Episode 8

THE BASEBALL GAME:

A short story about a foul ball, a hot dog, and an unforgettable experience.  

Let me set the scene.

The year was 2003 and I was attending my first professional baseball game. I was going with my two friends Dylan and Paul. Like most kids, we were infatuated with sports. We weren’t good at them, but we loved them. Dylan’s dad, let’s call him John, just for story purposes, had gotten us the tickets. 

The friendship between myself, Dylan, and Paul was very new. This was the first time we all hung out outside of school. More importantly, it was the first day of our first sleepover. From John’s point of view he probably thought a baseball game would be an easy and fun thing to do with the kids. 

Boy, was he wrong. 

At school, all we did was talk about the players and who we were going to get to sign our baseball mitts. We played catch at recess trying to break in our mitts, just in case a foul ball came our way. 

After school, we all put on our white jerseys and made our way to the ballpark.

Once we got there, I thought what a beautiful, big stadium. I always dreamed of being a professional athlete, and seeing the magnitude of that ballpark made me want it even more. 

I always wanted to play first base. My hand-eye coordination was good for my age. I had progressed faster than most kids, so my athletic ability and height were real advantages. Unfortunately, that peak didn’t last long. 

As I wandered through the stadium daydreaming we stopped to get food. There’s nothing worse than bringing young kids to a ballpark, because all they want to do is buy useless stuff, especially cotton candy and peanuts that cost $20. I guess we never really age out of that. Looking back, I felt sorry for John’s wallet. In the moment, though, I wanted my ballpark hot dog no matter the cost. 

We got soda, cotton candy, pretzels, peanuts, and hot dogs. I made a big spread. Mustard, relish, onions, packed on a hot dog the size of my arm. 

After gathering what I can only imagine was food that cost more than a mortgage payment, we made our way to the seats. The seats were amazing. The kind of seats that make you feel like a VIP. Right behind home plate. Far enough up that we could see the whole field with no obstructed views. 

We showed up right in time for the first pitch. I sat between Paul and Dylan, while John sat in the aisle seat. We all got settled in a record time, considering we were carrying enough food to feed the entire stadium. 

The first pitch was a ball. The second pitch was a strike. On the third pitch, the batter hit the ball and it went flying in the air. 

The ball was coming our way. 

Like, really close to us. 

This was my moment to shine. 

All the recess practice, the new mitt, the jersey, the dream of being a baseball player, this was my chance. 

I reached down to grab my baseball mitt, but I couldn’t reach it without spilling my hot dog all over myself. So I quickly looked up to track the ball and —  

Bang! 

It went black. 

I woke up moments later with blood all over my face. Gushing. The kind of bleeding where eight-year-olds immediately assume death is imminent. 

John rushed over with a t-shirt and plugged my nose. My hot dog hit the ground. The relish and onions went flying. 

John applied steady pressure while I leaned back, trying to stop the bleeding.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Paul holding up a ball while the crowd cheered. 

To put this in perspective: the ball had hit my face and flown back three rows. Paul was the furthest from the stairs. So my new friend Paul, watched the ball hit my face, watched my nose gush blood, and decided to walk right over me to get the ball and take the glory. 

No concern for his new friend, his friend's perfect face, or his hot dog. 

I was immediately rushed to the ballpark's medical staff. While I was being treated, I remember John frantically calling my parents. This was our first outing together, so making that phone call probably wasn’t easy. 

John called and said: 

“Everything is fine. I’m calling to tell you, your son did get hit in the face by a foul ball. However, the medical staff says he’s fine and he’s getting ice. Nothing is broken.”

My parents, who were out to dinner that night, figured: well, if John says he’s okay, let's not let this ruin our evening. We can trust John.

Yes, you read that right. My parents, who had met John for all of eleven minutes, one time, heard their perfect child had been hit in the face with a baseball. That child was probably scarred for life, his nose will never be the same, and he was most certainly embarrassed. 

Their reaction?

“Our son will be fine, we just ordered our appetizers.”

I guess that phone call was easy after all. 

And I still can’t figure out why I seek constant attention from them all these years later…

Later that evening, once the bleeding had finally stopped, I was too scared to go back to those seats. 

The dream of being a professional first baseman died at that moment, as did my perfectly symmetrical face. 

So instead of leaving the game, we went to the outfield. 

Dylan, Paul, and I heckled the batter who hit the foul ball. There I was, sitting in the outfield, with ice on my face, Paul clutching the baseball, Dylan eating a hot dog with ketchup, all three of us yelling at this poor guy. 

We eventually made our way back to Dylan’s house. I was sleeping there, apparently, because my parents had better plans. 

That night, I slept with a bag of ice on my face. By morning, the ice had done nothing. I had two massive black eyes and a swollen nose. 

Two days later was school. By that point my face was in peak recovery, swollen ear to ear. It looked like I had gone ten rounds with Rocky Balboa. 

Unfortunately, I was at the age where I couldn’t use the “You should see the other guy” line. 

Instead, I had to explain to everyone that I didn’t beat up Rocky Balboa, I didn’t get in a bar fight, I actually got hit in the face with a baseball because I didn’t want to spill my hot dog. 

To add salt to the wound: it was picture day.

As I look at that photo now, I see Paul smiling because he got to show off the baseball he “caught”, Dylan smiling because he got to finish his ballpark hot dog… 

And me? 

I’ll forever be remembered as the kid in the yearbook who looked like a raccoon because he took a baseball to the face defending a hot dog. 

A hot dog he never even got to eat.

Nobody Asked. Now you know anyway.