Got The Boy a Big League Foul Ball

Little strikes me as more absurd than a grown man taking his baseball glove to a Major League Baseball game in hopes of catching a foul ball hit into the stands.

Nothing strike me as more ridiculous than a group of men wrestling for a foul ball hit into the seats at a big league game.

I've really thought it through. And, I realize, most men reading this are thinking, "Hey, asshole...I take my mitt to the game all the time! I'd kill to get a foul ball at a Giants game when I'm in San Francisco!" It's fine with me if grown men are interested in trying to catch a foul ball, but I think the notion's absurd. I don't care if 12 dudes from four different sections dive over rows of seats to fight over a ball -- as long as they don't dive on me or anyone else who might be injured in their childish rush to get a game-used big league ball.

The ball only costs $7, maybe $10. I can buy a brand new one and not have to look foolish to get it. What makes the game-used ball special? Well, umpires rub them down with a special mud concoction that makes them easier to grip. And, of course, they've been touched by the pitcher and the bat that the batter used to hit the foul ball. So, I can't see myself coming out of a scrum in section 106, row 4 feeling good because I got a ball that Bobby Howry touched right before Johnny Gomes hit it my way...

Wait, that's not true. In most cases I wouldn't go out of my way to get a ball that a journeyman pitcher like Howry touched before a former Petaluma High School star like Gomes blooped it into the seats. Today, at AT&T Park in San Francisco, I went a bit out of my and grabbed a ball that those two big leaguers had been warring with.

Is it techinically going out of my way to turn halfway around, see the ball bounce on the ground behind me and then grab at it? I didn't leave my seat. I didn't turn the full 180 degrees needed to really make a full effort for the ball. My lone thought was, "It's right there and Kellen always wants a foul ball..."

I grabbed a big league foul ball -- my first one ever -- and handed it to my 13-year-old son.

Hooray for me! Huh?

We got free tickets from my son Trent's co-worker. I really only go to big league games when somebody gives me tickets. I love the game and love those Giants, but I won't pay $78 for two tickets to get close enough to enjoy the game. Sitting the press box off and on for years spoiled me. I root for the Giants, but I don't cheer out loud. So, if I'm in cheaper seat far from the field, it's really no fun for me.

Let me stop, briefly, to thank my older sons who have friends who have access to amazingly good seats that sometimes come my way free of charge. Kellen and Tyren have sat in the dugout seats -- the seats at ground level that you can see on TV every time they show the batter from the center field camera. All four kids went and took turns sharing those premium freebies and two seats in the lower box seats right behind home plate. Trent's co-worker gave him two tickets today that put Kellen and I just past the Reds' dugout, four rows from the field.

My primary concern about foul balls is getting out of the way of those line drives that get laced into the seats. Trent's mom Amy got hit with a ball fouled straight back at Candlestick Park once. It thumped her thigh and shoulder before she could flinch -- and before I could fight my natural reaction to duck. A guy in front of her grabbed it and celebrated. She got a bruise. Those high, high, sky-high pops are of no interest either. At best, it's going to sting like hell if you catch one.

I won't fight for a foul ball.

Today, around the sixth inning, Howry threw a pitch that Gomes popped in our direction. I've spent a lifetime figuring out if a foul ball's coming at me or whether I'm safe. As the ball started curl back toward the field, as all pop fouls do, Kellen said, "Heads up," and leaned away and said, "Hey! Heads up!" That was him telling to me try to get the ball without saying, "C'mon dad! Don't be a candyass! Stand up and catch it!"

I didn't move. The ball came down on a woman in the row behind me. She was flanked by two grown men who sat there, apparently, and let her duck forward and take the foul ball in the square of the back. I didn't see it because I didn't turn around. Kellen's second, "Hey, heads up," did spur me half-turn and...the ball was coming to a rest right behind my seat.

It took no effort...none...to reach back with my left hand and grab the ball. It was so simple that I grabbed with my thumb and two fingers...not with a full, five-finger, I-gotta-have-this-ball death grip. Before I could move the ball, some horse's ass from 10, 12 rows behind me came sprinting down the stairs and leaped at the ball.

A full grown man who, I figure, was about 6-foot, 210 pounds was so damned determined to get that foul ball that he dove onto the cement and got both hands on the ball...on top of my hand. My first thought was, "Screw it, asshole! Take the ball!" I imagined a brief tussle that would be shown in replays on television. Yeek!

Then, I realized I actually only had the ball in a thumb and index finger grip. It was then that I heard Kellen say, "Get it!" And, it was then that I had one of my rare bursts of intentional machismo. I was going to fight over the ball...as much as I could with my weaker arm and a tiny, little grip.

Until I heard Kellen say, "Get it," I didn't believe the stories of super-human strength that some folks show when they're helping their family. I didn't exactly have to lift a Volkswagon off of Kellen, but I did need to pull the baseball away from a guy who had a better grip and a whole lot more gotta-have-it than I did. The dumb shit just kept pulling at the ball that I had pinned to the cement.

I was at the point where I was going to look at the guy, tell him he could buy one for $10 and then say, "Take it...maybe Bobby Howry can autograph it for you." But...I got my middle finger (which I wanted later to use in a much different way in regard to my foe) on the ball. I realized, "Hey, this jackass is giving it everything he's got and I'm pulling the ball from him!" I never win battles of strength and even less frequently win battles of will. One tug, with a twist that came to mind late, and I had the ball.

I handed it to Kellen and started watching the game. He was excited. It must be cool to see your old man do something so macho and dad-like. He almost never gets the chance. Then, the two season-ticket holders who treated our section like their living room looked at Kellen and said, "Give her the ball. It hit that lady behind you."

He looked at me. I looked at him. Clearly, the season-ticket holders know baseball etiquette requires every foul ball be given to the little kid. And, clearly, they looked at my 6-foot, 145-pound 13-year-old with slight sideburns and in need of a little shave and thought a 17-year-old was stiffing the old lady who took the blow.

"I'd keep it. You're only a kid," I said. "It's up to you."

Left to his own sense of fair play and common courtesy, he turned and offered the ball to the woman. She politely declined and ... happy ending all around. The season ticket holders, and all who saw his gesture, lauded him for doing the right thing. (After his father essentially said, "Screw 'em! Keep it!")

So, that's how I got the foul ball I figured I'd never get at a big league ball park.
I'm pleased with my effort because Kellen's got dreams, you know? So, he held that damned ball and stared at it off and on until the final out. He called everybody in the immediately family to tell them about the event. He showed it to me and said, "Feel how flat the seams are...it seems so tightly wound...must be hard to make it curve..." Then, he finally got ahold of his little sister to tell her the tale.

"I got a foul ball at the Giants game," he said.

"YOU got the foul ball?"

I nearly missed the I-80 exit onto the Bay Bridge.

"YOU got the ball? Tell her how you got it!!!"

I felt a rush of testosterone.

Self-Loathing On the Jogging Trail

When I was a runner, in my 20s and 30s, I mocked the overweight dude out slogging along at a snail's pace. Dude'd be sweating through his gray t-shirt and the white sweat band he wore around his bid, old head. More often than not, he was carrying a cassette tape player or a walkman CD machine because, God knew, there was no way he'd make it a mile or two without music to drastic him from the discomfort.

At that point, I was running five miles in a hair over 30 minutes. Living in my hometown of Eureka, I'd go out of my way most days to find more, steeper hills to run. On days when nothing felt right, and there were many, running hard and fast and for five or six miles saved me. I felt alive. I felt good about myself, which was and is rare, every step of the way.

Now? I'm that overweight dude shuffling along with an iPod playing tunes to keep my mind off how it difficult every step has become. Worse...I'm an old, overweight dude. Way worse...I'm suffering shin splints -- or some other malady that stems from asking my legs to carry more weight, too far and too fast. And...shit...I'm barely even jogging two miles.

There's a truly serious runner working in my office. He's about my age, but he's never allowed himself to balloon to 30 pounds over his ... er, 40 pounds over his prime running weight. (Actually, I've gained 90 pounds since I first ran six hard miles a day at the height of my battle with panic attacks in my early 20s.) The guy runs half-marathons and he trains with a team that has a coach and, heck, I remember when my pals and I laughed because the only real athletes on our high school cross country team were David Wells, Mike Whitehead and Rick Hrdina. Beyond those three studs, it was a bunch of guys who could run and couldn't play ball.

"What's wrong with being that guy?"

Figures that the runner I work with would have sympathy for the devil I think is the overweight, old, lard ass I've become.

"You're out there...you're doing it..."

That's exactly what I used to hear people say about the fattest, slowest, dopiest looking runners in my running heyday. "Oh, be nice...at least he's out there running!" (I'd point out that it's not running if you're barely moving.)

What's wrong with being that guy?

I'm an athlete. I play ball. The guy who bats cleanup and leads the team in home runs doesn't wear a white headband. The guy who goes in the game to defend the leading scorer on the other basketball team wouldn't have a pot belly. I'm the guy who goes out to play flag football, once every couple years, and absolutely tears it up at quarterback...so, everything's wrong with me being that guy because...I'm not that guy...I'm those guys I just described.

Damn!

I jogged again tonight, doing just about everything the runner told me to avoid as I get back in shape. I didn't start with a speed walk. I jogged 1.5 miles and stopped only to walk one little upward slope just before my shin splits began to ache. Then, I shuffled all the way home...2.3 miles...listening to my iPod and wishing that "Lunatic Fringe" could inspire me to acknowledge who I've actually become and, thus, move me to be who I've always felt I was.

See, now...I'm a walking, talking A-1 heart attack waiting to happen. It's not a matter of if I'm going to have one -- everybody in my family had one or more. It's simply a matter of when I'm going to have a heart attack. I've known it for years and, thus, ran all those miles simply to add a few minutes or a few days or a few weeks to my life. I was running five, six miles and...I thought...running away from the heart problem I knew was right behind me.

My risk factors for a heart attack probably couldn't be higher. I'm genetically predisposed. And, thanks to getting away from fitness, my blood pressure has risen to Stage One hypertension. (No...it doesn't stop me from jogging when others would walk.) I'm overweight and my cholesterol levels are high. Actually, my overall cholesterol level is OK...my bad cholesterol level is high.

Dammit, I'm not that guy. I'm not that guy who goes for a walk and hopes that, maybe, in a couple months he can jog a little. I'm not that guy who's afraid to run because it elevates his heart rate. I'm smart enough to know that I'm not running so hard that I can't control my breathing. Remember the famous running doctor? Dr. Jim Fixx? He was an early proponent of distance running for health, then died at the start of a short run of a heart attack. It turned out he ignored pains in places that indicate a heart problem. To date, I've had no such pain ... and I'm not that guy who walks and checks his pulse all the while because he's fuckin' afraid of dropping on the jogging path.

I got in shape once, when I really was an athlete, outrunning depression and panic attacks. Maybe I can do it again, even though I'm not an athlete at all, because I'm not going to give up and just sit around eating cookies until the heart attack hits. Only a candy-ass in a gray sweatshirt, with a walkman, black tennis shoes and a really, really, really red face who takes walks for fitness would do that.

I'm not that guy.