The One that Got Away
This is a story about a boy who loves baseball and idolizes his father. It's also a story about a father who idolizes baseball and loves his son.
On a warm June morning in the early to mid 1980s, this particular boy was awoken by his father very early. It was to be a very busy day. First, a two hour drive from their home in Richmond, VA, up to the nation's capital, Washington, D.C. They were going to see a baseball game; but not just any game - the annual Old Timers' Classic game.
The ride from their home to RFK Stadium was fairly ordinary, but in the mind of an eager young baseball fan, excited to be going on a road trip with his dad, fairly ordinary was perfectly exciting. Upon entering the stadium, the boy's senses were in high alert. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn, the sound of the crowds and the Cracker Jack vendors, the taste of the "small" Coca-cola that the boy gripped with all his might for fear of spilling even the smallest drop; were just subtle reminders that the day was no ordinary day.
Prior to the onset of the game, the players' names were announced for the fans to enjoy and reminisce. At the time, the boy didn't recognize the names of Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, Hank Aaron, and Brooks Robinson; but he knew they must be pretty significant players if those thousands of excited spectators drove all that way to get a glimpse.
To warm up, some of the players began hitting balls over the fences to the fans beyond the outfield wall. After watching a few series of this unusual batting practice, the boy saw one high flying ball heading his way. Excited and a bit nervous, the boy just sat frozen watching the ball inch closer and closer. Just in the nick of time, a strong hand pulled the ball down from the boy's line of fire. From out of the eclipse of the hand, the boy noticed his dad's smiling face. His dad had caught the ball! Anxious to get a closer look, the boy pleaded with his father to let him hold onto it during the game. With a slight resistance in his voice, and a growing bruise in his catching hand, the father ultimately agreed.
Within minutes, triumph turned to tragedy. While observing, spinning, and lightly tossing the ball from hand to hand, the boy accidentally released the ball from his sweaty palms to the ground below. After just one lone bounce, the boy noticed another hand, an unfamiliar hand, grab the ball and pick it up. A stranger. A stranger no more than one row in front of the boy and his father.
The father asked the stranger for the ball back, explaining that his son had inadvertently dropped it while admiring the new treasure. The stranger, a cold and evil man, refused, saying something along the familiar lines of, "Finders keepers, losers weepers". And weeping doesn't begin to describe the next few hours. The boy, confused and angry at the stranger before him, began to cry desperately. In fact, and without exaggeration, the boy cried for the entire nine innings of the game. Everyone in the crowd around the boy and his father sympathized, except the evil stranger, who refused to even glance back their way after denying the boy the rights to his lost ball.
For the next twenty or so years, the boy continued to visit both major and minor league baseball stadiums, hoping for one more chance to catch "the ball that got away", to no avail. One time, he got close, getting his hand on a foul ball at Qualcomm Stadium in San Diego, former home of the Padres. But the ball hit his hand hard and then bounced off to an observant fan a few rows below. That ball hurt. First, it was hit hard and without much arc, so the smack on his hand left a throbbing bruise. Secondly, it made the boy aware of the pain his father must have experienced when catching that ill fated Old Timers' ball a few decades prior.
What became of the stranger in this story, well... no one knows. Eventually, I imagine he'll get some face-to-face time with his Maker and may have a little explaining to do about what compelled him to steal a ball from a little kid at that baseball game. But, until then, the old man may have very easily forgotten the entire event ever took place.
The boy's father still tells the story as if it happened yesterday; with clarity, humor, and a tone of fading (albeit slowly) resentment towards the old stranger a row down from them. The story is a legend - a modern day version of an old classic novel - except unlike Hemingway's uncatchable fish, the father tells the tale of "The Ball that Once Was".
The boy in the story has since grown up and become a man himself; and now has a son of his own. Just today, they went on a train ride to see their local minor league team, the Shonan Searex of Yokosuka, Japan. And today, the boy finally got a game ball. As the game-worn ball touched down in his hands, the boy immediately thought back to those decades ago at the Old Timers' game with his own father. And having learned his lesson years before, he tucked the ball immediately away into a backpack for safe keeping.
I mentioned at the beginning of this post that this story was about a boy who loves baseball and idolizes his father. And that it's also a story about a father who idolizes baseball and loves his son. Both of those guys are one and the same... me. But I also feel compelled to add one more. It's also a story of a grown man, who on one otherwise wonderful day was a very sad boy, and who now understands and appreciates what his dad went through on that day so many years ago.
Although the ball that I got tonight is no redemption for the one I let slip through my young little fingers more than twenty years ago, it did feel really good to finally leave the ballpark with one. Dad, out of respect for you and the story that has become a legend in our family, I did give the ball to Josh, just as you did for me, and you'll be happy to know that this one made its way home safely.
On a warm June morning in the early to mid 1980s, this particular boy was awoken by his father very early. It was to be a very busy day. First, a two hour drive from their home in Richmond, VA, up to the nation's capital, Washington, D.C. They were going to see a baseball game; but not just any game - the annual Old Timers' Classic game.
The ride from their home to RFK Stadium was fairly ordinary, but in the mind of an eager young baseball fan, excited to be going on a road trip with his dad, fairly ordinary was perfectly exciting. Upon entering the stadium, the boy's senses were in high alert. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn, the sound of the crowds and the Cracker Jack vendors, the taste of the "small" Coca-cola that the boy gripped with all his might for fear of spilling even the smallest drop; were just subtle reminders that the day was no ordinary day.
Prior to the onset of the game, the players' names were announced for the fans to enjoy and reminisce. At the time, the boy didn't recognize the names of Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, Hank Aaron, and Brooks Robinson; but he knew they must be pretty significant players if those thousands of excited spectators drove all that way to get a glimpse.
To warm up, some of the players began hitting balls over the fences to the fans beyond the outfield wall. After watching a few series of this unusual batting practice, the boy saw one high flying ball heading his way. Excited and a bit nervous, the boy just sat frozen watching the ball inch closer and closer. Just in the nick of time, a strong hand pulled the ball down from the boy's line of fire. From out of the eclipse of the hand, the boy noticed his dad's smiling face. His dad had caught the ball! Anxious to get a closer look, the boy pleaded with his father to let him hold onto it during the game. With a slight resistance in his voice, and a growing bruise in his catching hand, the father ultimately agreed.
Within minutes, triumph turned to tragedy. While observing, spinning, and lightly tossing the ball from hand to hand, the boy accidentally released the ball from his sweaty palms to the ground below. After just one lone bounce, the boy noticed another hand, an unfamiliar hand, grab the ball and pick it up. A stranger. A stranger no more than one row in front of the boy and his father.
The father asked the stranger for the ball back, explaining that his son had inadvertently dropped it while admiring the new treasure. The stranger, a cold and evil man, refused, saying something along the familiar lines of, "Finders keepers, losers weepers". And weeping doesn't begin to describe the next few hours. The boy, confused and angry at the stranger before him, began to cry desperately. In fact, and without exaggeration, the boy cried for the entire nine innings of the game. Everyone in the crowd around the boy and his father sympathized, except the evil stranger, who refused to even glance back their way after denying the boy the rights to his lost ball.
For the next twenty or so years, the boy continued to visit both major and minor league baseball stadiums, hoping for one more chance to catch "the ball that got away", to no avail. One time, he got close, getting his hand on a foul ball at Qualcomm Stadium in San Diego, former home of the Padres. But the ball hit his hand hard and then bounced off to an observant fan a few rows below. That ball hurt. First, it was hit hard and without much arc, so the smack on his hand left a throbbing bruise. Secondly, it made the boy aware of the pain his father must have experienced when catching that ill fated Old Timers' ball a few decades prior.
What became of the stranger in this story, well... no one knows. Eventually, I imagine he'll get some face-to-face time with his Maker and may have a little explaining to do about what compelled him to steal a ball from a little kid at that baseball game. But, until then, the old man may have very easily forgotten the entire event ever took place.
The boy's father still tells the story as if it happened yesterday; with clarity, humor, and a tone of fading (albeit slowly) resentment towards the old stranger a row down from them. The story is a legend - a modern day version of an old classic novel - except unlike Hemingway's uncatchable fish, the father tells the tale of "The Ball that Once Was".
The boy in the story has since grown up and become a man himself; and now has a son of his own. Just today, they went on a train ride to see their local minor league team, the Shonan Searex of Yokosuka, Japan. And today, the boy finally got a game ball. As the game-worn ball touched down in his hands, the boy immediately thought back to those decades ago at the Old Timers' game with his own father. And having learned his lesson years before, he tucked the ball immediately away into a backpack for safe keeping.
I mentioned at the beginning of this post that this story was about a boy who loves baseball and idolizes his father. And that it's also a story about a father who idolizes baseball and loves his son. Both of those guys are one and the same... me. But I also feel compelled to add one more. It's also a story of a grown man, who on one otherwise wonderful day was a very sad boy, and who now understands and appreciates what his dad went through on that day so many years ago.
Although the ball that I got tonight is no redemption for the one I let slip through my young little fingers more than twenty years ago, it did feel really good to finally leave the ballpark with one. Dad, out of respect for you and the story that has become a legend in our family, I did give the ball to Josh, just as you did for me, and you'll be happy to know that this one made its way home safely.
posted by Unknown | 7:12 PM
3 Comments:
What a great story. Also, great writing style. I could picture it all. Curses on the evil man.
Instead of Shawshank Redemption you had Ballpark Redemption.
Good for you -- this was a great story with a happy close, bookended perfectly on both sides!
If that first ballpark story would've happened in this day and age, someone would've recorded it on their cell phone camera and the guy would've been plastered all over You Tube....he better thank his lucky stars he was at a game before the onslaught of the internet.
No matter....he's his own worst enemy and it's justice enough that he had to live with his bitter self for the rest of his life.
You are a great dad, like your dad. Thank you for sharing.
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