05-05-05 at First Horizon Park

Rachel handed me my ticket, told me to meet her at the seats when the game started, and drove off. It was 4:30pm. First Horizon Park wasn't opening for 90 minutes, batting practice was already in progress, and I was the only one there. Perfect.

From the sidewalk just past the right field foul pole, I could see over the top of the wall. There was a fence/gate keeping me ten feet back and a huge net on top of it to prevent home runs from flying into the street. Still, there were spaces for balls to sneak through, and even if they got stuck in the gap behind the wall, I'd be able to reach through and grab them. It wasn't a chain link fence. It was just a bunch of metal bars. Each was an inch thick, and they were spaced about four inches apart.

I wanted to get a sense of the entire area behind right field, so I walked down the hilly sidewalk toward right-center until the field was out of view. I considered how far I was from home plate. I wondered if cars ever get hit by balls. I looked across the busy four-lane road and saw a little white round thing resting against the curb. Could it be?! I had to get there, but the cars were whizzing past. What if someone else saw it and pulled over and snatched it? I waited, waited, waited for what felt like half an hour (even though it was probably 30 seconds). Finally, a small break in traffic allowed me to race across the street, and there it was: a beautiful South Atlantic League ball. Hit, forgotten, lost, abandoned, and waiting patiently for me to arrive.

I got three more balls before the stadium opened, all home runs that the netting actually stopped. They plunked down into that gap, and I had all the time in the world to wander over and claim them. (I still ran.)

I was shocked that there wasn't even ONE other person out there. What would have happened to those balls if I hadn't shown up? What happened to the balls today? I wasn't there, and I guarantee that several flew over the wall. Did someone else claim them? What about tomorrow? And the day after that? And the following week? Month? Season? How is it possible that no one cares? Are the sporting goods stores in Greensboro stupid enough to sell baseballs? Are the customers stupid enough to buy them?

During this early round of batting practice, I noticed that whenever a foul ball landed in the seats, a stadium employee retrieved it and threw it back onto the field -- but I didn't see anyone retrieve the few home runs to left field that disappeared over the wall and landed at the base of the steep grassy hill. So when the the ballpark opened, I ran out there. At Shea and Yankee Stadium, I get scolded all the time for running. But at First Horizon Park, they just looked at me funny. And I looked at THEM funny when I returned from left field with three more balls.

On my way back, I spotted a ball sitting on the warning track on the 3rd base side, just two feet out from the base of the stands. There wasn't anyone around. Was this a joke? Was it a trick? Hidden camera? Exploding ball? No, no, no, and no. That made it eight.

Forty-five minutes before gametime, a couple of Grasshoppers came out to play pepper. (Why don't big leaguers play pepper anymore? I miss it.) I'd printed myself a roster several days earlier, so I knew who they were (Steve Gendron and Beau McMillan) but I didn't call them by name. This was Single-A. I felt kinda stalker-ish. So I waited patiently while they threw and finally said (to Steve), "Excuse me, is there any chance you could toss me the ball when you're done or is the general manager going to yell at you?"

"We'll see," he said with a smile. Minor leaguers aren't allowed to give balls away. At least not too often.

A few more players came out and joined their game. And more. And more. Before long, there were like 15 guys out there playing catch, playing pepper, running, stretching, talking, laughing...and Steve Gendron suddenly took off for the dugout.

Damn.

I felt dissed.

Then I felt bad for him. He'd probably never been asked for a ball before, and he probably wanted to give me one but felt ashamed that he wasn't allowed, so he probably waited until the whole team was on the field so he could slip off and not have to deal with me and not feel guilty. And then, out of nowhere, he came running back and tossed me a ball. Spiffy! It was dirty and scuffed, more dirty and more scuffed than any ball I ever got at a major league game, but it still had a logo, and I had my 9th ball of the day. Then I asked him (by name) to sign my ticket stub, and he did.

I walked through the seats toward right field and found a ball sitting on the ground in the first row behind the dugout. It was REALLY scuffed and didn't even have a logo. It had a couple letters scribbled on it in magic marker, but I couldn't make it out and decided it was probably a little league ball that some kid had dropped the day before -- and therefore shouldn't count. But I kept it. A ball is a ball. If nothing else, I can play catch with it.

I met Rachel at the seats. Good thing she had her purse because I didn't have a backpack, and I'd run out of pockets. The seats were great for watching the game but lousy for foul balls. Too close to the action. Foul balls normally shoot way back, and in Greensboro, they flew completely over the grandstand and out of the stadium. That's common in the minor leagues. Unfortunately, the Grasshoppers "no re-entry" policy is uncommon, so I couldn't work the parking lot.

I convinced Rachel that we should leave our excellent seats and head further out down the right field line. There was a wide concourse and another patch of grass for lawn seating...basically, a whole lot of room to run around for balls and not worry about running INTO anything. Minutes after we got there, the batter sliced a foul ball way over our heads and out of the stadium completely. If the ballpark wasn't so strict, I could have easily dashed out the open gate and chased the ball into the parking lot. But I couldn't. I had to stand there and watch the ball bounce into the night.

"Can't I just go out for one minute and get it?" I asked.

Nope. One of the ladies was actually kind of rude, and it wasn't even the gate where I'd tried to leave before. I protested briefly and resisted the urge to say, "Don't you know who I AM?!"

"Do you really want the ball that much?" asked a young man on the outside of the gate. "I'll go get it for you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, what do I want a ball for?"

(Was I dreaming? In a parallel universe, perhaps?)

"Wow, thanks," I said and he took off. He couldn't find the ball at first. I saw him get down on his hands and knees and peek under cars and pick-up trucks. After a minute, he reached under something for it, jogged back, and flipped it to me. Just like that. I accepted it and thanked him again and decided not to count it as part of the night's tally since I hadn't retrieved it myself. That meant I was still stuck on nine.

For the rest of the evening, I paid close attention to the direction of the foul balls that flew out of the stadium. I thought there was a chance they'd still be there after the game. (I would've caught several foul balls inside the stadium except someone got cold and moved to a warmer spot. I'm not naming names.)

The Grasshoppers beat the Delmarva Shorebirds 7-6, and I made my way down to the first row behind their dugout as soon as center fielder Brett Carroll caught the final out. There was only one other fan with a glove, and he was triple my age. Too easy. Carroll had no choice but to throw me the ball. Double digits, baby!

It started drizzling, and I was still determined to take a detour on the way to the car and look for baseballs. Poor Rachel. She was nice about it though. At least she had an umbrella.

We headed out the 3rd base exit. Lots of people. Big parking lot. No places for a ball to hide.

Didn't look promising. I looked at the roof of the ballpark and remembered exactly where a particular left-handed hitter had sliced one. I estimated the spot where the ball would've landed and started walking away from the ballpark...100 feet...200 feet...pavement...topspin. "It would've rolled even further than this," I told Rachel, and I walked another 50 feet, keeping my eyes on the stadium behind me. "I don't know," I said. "I guess it would've ended up somewhere around...oh!" Five feet away, a ball was sitting against a curb.

I LOVE getting balls like that. I mean, I never actually got one like that, but it's fun to put some thought into it and have it pay off. It was a nice break from jostling and begging and the power-tripping ushers at Shea.

It started raining harder, but that didn't stop me from searching the areas behind home plate (bushes and a construction ditch) and 1st base (another parking lot). Nothing. But that was okay. I felt lucky just to have found one...and that concluded the baseball-snagging portion of my evening. I ended up with 11 balls (or 13, depending on how you look at it) and none of them count toward my major league total. I'd been snagging for sport and had an excellent time.