It's a funny thing, growing older. You start to see people cradling newborns, doting on them and showing them off, and you start to wonder what it feels like to hold something that precious, that magnificent. There is no way to imagine the overflowing joy, the sheer wonder.
Unless you catch your first foul ball. Which I did today. That was the zenith of my life. Sorry about that, unborn child. Or, as I've already nicknamed you, "Non-Ball".
After hundreds of games, not having caught a ball was something of an insult. I didn't even have any war stories or close calls. Now, I have my white whale, and I even got talked up by Mike Krukow. Quoth the Kruk:
- I wasn't looking at my feet to avoid getting hit in the face with a baseball, dropping to the ground, and writhing in a puddle of my own blood. I was looking down because of the style points involved.
- Actually, number one pretty much covers it, and is not a lie in any way.
- Okay, so I was being a weenie. But if I were killed, who would have looked after the ball?
Oof. It'd be just dandy for Bonds to come back, but I hope he brings Schmidt with him when he shows.