THE BALL
I have
been a baseball fan for as long as I can remember. As far back as my memory
will allow me to go I’ve always loved the game. I played little league and high
school ball and always dreamed of being a major leaguer but I came from a
broken home. My parents split when I was five.
My father, who lived in the same northern New Jersey town, actually
about two blocks away, barely if ever found the time to visit. I watched other
kids going to ball games with their fathers, and although I wouldn’t try to
show my disappointment, I was always envious of their relationships.
My mother, even though we lived with
her, spent more time on alcohol and spending binges than she did encouraging
her children to pursue their dreams. Because of this lack of support I never
did get the chance to try to change my fantasies to reality. But I still
maintain my passion for the game.
Today,
I’m a 37-year-old divorcee with a nine-year-old boy of my own.
Although
he lives full time with his mother, and my job takes enormous chunks of my
time, I spend as much time with him as I can.
We
read, and talk, play ball, go to movies, and just try to spend as much quality
time as we can together. I never want him
to have the resentment I felt for my father, because he truly is the light in
my life. There is no replacement or
emotional equal to the love and bond between a parent and their child.
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my excitement when a few years ago he began to show a real interest in
baseball. I almost couldn’t contain my enthusiasm.
When
Mat was five, I bought him his first glove.
It was one of those cheap, vinyl temporary small gloves, but he loved
it. We oiled it together, just like
dad’s and played catch a lot that summer.
We also began to watch more and more games on television. I tried to teach him all the useless
knowledge, statistics, and rules that a father has a right and responsibility
to bore his child with.
Two
years, and more useless information than any son should have to endure, our day
had finally come. “The stadium” was only
40 minutes away, and I felt he was old enough now to take him to his first
major league game.
My
stomach churned with anticipation and jubilation as we headed for the ballpark
together that Sunday in early September.
His birthday is the fifth and I made this part of his present. We wanted to get to the game very early to
see batting practice, then the game.
Kind of soup to nuts of a major league game.
As
we walked through the gate, up the escalator, and out of the tunnel to gaze
upon the filed at Yankee Stadium, my son gasped. His eyes lit up in amazement and wonderment
as he looked from the green checkerboard grass, to the blue outfield wall, from
the historic Monument Park to the bullpens, and just the raw enormity of the
park, which he couldn’t have imagined on t.v.
“Wow,
Dad”, he said, “it’s so big!”
In
those eyes, the magic this moment was to him filled my heart and soul. Though I had been to Yankee Stadium several
times before he was born, seeing that look on his face made this the first time
for me too! At least the first time it
counted for anything significant. My boy
and I were at the ball game, it didn’t get better than this or at least I
thought.
The
Yankees were playing the Cleveland Indians, who were taking batting practice at
the time we arrived.
Gloves
in hand, we drifted around in the right field stands hoping to get lucky that a
ball would come our way.
So
the disappointment wouldn’t be to tough to take, I explained to my son that
people come to games their whole lives and never get a ball from the park. I used my friend Joe, someone he was familiar
with, as an example. Fifteen years and
he’d never been fortunate enough or been in the right spot at the right time.
I
know he understood, but my expression as I explained said to him “wouldn’t it
be great!” He’s a very perceptive,
special child, and obviously my poker face wasn’t working to well.
For
15 or 20 minutes, very little came in our direction, and what did wasn’t even
close. I was getting frustrated. I, at least, wanted a chance to get a ball
for my son. Then it came, a line drive
one hopper off the right field wall.
Jack
McDowell, an Indians starter who had the day off from pitching was shagging
flies in the outfield. He drifted
towards the ball that had come to a stop about 8 feet from the fans, who were
all yelling, “Jack, throw it here!”
I
eased my way into a crowd that had gathered right along the wall, obviously
desperate for a ball themselves.
I
couldn’t see McDowell through the throngs and never saw him toss the ball
up. All I spotted was a small white
sphere rising into the air and the hands reaching for it.
Not
to be outdone, and being 6’3”, 195 lbs., and a pretty good ex-athlete, I leapt
up as high as I could. On the way up,
from both sides, I was shoved and bumped, but I would not be denied. I bare handed the ball and 10 feet off the
ground, but that was the easy part. The
four or five guys who went up as aggressively as I did were now crashing to the
ground along with me. The two to my left
got banged up together, and went down off to that side. The man in front of me stumbled off into the
crowd. That left the guy to my right,
the railing, and me. I banged my knee
and scraped my hip on the railing. The
only saving grace was that the gentleman to my right was kind enough to let me
use his body to cushion my fall to the concrete. (I don’t think it was
voluntary).
A
little shaken, lying on my friend, I pulled my arms to my chest and realized I
still had the ball.
I
got to my feet, (and yes, helped up my victim) and limped up the dozen or so
stairs to my son, who had the good sense to stay away from all of us
overzealous dads.
Tears
welled up in my eyes. I waited my whole life
for this moment, a moment I never had the opportunity to share with my father,
but always wanted to. Now, my son and I
had gotten a baseball from a major league game.
My
body felt limp, as I approached my child, holding our price with pride. I was bruised and bleeding slightly from a
scraped knee, but I wasn’t feeling any pain.
My tears of joy could have been embarrassing for a big, macho male in
the construction business, but at the time, I could care less.
I
knelt in front of my son, showed him the ball and said “Look Matt, we got a
ball! Isn’t it great?”
He
said, as honestly as any good child would say, “Yeah dad, but not so great for
those other guys!”
Okay,
he was only seven. Someday I’m sure it
will be a fond memory.
Anyway,
we watched the game together and had a great time. The 1996 Yankees went on to win the World
Series, and my son and I watched and cheered together at home.
We’ve
gone to ten games in the past two years, and have actually gotten three more
battling practice balls. Two we gave
away. One, Matt gave to Joe (I told you
he was special!).
It
might not be Mark Maguire’s 62nd or 70th home run ball (both of which were
estimated at over one million dollars), or have an autograph from a hall of
famer on it to make it worth a fortune.
It’s
just an every day, nine-dollar baseball, made of cowhide with a cork and wound
rubber center, but to me, and hopefully for my son, the memory behind it is
special, and that makes it priceless.
Jordan
Gray
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