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Foul Ball Souvenir | |
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In August of 1973, my mother took me and my two brothers—George and Peter (a.k.a. the Rock)—to a Saturday afternoon baseball game at the Oakland Coliseum to see the Oakland A’s play the New York Yankees. She didn’t like baseball, but she consented to take us as part of a birthday celebration for my brother George who wanted to see his favorite team, the Yankees. I was only twelve years old at the time, but I remember the details of the game vividly. Vida Blue hurled a 2-0 shutout. Sal Bando hit a solo home run. And in the top of the ninth inning, Thurmon Munson, the all-star catcher for the Yankees, hit a foul ball right at us. (Munson died in a plane crash several years later and was posthumously inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.) George and the Rock, although at the time only 10 and 9 years old respectively, effectively blocked the people to either side of us leaving me virtually uncontested to lean forward and catch the foul ball. A little girl seated in the row in front of us tried to reach up and grab the ball, but she never had a chance. My mother, dismayed at her boys’ lack of politeness and manners, tried to convince me to give the ball to the little girl. “No way, mom!”, I protested vehemently. “I caught it fair and square. It’s mine! Besides, I’m not going to give it to a girl!”.
Let me state for the record that my mother has always shown me unconditional love and has sacrificed much in her life for my benefit. I would do almost anything she asked of me, but I have yet to find a twelve year old boy who would willingly give up a foul ball off the bat of a baseball hero, especially to a girl. Eight years later, I started dating Anne Bujold, whom I met at Berkeley where we both studied as undergraduates. Anne was a woman of charm, grace, beauty and intelligence, and she loved baseball. I took her to several Giants games, and we had a great time on each occasion despite the cold damp winds at Candlestick Park night games. Knowing Anne’s love of baseball, I rummaged through my souvenir box one day and showed her the foul ball hit by Thurmon Munson. She had never seen a real major league baseball up close before. Her eyes widened as she held it in her hands, and she asked me if she could have it as a keepsake. I truly loved the woman, so I gave her the ball. Anne eventually broke up with me, and in retrospect I see clearly why she did. I look back on my immaturity of those days with a profound sense of embarrassment surpassed only by the fear that years hence I will look back on my life today in the same way. I haven’t seen that ball since Anne left, nor have I asked her to return it. At this point, she has had the ball longer than I did originally, and even if I wanted it back, I suspect any time limit within which I could rightfully claim it has long since passed. In retrospect, I find it ironic that I refused to give the ball to a little girl originally, yet only a few years later I willingly gave it away to a woman I loved. Although I wish I still had that foul ball souvenir, I can see that justice prevailed when Anne broke up with me and kept the ball. When I reflect on the story, however, I simply feel grateful that God blessed me with a daughter because I don’t know how I would ever explain this story to a little boy. I can picture in my mind’s eye the look of horror and disbelief that would surely appear on that boy’s innocent face. “You gave it to a girl?” Knowing precisely the source of this incredulity, I would lower my head and softly tell him, “I’m afraid so, son.” “But why, dad?” Lowering my head further in shame, I would repeat the same cliché that all fathers tell their sons when no good answer will suffice, “Someday, when you’re older, then you’ll understand.”
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