As you grow older, you never forget the plays you didn't make. Today, at the D-Backs versus Reds game a ball was fouled back and the forces of physics and fate froze the moment and sent the ball directly to my seat and I stood and watched the ball as it travelled to me and I caught the top-spinning foul with a clean two-handed bare-handed basket-style catch and revelled in the applause and adulation of those sitting near us and I smiled and waved to those nearby because I had been given another chance to make a play and I made the play.
We were at the big ballpark today, my brother, my nephew, and me. We were sitting in the third-deck, directly behind home plate. It was if the fates had planned it, the seats were the exact same seats we'd held two week ago when the D-Backs played the beloved Tigers. We were in the sixth inning. The D-Backs were at the plate. The best we can remember, catcher Kelly Stinnett was up to bat. The ball kept rising and sailing. As it rose over the first few rows of the third level the scene was predestined. The play was meant for me. The ball, though fouled with enough velocity to make the third deck, landed cleanly and softly in my hands. I've missed playing the game over the last decades dearly. I loved the game. Yesterday, the game came back to tell me it loves me still. I am pleased.
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