TERRE HAUTE — Andy Amey is usually the Tribune-Star’s regular when waxing nostalgic about his vacation experiences, but with apologies to Andy, I have my own travel travails to tell.
It’s a tale of woe … or woe-is-me is more like it. A childhood dream realized for a fleeting moment, only to be cruelly taken away by … well … I have no one to blame but myself.
And if you want, you can watch my embarrassing spectacle unfold on Reds.com! More on that later.
First some background. A June car accident and the resulting rigmarole of trying to purchase a new vehicle effectively scuttled my original vacation plans, which were to take me to Wisconsin to see my relatives. As per usual during the summer, part of the plan was to go to a Milwaukee Brewers game at Miller Park to see my favorite team.
It turned out I couldn’t do any of it, but all was not lost. The Brewers headed to Cincinnati after the All-Star break, so I was able to make the three-hour trek to the Queen City to see the Brewers in person. The Golden clan got cheap tickets in the front row of the upper deck in left field.
My 7-year-old daughter Cassie, a baseball nut, asked me if she should bring her glove to the game. Wanting to fuel her excitement, I told her by all means … yes.
I told her we were going to be in “home run land” and a ball could come our way at any moment. She was excited and she encouraged me to bring my glove too, which I didn’t do because the site of a 38-year-old man at a MLB game with a glove is, frankly, pathetic.
Besides, I thought it would be like any other game … we had maybe a 1 percent shot at a home run ball, especially as far back from the field as we were.
It’s not that I wouldn’t relish my chance to get a ball at a Major League baseball game, especially a home run ball. I’ve thought about getting a home run ball for years.
Flashback to 1980. I was 9 and I went to a Brewers-Tigers game at Milwaukee’s County Stadium with my uncle. He had tickets just to the third base side of home plate, a target-rich environment for foul balls.
Sure enough, Detroit’s Champ Summers came to the plate and popped up a high foul ball straight back to my section. Watching it rise above me, I was scared to death, but I submerged my fear, squared up, and flawlessly pulled it in. I had my first MLB ball … and I gracefully acknowledged the appreciative cheers of those in the neighboring sections.
OK … that’s not entirely truthful. I very well might have “squared up”, but two dudes twice my size and three times my age reached above me and canceled each other out trying to haul it in. The ball scooted underneath them, I dove for it, and I managed to come out of the scrum with the ball. I did get cheered … but was so embarrassed, I sheepishly sat down.
So I did get a MLB ball, which I still have, though the “Official American League Ball” stamping is long gone thanks to too many days sitting on a dresser in the sun. But I’ve always wanted a “real” ball. One that I caught myself without someone deflecting it. A home run ball … that would be the ultimate.
The intervening years have taught me just how fortunate I was back in 1980. I’ve been to countless games since then, but I’ve only got my hands on one other ball — a screaming liner into the first base grandstands at Wrigley Field hit by legendary slugger Shawn Boskie in 1992. The ball had so much spin, and I had such a bad angle from where I was sitting, I barely got my hands on it before it ricocheted into the next section.
That all changed on Thursday at Great American Ballpark. My moment had come.
The family and I were playing out the string of the game in the eighth inning. Happily for me, the Brewers were up 9-3.
My wife asked if we wanted to head down to the pro shop to check out the souvenirs. By then, the Brewers had struggling Seth McClung in the game and the Reds had runners at first and second.
“No. Let’s stay. This is the Brewers’ bullpen we’re talking about here.”
As if on cue, Cincinnati third baseman Edwin Encarnacion steps up to the plate. McClung served up the meatiest of meat pitches and Encarnacion crushed it to left field.
Everything from there plays out in slow motion.
Right off the crack of the bat, I knew we had a shot. I yelled to my family, “Get ready, here it comes!” Seeing a missile coming her way, my daughter thought better of it, and was perfectly content to use me as a willing human shield to prevent from being skulled.
The ball had a touch of fade to it, but not enough to send it off target, and distance wasn’t an issue, so I had time to think about it. Here it is! This is my home run ball! Cue up Roy Hobbs’ theme from The Natural!
Smack!
Scratch Roy Hobbs … get the sound effect of Pacman dying.
Sigh. I don’t know what to say. I got my right hand up and it was a direct hit. Unfortunately, that direct hit ricocheted off my hand, jamming my thumb in the process, before it pinballed around our section. The gentleman seated next to us eventually came up with the ball.
I just stood there … a picture of stunned incredulity. That was my shot … and I blew it. It’s unlikely I’ll ever get a better shot again. For every minute of the three-hour ride home, I replayed it in my mind, trying to figure out what I could have done differently.
When I watched the video of the home run on Reds.com (check out Encarnacion’s home run from July 16 if you want to see it yourself), I admit, I felt a little bit exonerated.
I had to lean to my right a decent amount to get my hand on it, though I completely ruined my wife’s chance at the ball in the process, as I boxed her out like I was trying to rebound a free throw. And I can’t feel as bad as the man behind me, who let it bounce off his chest after it skipped off my hand like a stone on a lake.
Oh well. It may not be the home run memory I long dreamt of, but it’s a great memory nonetheless.
My daughter had the right perspective. Shortly after it all unfolded, she tenderly tapped me on the arm and gave me her best advice.
“Daddy, you should have brought your glove.”
Todd Golden is sports editor of the Tribune-Star. He can be reached at (812) 231-4272 or todd.golden@tribstar.com.
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