On a whim Friday night, with Annie being out of town, the guys decided out of the blue to see if the Rockies were in town tomorrow. They were! They were playing the Pittsburgh Pirates. We decided to get tickets and go. Matthew was excited. "I'm going to bring my glove-maybe I'll catch a fowl ball!" he said in traditional 10-year old boy excitement.
The second pitch of the game, the lead-off hitter for the pirates fowled a ball... high, high, ever so high, back, back-right above us... a gentleman 2 rows in front reached his hand up. The ball smacked his palm so hard I'm sure you could hear it in Pittsburgh. Bouncing off his red, wounded hand over to the very edge of the precipice our seats were perched on, the little white orb was poised at the brink of rolling out of our lives forever. Suddenly, a nice young man sitting next to us scrambled right, grabbed the ball before it fell to the next level and handed it to Matthew. "There you go, kid."
I'd fulfilled my obligation as a dad, and my rather speculative promise during the trip to the camera store (see post above). And the Rockies killed the Pirates. It was a very good night.
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