(or, David Versus the Foul Ball)
These photos were taken the last day of May, when the Colorado Rockies played the San Francisco Giants at AT&T Park.
Tim Lincecum, San Francisco’s pitching ace, struggled that day, unable to snap a string of bad outings. He gave up four runs in 5-2/3 innings. It was still amazing to watch him pitch, but it would have been more amazing if he had pitched well.
Ubaldo Jimenez, Colorado’s undefeated starter, threw a complete game shutout, allowing only four hits (three of them to Pablo Sandoval). His performance was awe-inspiring and it helped the Rockies win, 4 – 0.
In the bottom of the eighth inning, Travis Ishikawa, the Giants first baseman, came in to pinch hit for the relief pitcher. On the third pitch, the left-handed batter hooked a foul ball along the first base line.
It arced slowly, seeming to pause at its peak. Our section rose as one, eyes on the ball that hung in the sky like the moon.
As I stared at it, my thoughts travelled back to my college physics lectures and the numerous baseball trajectory examples the professor covered — all of them limited to two dimensions.
I was pondering if the third dimension was taught in the advanced course when the ball unfroze and plunged straight towards me, along the critical z-axis.
I suddenly regretted dismissing M’s suggestion to bring a glove. “It’s too late. I already locked the front door,” I said as we walked to the car. It’s funny how bulletproof reasoning like that makes a poor substitute for good old-fashioned leather.
I also regretted silently cheering when the people in front of us left during the top of the inning. It would have been nice to have a buffering hand or head.
The ball came directly at my sternum, an awful spot to field a ball, especially bare-handed. The best I could do was awkwardly reach out my cupped hands and brace for the impact and sting.
And how the ball stung as it struck my left hand, on the fleshy part below the thumb (what palm reader’s call the Mount of Venus). It deflected off my hand and the hands of the guy in the row behind me, who knocked me in the head with his grab.
The ball landed between M’s feet. A large black guy, two seats to our right, dove across his tiny Asian girlfriend and M to get it. He raised the ball above his head in victory and grinned.
“Wow! What strength and ability it must take to shove two women aside and lunge for a baseball,” M said. The guy kept grinning and pretended to be deaf and dumb, though I doubt he had to fake the latter.
While it’s tempting to rant about the lack of civility at sporting events, it would only obscure the moral of the story, which is this: Always bring a glove to a baseball game. Always. Otherwise, your only souvenirs will be a story of what could have been and a bruised palm.
Links:
- MLB’s game page: Box scores, videos, photos, and a summary from the game.
- The Physics of Baseball: Links to articles and videos on the subject.
- Rion.nu: The photoblog whose style I was trying to imitate. My story ruined it. I will have to imitate harder next time.
