Why I Kept the Baseball: Fate, Reflexes and a Kid’s Fumble-Filled Night | Alejandro Avila
When a game ball lands in your hands, do you keep it or gift it?
Despite what baseball purists and dads across America might think, keeping a game ball you caught instead of automatically giving it to a kid nearby doesn’t make you the bad guy.
Imagine this … I’m a young Southern California guy, cash stuffed in my pocket, keys to my '84 Mercedes-Benz 190E jangling.
It’s Saturday night, and the universe tells me that "Anaheim is calling."
Taking the ol' wheels out to Angel Stadium, where anything can happen. (Credit: OutKick)
Forty minutes later, I’m at Angel Stadium, those stadium lights pulling me in like a moth to flame.
I drop $20 on a pavilion seat in row B, right field looming below.
Two beers deep, helmet nachos stacked like a Jenga tower, I’m sprawled out, shades on, sun-soaked, floating in the glory of a calm Saturday night.
Life’s not just good — it’s biblical.
Christmas in JUNE at Angel Stadium. (Credit: OutKick)
In row A, there’s this family — dad, mom, daughter, and a kid in a Hawaiian Angels shirt, practically glowing with hope.
The dad’s waving at Angels right fielder LaMont Wade Jr. like he’s directing traffic on the LAX runways, begging for a game ball for his boy.
Wade, being a decent guy, it seems, lobs the ball their way.
It’s a perfect arc, right to the dad, who’s leaning over the wall like he’s about to propose to the field.
And then, he whiffs it. The ball pings off his hands and back on the field.
No biggie, Wade thinks.
He’s got another shot.
So, Wade hurls it again, harder, probably thinking, "Catch it, damnit."
Dad’s ready … he's got his arms out, looking like he’s finally got this.
Nope.
Second time around, the ball smacks his forearm, wobbles in slow motion and pops free.
It’s airborne, it’s anyone’s game, and guess who’s got the reflexes of a cat? This guy.
I snag that ball midair, using whip-like reflexes.
The moment a big leaguer was born, out of spite. (Credit: OutKick)
It’s mine now, and holding an official MLB baseball felt about as blissful as it seems … like receiving that new guitar on Christmas Day. The stitching is still perfect, and the leather is slightly beaten. Coincidentally enough, it was "Christmas in June" at Angel Stadium that day.
I slipped it into my pocket, pulling it out now and then to roll it in my hands, a fidget toy for a guy who just won the ballpark lottery … at the expense of some kid whose dad had poor coordination.
A tiny pang of guilt creeps in as I glance at the kid, who occasionally looks back, probably dreaming of this ball.
His dad, maybe in his mid-40s, had his heart in the right place, but most importantly, his hands in the wrong spot. Twice.
I almost started to feel bad. Almost. I'm no Biff Tannen here … just a lucky guy with exceptional reflexes.
As Junior Soprano would say, that dad "never had the makings of a varsity athlete."
So, why’d I keep the ball? Because fate doesn’t fumble, and I’m not here to argue with the universe. Plus, it looks really nice next to my nacho helmet.
Lesson learned, pal: practice your grip or stick to waving.
(RIP, Dave Parker. You’d have caught it.)
Los Angeles Angels pay tribute to former player Dave Parker before Saturday's game (June 28). (Credit: OutKick)
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