The Foul Ball

In sports there are a handful of things you rarely get a crack at: breaking 80, bowling a 200 or better, hitting a game-winning three pointer at the buzzer, taking an interception to the house for the game-winning touchdown in your Thanksgiving day flag football game, and catching a major league foul ball.

Last night I had the opportunity to cross one of those off the list, but instead I'm reminiscing and wondering what could've been.

It was the 5th inning, I think. I can't really remember any specifics about the inning or what eventually came of Vladimir Guerrero's at-bat. What I do remember is immediately standing up, instinctively reaching sideways in anticipation and coming up mere centimeters short. To tell you the truth it was all one big blur.

Sports thrive on adrenaline. Whether you're playing a pick-up game at 24 Hour Fitness or NBA Live from your couch, once a challenge is presented the blood starts pumping and your adrenaline takes over. Boxing is the best example of a sport that thrives on adrenaline. They oftentimes say boxers have a hard time remembering anything about their fight once the match is over. Things we as sports fan can recollect and repeat with astounding accuracy; what happened in each round, how many punches each boxer landed, how many punches each one took, what punch was the final blow, how many times each boxer got hit in the groin, how many cheap shots were taken. For them however, they're like Tara Reid trying to remember a night in Acapulco, they can remember a few things but for the most part the specifics are forgotten.

Adrenaline does that to you. It filters out the less than memorable, irrelevant and embarrassing moments while leaving a skeleton of the entire event. And that's exactly what happened once the foul ball landed in section 423, seat 15.

Let me start off by saying that in ANY other circumstance I'm sitting in that seat. (As partial season ticket holders my family gets four tickets at about 20 Angels home games. Some are duds, some are blowouts, some are disappointments, but for the most part we're always able to catch quality games. Sitting in the first section of the upper tier of the ball park about five rows up five strides up the first base line, we get very few cracks at balls leaving the field of play. Conversely we have a Birdseye view of foul balls landing amongst the crowd with rare opportunities to make plays of our own sprinkled in.) If my whole family goes, I'm sitting in that seat. If just my girlfriend and I go, I'm sitting in that seat. If my girlfriend, my mom, my sister and I go, I'm sitting in that seat. If my girlfriend, my cousin, my uncle and I go, as was the case yesterday, I'm sitting in seat 14.

Looking back on what happened it's quite intriguing because it all started due to something I condemned in this article about proper fan etiquette at ballgames. My girlfriend was coming down the steps and as the pitcher went into his windup we all stood for her return - a HUGE no-no by all accounts. Then it happened.

Guerrero ripped one foul which was practically on dead aim for our row. Since we were already standing for my girlfriend we had a crucial and decisive head start on the competition. We were Chad Ochocinco and the rest of our section was Rags to Riches. As the ball majestically floated into our section I went through four stages of anticipation. First, I slowly realized the ball had enough juice to make it into our section (we've seen tons of foul balls come our way only to fall short, so for a ball to have enough juice to reach us is quite an accomplishment). Then, I realized it was heading right to us (and by "right to us" I don't mean "two rows down causing us to lose our balance as we reach out for it and end up crowd surfing amongst unsuspecting fans with our shorts halfway down our butt"). Then, I'm pretty sure an unusual, awkward and downright scary look manifested on my face as I reached sideways for the ball (a la the face Mike Dunleavy made after Zach Randolph launched a 25-footer with seconds left in a game against the Cavaliers earlier this season). Then, just as my heart started beating heavily and my adrenaline started flowing I consciously realized my cousin was going to grab it so I begrudgingly pulled my hand back. Immediately I was looking for the ricochet, but there was no ricochet. The ball had landed dead center in the palm of his gloveless hand. I, on the other hand, was left empty-handed.

It took a good half-inning for my adrenaline to give way, but once it did I was searching for answers, one in particular: Why did I pull my hand back at the last possible second?

Only after the fact did I realize the rarity of the moment. A moment I will rarely, if ever, get another crack at. I don't recall what Vlad did in the at-bat. I don't remember if the Angels scored or not in the inning. I can't remember how many "Good catch!" and "Can we see the ball?" exclamations we heard following the catch. All I remember is this little inkling telling me not to jeopardize the possibility of my cousin catching the foul ball in hopes of us celebrating the catch together.

But as he rose the ball in triumph I couldn't help but think, "that should've been me."