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old, were standing to my left.

“Hey Mister,” one of them, their leader, I presume, spoke up. “Can I please have the next one?”

I smiled. I didn’t have the heart to tell him there would likely be no next one. Not that night, at least. I mean, he even said “please.” I couldn’t do it.

“Of course you can,” I said.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise, little man. It’s yours if I catch it.”

The kid’s face lit up. He turned to his two friends and said, “That guy promised me he’ll give me the next ball they catch!”

The three of them sat down a few seats to my left, near the end of the row, waving Blue Jays flags, and patiently waited. I wanted nothing more than to catch a ball for them, but, two in one night, for our outfield? It was highly unlikely. In the end, their baseball never came, and they left after the 8th inning.

Maybe next time.

Image credit: The White House.