I saw the ball come off the bat. I always do. Baseball allows me to focus. Words blur when I read. Screens get fuzzy when I watch TV. But I can see a baseball. It's like I live in a basic cable world and for a brief instant I can see in brilliant HD. Everything is perfectly defined. The crispness of the home white jerseys. The vivid green of the outfield grass. I can follow the ball from the pitcher's hand to the catcher's glove -- seeing the twists and turns of the optical illusion that is a curveball as it travels the sixty feet six inches to home plate -- and I can see, with amazing clarity, when the ball comes off the bat. And now that ball was heading straight for me, my wife, and my two daughters.
We had just gotten to our seats — third base side, third row from the field — when the game started. Great seats. Dream seats. Even better — they were free. As we approached the stadium a guy walked up and asked me if I needed tickets. I asked how much and he said, "Don't worry about it. They're extras." I reached for my wallet and he simply shook his head, started to walk off, waved, and said, "Enjoy the game." I love minor league baseball. Only at a minor league game could you walk up to the stadium five minutes before the first pitch and moments later find yourself three rows up from the field, parallel with the home team's third baseman, for free. So close you can smell the grass. The pine tar. The tobacco. So close you can convince yourself that maybe the manager will, in a moment of desperation, look into the stands, see you in your tattered Cincinnati Reds hat, and say, "Hey you, four eyes, can you pitch?" You'll look around, making sure the old codger is actually talking to you and then nod your head. "Well dammit, grab a glove and start warming up!" The speakers will blast the opening guitar riff to John Fogerty's "Centerfield" and you'll step on to the field — Moonlight Graham style — and everything will change forever.
The pretty, brown-haired girl with dimples and I have the same reaction to seats that good: "We might get a foul ball!" However, there is one big difference in that exclamation. My reaction is said with absolute glee, hers with absolute terror. She doesn't smell the grass and think about getting the chance to put a uniform on. No, she sees danger. She sees pain. She sees bloody noses and fractured skulls and a plethora of other ghastly injuries that all end with us in an ambulance. We knew a girl who got hit by a foul ball once. Sure, she had to be taken to the hospital and there were serious concerns about concussions and lifelong effects from the direct hit to the ol' noggin', BUT, she also got to go into the clubhouse, meet the team, and get a bat signed. Totally worth it right? My wife doesn't think so. From the moment we reach our row I can tell she's ready to leave. "It will be fine," I assure her — trying to hide my smile as I look out on the field and imagine myself in a Silver Hawks jersey. "Keep your eye on the ball," she orders me, sounding like one of my little league coaches. That's the secret wonderful part about great seats three rows from the field — it is my job as protector of the family to intensely watch every pitch. It's not that I want to, you see, it's that I have to. As a good father. As a caring husband. I would love to help take care of the kids and stop Rilla from eating somebody else's nachos and bounce Lucy so she doesn't cry — but I can't. I have to watch the game. For the safety of my family. Because I love them.
There was a bee one section to our right that had entire rows of adults and children up in arms. There were already teenage kids in bright red t-shirts walking up and down the concrete stairs hawking cotton candy and raffle tickets. A guy four feet to my left was seeing how fast he could guzzle his $2 Bud Light as his date looked on in a mix of astonishment and shame. But I was focused on the game. Three pitches in and CRACK, Josh Felhauer hit a routine groundball to third base. I smiled. There is nothing like the sound of the ball hitting the bat. CRACK! Like a superhero fighting crime on the dirty streets of some make-believe comic book city. CRACK! POW! BANG! Wow. These really were great seats. The next batter lined a clean single to left and made it to second on a well-timed hit-and-run grounder to the second baseman. Two outs. Runner in scoring position. The big lefty third baseman, Carlos Mendez, number 5 in your program, stepped in to the box. He planted his left foot in the back corner and then raked the dirt with his right -- like a bull ready to make a run at the swirling red cape. He tapped his bat on the plate and then swung it. Loosely. Once. Twice. Three times. Finishing each swing with the head pointing straight to dead center field. Getting himself ready. Sizing up the pitcher. 99% of the people in Coveleski Stadium weren't paying attention. But I was. I was riveted.
And now the pitcher holds the ball and now he lets it go and now the air is shattered by the force of Mendez's blow.
Rodriguez took his time getting the ball to the plate. He stood on the rubber for what felt like an eternity, staring down the runner at second — daring him to take one more step away from the base, before unfurling his body and sending the leather covered spheroid home. It was a fastball on the outside corner that Mendez was just able to foul off. A defensive swing more than anything else. Where you were guessing breaking ball and by the time you register it was a fastball your only hope is to make it to the next pitch. Mendez flailed at it and then, then everything slowed down. This was the moment. Time to shine. Time to save the family. Time to be the hero. There would be front-page headlines. "Father Saves Family." There would be appearances on Oprah. Or Letterman. There would be clothing lines. Book deals. Lucrative speaking engagements. Maybe I'd get my own TLC show.
The ball hurtled towards us — faster than a speeding bullet and I . . . I . . . I ducked behind my wife.
I didn't mean to. It was instinct. My mind said, "Save your family!" My body said, "Aaauuuggghhhh!"
The ball hit a kid in the stomach two rows in front of us. Don't worry. They grow their children large up here. He was facing home plate but his head was turned 45 degrees, ignoring the action on the field, no doubt dreaming about cotton candy, when he was hit. It sounded like a bowling ball being dropped into a vat of pudding and for a second, I wondered if the ball would come back out. I grimaced, convinced that the kid had just booked a one-way trip to a lacerated spleen surgery. He paused for a second, looked down, and then went back to eating his hot dog. "Whooo, that was close," I said with a whistle — not sure if my wife knew my cowardly response to the foul ball. I tried to play it off. "I wish that ball had made it up here. Man! So close. How awesome is that? Yeah, I knew right away that it wasn't going to make it up here. I traced the trajectory instantly. It's a skill. A blessing really. Alright Mendez! Straighten it out. You can do it. You see, that's why I leaned behind you to pick up that quarter. Because I knew we were safe. All of us. I had assessed the situation and made a judgment call and…"
"We're moving," she said.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout. But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Rob has chickened out.
