All of his life he had just been hoping
to catch a foul ball off of a Phillies’ bat.
As a kid he remembers sitting
in Section 514, with his Pop,
and watching a boy his age, in 218,
make a clean catch, one off Rose’s bat
no bunch of other little pack-rats,
scrabbling around in the seats for a loose ball,
a perfect form catch
like he had been taught to make in right field.
All these years, nothing had come even close.
Hey, what’s the probability anyway?
He knew the statistics, just
like he recalculated each Phillies’ batting average
after the games.
There was once when his Pop and he
sat in the first row of the Upper Deck,
the ball came sailing towards them
and he knew, that if he reached over the railing,
stretched as far as his small frame
would permit, that he could have had a chance
to catch it, but he was intimidated by that railing,
and the height. Only tepidly extended his arm
and just missed.
Today, 20 years later, his Pop is gone
he sat with his 3 year old daughter
who wore a pink baseball cap.
He was sharing his memories with her -
and making her own,
when all of a sudden, he heard the crack
looked up and saw the ball heading his way
no time to put on his glove, which he still carried with him.
He reached up and made a fatherly, bare
handed catch. He knew inside his heart
that this should mean as much to her, as to him.
She would be waiting for this he was sure
the way he had all his life.
His long time dream reached.
He took the prize and shared it with her
handing it over.
She turned, wanting to please her Pop
the same way a catch by him
would have swelled up pride in his own dad,
and with one mighty heave
tossed the ball back onto the field.
One, not a father, might have wondered about
this frustrating moment, unexpected turn.
A lifetime dream lost, irretrievably.
He, in fact, was proud,
hugged her to make this moment his own,
the joy in her face – proving to her Pop
that she could do it, was all that he needed -
from the Ball that Got Away.
Ray Brown
