By Bill Ribas
This week, the wife and kids are far south on vacation, and the world is my oyster, that is, as much of an oyster that Rochester can offer. A scan of Freetime showed a Monday Red Wings game with a 12:05 start. I checked my wide open calendar, weighed my options, and at roughly 11:45 was barreling down 490 West en route to Frontier Field. I realized the temperatures were predicted to swell into the 90’s, something that hasn’t happened all summer. I also realized I’d be sitting in the sun for several hours, stewing in my own juices, but seeing a game on my own sans kids (and by that I mean cheaper and snack free) was too good to pass up, and there I was at the ticket booth, shelling out $10.50 for a premium box seat.
What I also realized, as I sat down, is that a balding head and a blazing sun is a combination that cries out for a hat, and in my case, that hat was sitting comfortably in my heavily air conditioned home, resting on a hook. Off to the Red Wings store I went, hoping for something to cover my head that cost less than 10 bucks. That hope went the way of my lottery winning dreams, as I plunked down $16.99 for a cap with a logo.
Not bad so far, just under $30 bucks to get into the game and attired. Yet in my hurry to get to the game, I had also skipped lunch, and on the way back to my seat, stopped by the concession stand for a hot dog and a large coke. I want to say the combination was $8.25, but I can’t remember, so now we’re at $40 bucks rounded up, I’m in my seat, missed half an inning and a run by Syracuse, but I can see the game, and life is good. The dog disappears, the Coke is inhaled, and the only problem now is the slight stench of cheap perfume wafting through the air around me.
I am five rows up from the field to the left of the dugout on the third base side. I realize I have a decent chance to get a foul ball, but, again, like my lottery winnings, this is a dream that has eluded me for over 40 years. I have been to countless games, I have shifted seats during games to get a better chance at a ball, I have cajoled pitchers in the bullpen at Silver Stadium from the cheap seats, but never, never, grabbed a foul ball.
And then it happens. With a Red Wing lefty at the plate, a swing produces a ball that rises over the third base side. As I look up, I sense there is potential, but it looks like the ball is headed several rows over and back. As it comes down, it misses chairs and people, bounces up and over to the top of the dugout, and then corkscrews over sideways, where my bloated body has now jumped out of its seat, and in a surreal moment, the ball meets my hand.
As I look down at the leather wrapped rock, time stops, and I have a light-headed feeling. This moment that I have hoped for, waited for so long to happen, is now here, and the feeling is of incredulity. I turn around to a scattering of applause, a man clapping his hands inverted like walrus flippers, and off to the side, a mom with kids in tow pleads with me for the ball. The altruistic side of me wants to give it away, but the rest of me (and that’s a larger percentage), cups the ball and then shoves it into my pocket like it’s a turkey club and I’m on Survivor.
Later in the game, as I’m coming back with my second gallon of Coke, I hear my name called out, and Steve Tortora, an old friend and one of Rochester’s finest, congratulates me on the catch, laughing that he was hollering at me to give the ball to a kid. But he saw the catch, and I have a witness. So not only has my great moment occurred, I have proof, proof in the form of a friend who’s also a police officer.
Rochester tanks in the top of the 9th, blowing a 5-4 lead, giving up two touchdowns as Syracuse powers its way to a 16-5 laugher. As people leave the stands, I stay put, greedy for one more chance at a ball (though there is a pro in the front row who has snagged 3 today, and says he’s up to 60 for the year), and also amazed at 12 runs being put up. This game never lets me down in seeing something new, and today has reinforced that point. Though the temperture has soared to 96 according to the right field thermometer, and I have yet to encounter some beer gorged fans in the sweltering elevator at the parking garage, I realize (aside from realizing I used the word “realize” way too much today) I have made the right choice coming to the ballpark.
The cost for the day with parking and food and a hat was probably just shy of $60, but I have my ball. On the way home I don’t mind the erratic drivers or the increasing heat, I just need to get home and place this ball in a safe spot. With my dream attained, I can now set my sights on the next souvenir from a pro sport. And that’s where the PBA Tour comes in.
Ah, the quest for the foul ball – even Odysseus might have found this a challenge.
Many a summer night I spent BEHIND the back stop at Silver. Watching as foul balls slapped into the mesh and then descended to the field where the bat boy retrieved the pearl.
I grew to enjoy the panoramic view from the general admission seats. So when Kel and I started taking the girls to games, we chose the last row in section L23 (after they closed Silver, I went back to retrieve the placard. It hangs in our garage). We pushed the stroller up the ramp and parked the double-seater behind our bench on the third-base side. Didn’t have to fight people for the last row in the stadium. Somehow, the seat selection increased the value of catching a foul ball. The ball would have to take a unique flight to make it to our seats.
I took home two balls (that I remember) from Silver. One, I tripped on and almost did a face plant into the cinders of the parking lot. It was dark after the game, and the ball must have been overlooked. I took it home, but experienced no satisafaction. Obviously, it was a foul ball, but I couldn’t connect the ball to an actual play.
On another occasion, I was going to the souvenir stand during the game, and a ball bounded into the concourse landing at my feet. Again, I had a ball, but I didn’t see it hit.
In an ironic moment, my mother-in-law took us to a game. She wanted to sit closer. Wouldn’t you know it? A foul ball slapped right off our seats. A kid from a few rows away scooped it up. Only Kel understood. We got a good laugh out of it.
I attended the final game played at Silver – a Governor’s Cup game. I think it was the fifth inning when Columbus’s Matt Luke fouled a ball off. Given that the game took place at night during September, it was dark. I saw the ball leave the bat and start in our direction, but lost it when it got under the roof. I was standing at that point with my hands extended. I saw the ball at the last instant. It hit the heel of my hand, bounced off my seat and to the guy sitting at the end of the row.
Foul balls? Yeah, they are valuable.
I once sat in the upper deck at Wrigley, down the first base line almost to the foul pole depth. Thought I would have no chance, but lo and behold Sosa strokes one that is headed right for us. I was in the front row and had I been willing to risk toppling to the lower deck I may have been able to lean over far enough to snare that foul ball. Closest I ever came, though many of you have heard before that I was in the section next to the one where Maris’ 61st landed.
When I was in San Francisco, I got to see the Giants and the Red Sox duke it out. My brother and I got there early for batting practice. I watched as people caught ball after ball. Then Nomah hit one to left center – right towards me, I took a couple of steps, reached up, caught it and took a tumble. Great catch, but less then graceful finish. I am sure the guys on the field got a laugh. As I was dusting myself off, someone yelled, “Give it to a kid”, to which my brother responded, ” he is a kid”.. Good times. It was my first ball ever and the only thing that tempered my joy was the fact that it was “practice”.. Still I have it.
Casey, I remember those seats in Silver Stadium fondly.
But then there was the time at the old Yankee Stadium, where I had to make the choice between my camera and a foul ball. It is why I don’t like to bring a camera to games anymore.
Caught a homerun ball hit by KC’s Al Cowens to left center field in the old Comiskey Park. We were in about the 3rd row, and I grabbed my brother’s mitt to catch it. Al hit it RIGHT TO ME!! Couldn’t have been planned any better.
Great post, Smitty!
On my first trip to Fenway (1987-88ish), long before I lived in Boston, I snagged a home run ball during batting practice. Geno Petralli of Texas hit it, and I got Pete Incaviglia to sign it. The ball actually hit a couple rows behind me, and about 25 feet to my left, but caromed right to me.
On another occasion, I was at the old Cleveland Stadium, sitting in really great seats, just a few rows from the field between home plate and the third base dugout. A foul ball was hit way over my head, but I heard it hit the facade that ran along the top of the stadium. It took me a second or so to realize I should turn around to see if it bounces back, and wouldn’t you know it, it glances off my arm into someone else’s hand. My friend, sitting next me, reacted quicker than I did and actually could have caught it if he was holding his camera.
I’ve captured at least a dozen batting practice or other player throw in balls over the course of many years attending MLB games. Most memorable event came in about 1988 at Wrigley field in the right field bleachers. Arrived early with Molly and 4 friends. They all went to get some beers and dogs while I saved the seats. Then they returned 15 mins later, I had garbled up 2 BP homeruns.
To this day, though, the only ball I’ve caught during the actual game was the one by Al Cowens above. At Comiskey a couple years ago, Jason Varitek tossed a ball to my daughter while coming into the dugout after an inning. Little daughters are magnets for that type of thing 🙂
Sorry … great post, Bill! (I incorrectly gave credit to Smitty).
Looking to catch your next ball on the PBA tour, eh? Maybe you could practice at Clover Lanes during beginners’ league night . . .
Take the skin heads bowling.
Take them bowling.