Up to this point, I had attended hundreds of baseball games. Up to this point, I had never obtained a foul ball.
In the bottom of the 8th, facing the Braves' Tyler Yates, Wes Helms sent a high, majestic foul ball into the third level of Citizens Bank Park along the first base line. The ball was heading for my section. It was snowing. The only people remaining in my section at this point in the game were me and two older ladies a few rows behind me, huddled under a large fleece blanket. This was not their foul ball. Oh no my friends, this was not their foul ball.
The ball landed a few rows behind me. Through the snow and wind, I lunged over the seats, grasping for the ball. My hand closed around the ball and I held it aloft to proclaim to the masses that this foul ball was now mine and mine alone.
The two older ladies, still under their blanket, politely clapped. I triumphantly sat back down in my seat, but not before tipping my cap in their direction. They never had a chance.