The Power of (a) Baseball

There’s always a lull around the beer stand during a middle inning rally. Everyone’s had their first beer or two, they’ve settled into their seats with a hot dog, and the lineup has seen the starter’s stuff once already. I usually take that down time to walk around the corner from our beneath-the-bleachers beer stand to watch a little bit of the game from right behind home plate.

My view from just outside our service stand at Homer Stryker Field

The Fon du Lac Dockspiders had the bases loaded in the 5^th inning with two outs in a tie game, and the Kalamazoo Growlers starting pitcher Tommy Sommer on the mound. I watched the Spiders’ Troy Black dig into the batters box, but my eyes were drawn to a kid standing twenty feet in front of me.

He looked to be about ten, and was in tossing a half full water bottle back and forth into his glove. He was in his own little 10 year-old world. Not really paying attention to anything around him. Thoughts of super heroes, funnel cakes, and cartoons running through his head. Oblivious to what a big at-bat this is in the game.

Right then, I realized I had a baseball in my pocket. There’s a batting cage fifteen feet from my beer stand, and I’d picked up a stray ball earlier in the day to snap in my fingers back and forth, just like this kid was doing with that water bottle and his glove.

Then, I realized the power of a baseball.

Me: Hey, kid… you know what’s easier to catch in that glove?

Kid: What?

Me: *Tosses him the baseball in my pocket*

Kid: Thanks!

An Official Northwoods League Baseball

He smiled, admired the ball for a second, then scurried away in a hurried rush.

Maybe he went to go show his dad how he just got an official, Northwoods League baseball with scuff marks and infield dirt and everything.

Maybe he went to go play catch with his little brother who also brought his glove to the game.

Maybe he went to put it in his mom’s tote bag so he doesn’t lose it and can put it on his dresser when he gets home.

Maybe he went to go get some cotton candy before the stand closed.

By the look on his face, I’d guess it was A, B, or C.

A lot of people ask my why I work at the ballpark pouring beer for the Growlers.

It’s because of moments like that.

I remember being that kid at the ballpark, getting a ball and going from uncontrollable sadness to immeasurable happiness.

I was eight years old, and there we were at Sox Park sitting in the 15^th row behind home plate. I had a juice box in one hand, and nothing in the other because I had a full hand & forearm cast on the other. I had broken my middle finger three weeks earlier playing baseball on the blacktop pavement of Owen School (CPS) with my older cousins. I was playing a shallow center field, and my cousin Danny hit a rocket up the middle. I can remember hearing everyone yelling, “Jake look out!!!!” as the ball approached, but I thought I could catch it. Well I didn’t and had to run home crying to Grandma’s house to let my mom know I probably needed to go to the emergency room.

During batting practice, I ran down to the dugout to try and get a ball from a player walking off the field. It was a day game so there were only a few kids standing down there. I made sure my cast was completely visible, waving it at the players.

Then it happened!

One player pointed right at me, and tossed me a ball!

I of course dropped it. Then scrambled to pick it up before any of those other little punks got any bright idea to try and steal MY ball.

I held it up, and looked at the commissioner’s signature on an Official Major League Baseball for the first time. I didn’t know what a commissioner was, and couldn’t read cursive, but it was bliss. Sheer bliss!

I ran up the stairs to my mom to show her what I got! She was proud of me. I spent the next hour holding my baseball, tossing it to myself, inspecting the stitches, smelling it, feeling it, loving it.

It was around the 3^rd inning. I had put my baseball under my seat as I devoured a funnel cake. Then all of the sudden, and I can’t remember how, but my ball started rolling down the rows underneath the seats. I could hear the faint thump as it kept rolling down, until the ball’s sound was drowned out by the sounds of the stadium.

I immediately went looking row by row to see if I could see it. I bumped into a popcorn guy as I side stepped keeping my eyes down the aisles. I felt people staring and wondering what the hell I was doing. No time to explain, time was of the essence. I was too shy to ask strangers for help, I had to find that ball on my own.

After about 15 minutes and finally facing my fears and going around with my mom to ask if anyone had seen it, we couldn’t find my ball.

I sobbed for the next two innings. My 8 year-old world was devastated. From up in Cloud 9, down to underneath the bleachers. I started to regret the very fact I’d come to this stupid game.

But then, it happened again.

A stranger sitting down the row from us saw my sadness, and decided to go up to the souvenir stand and buy me a ball.

My shattered world was stitched back together instantly.

I wish I could say I still have that ball, but I don’t. It probably was cherished for two weeks, then made it’s way into our family collection for catch, pepper, batting practice, etc. And I imagine the baseball I gave this kid will get the same love and admiration for a few weeks, then wind up in his travel team’s batting practice bucket. So it goes.

There will be more important baseballs in that kid’s life. There’s been more important baseballs in my life. But you never forget the first time you take one home from the ballpark. You never forget the magic you felt when you held it for the first time. You never forget how a random act of kindness made you feel such incredible joy. You never forget that it all happened at the ballpark.

That’s the power of (a) baseball.