August 22, 2001

In Atlanta, they still refer to it as The Catch -- the night in 1992 when Otis Nixon soared high in the air and reached over the centerfield wall to make a game saving steal of a home run that kept the Braves 13 game winning streak alive. Well move over Otis.  There's a new kid in town, and his name isn't Andruw Jones.

All my life I have been in search of baseball's holy grail - the foul ball.  When we were kids, my brother and I would get to the Phillies games early at Connie Mack Stadium and try in vain to get a ball during batting practice.

The closest I ever came to getting a foul ball was earlier this year.  I fought like hell with the person next to me for the ball that landed between us.  I kicked, I scratched, I clawed, I elbowed, I punched, but to no avail - my daughter still got the ball, for which I shall never, ever forgive her. 

Last night at the ball game, Braves catcher Paul Bako hit a foul ball that bounced off a railing about thirty feet in front of us (my daughter and I) and came back towards us.  Unfortunately, I was in no position to attempt to get the ball -- my feet were draped over the empty chair in the row in front of me.  Because he had a batting average of about .180, I never expected Paul Bako to make any kind of contact with the ball. 

By the time I managed to get up, there was chaos all around me.  I caught a brief glimpse of the ball as it went by my face, but I never touched it. The ball disappeared, and I sat down, dejected over yet another lost opportunity.  Meanwhile, people all around me were still searching for the ball. 

And then things took a turn for the worse.  I realized that during the commotion I had suddenly and inexplicably grown an extra body part.  Without getting too indelicate, suffice it to say that I now had three of something of which there should only be two.

I grabbed my new part from the outside of my pants, and suddenly everything became clear.  Still sitting, I threw my empty hands up in the air with excitement and yelled, "I got it! I got it!  I got it!" 

Which really confused everybody around me, until I reached up my pants leg, pulled the ball out of my butt, stood up, raised my hands over my head, and shouted for no apparent reason, "I AM SPARTACUS!!!!".

Which just goes to show.  You don't need good hands to get a foul ball, or, for that matter, any hands at all.  You don't need to bring your glove to the ball game, and you don't need to camp out in left field during batting practice.  You just need a big pair of pants and the brains to stand up at the right moment and sit down immediately after you make "the catch".  Otis Nixon, wherever you are -- eat your heart out.