As part of what is becoming a yearly tradition, I took my daughter Louisa, on her birthday, to the Dayton Dragons game. We caught a break as the rainy, muggy day turned bright and cheerful by the time we walked from the car to the stadium.
On the way to our seats, Louisa and I made a stop for a couple of plastic caps brimming with Dippin’ Dots. Part way through my quick-frozen, pellet treats a pop foul bounced from the bleachers down to our seats in the front row of the upper deck. The thrifty German in me refused to toss aside a full cup of heartily over-priced Dippin’ Dots, so I took a stab at the ball with my free, now spoonless, hand.
What can I say? It was an easy play and I booted it. The ball bounced softly off of my fingers and down to the waiting crowd below. I was roundly, and deservedly, booed for my defensive mismanagement of an easy foul ball. Kathy, who was watching the game at home on TV, remembers the announcers critiquing a particularly lame attempt by one of the fans. I have no doubt they were speaking of me, standing dejectedly in the open aisle with my melting cup of ice cream.
I need to take a moment to mention that in my 25+ years of attending professional baseball games I have never caught a ball (or any other object for that matter). This is partly due to bad luck, partly to lack of opportunity and certainly due to my avoidance of the new national pastime of plowing into old women and children to make a grab for some cheap souvenirs. For shame, Matt Starr (http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=1822940).
I wondered aloud to Louisa why it was that every time we came to a game together and started eating Dippin’ Dots that I was forced to make a decision between dessert and a ball game prize. On our last trip to the ball orchard I flubbed a chance for a T-shirt that was launched into the stands from the field. Again, two hands makes an easy catch, one hand on ice cream equals public humiliation. Little did I know that a chance for redemption was less than an inning away.
Part way through the second inning the stadium scoreboard started displaying birthday greetings across the bottom of the big board. I had gone to great pains to have Louisa’s name added to this list, calling no less than six times throughout the day to the “entertainment” intern who evidently had things to do other than answer his phone. I even readied Kathy’s digital camera to take a shot at Louisa’s name as it appeared across the center field board.
There I sat, Elph camera in my left hand, poised to snap a shot at just the precise moment. In my peripheral vision I saw the foul ball off of the right-handers bat as it avoided the protective screen and shot up at me like a laser beam. I don’t think it’s too boastful to say that the one-handed grab of the line drive, scant inches from my chest, should go down in the annuls of Dayton Dragons history of defensive off-the-field gems. I am cognizant that every time I retell this tale, the ball travels faster and faster. I am contemplating how I can work a man-eating tiger into the story, though I suspect Louisa wouldn’t back me up on it. Naturally the aforementioned TV announcers were otherwise occupied and missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to comment on my defensive wizardry. Their loss.
My level of nonchalant-ness in grabbing this projectile brought a crowd of red-shirted ushers to me. They, quite naturally, assumed the ball had hit me in the chest and that I was very likely dead. I assured them that all was well, shooed them out of cameras line of sight and snapped a shot of Louisa’s name as it scurried across the scoreboard. Another grand picture for the scrapbook!
As an aside, some poor souls were not blessed with my manual dexterity. A woman on the other end of the field was sent to the hospital after getting hit in the head by a line drive (http://www.daytondailynews.com/sports/content/sports/daily/0617dragons.html). Hopefully she is okay.
Later in the evening Louisa made local TV with the sign she and Kathy had made: Today’s my birthday! on one side, GO DRAGONS! on the other. Kathy, still watching from home, got to see it all. The TV announcers wished Louisa a happy birthday, but omitted comment on her golden-handed father.
The game went into extra innings and Louisa and I took some time to visit the gift shop. George Foster was at the game, and was scheduled to sign autographs. My first specific memory of George was a game-winning home run in the umpteenth inning to beat the Atlanta Braves somewhere around 1977. My other vivid memory of that game was my Uncle Jim and Aunt Liz faithlessly rooting for whichever team was batting in the hopes of a quick end to the game.
George was almost alone since the game had gone long and was still in progress, so I had him sign my ball while regaling him with the tale of how my life had almost come to an untimely end. I figured that as a former major league player he would have a deep and personal appreciation for what I had gone through. Although outwardly he seemed to chide me for being a sissy, I know that he was truly impressed deep down.
He happily paused for a picture with Louisa, located here: http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Academy/8596/lou_foster.jpg
By this time, three of my five fingers were as stiff as the stadium hot dog buns, leaving me ill-prepared to properly communicate with the downtown drivers on my way home. Alas.
Unfortunately, the Dragons were unable to pull out a win, due largely to a misplayed ball in the top of the eleventh inning by the right fielder. Guess he wasn’t watching the first base side, upper deck, seat 10.
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