Cry Foul

May 1, 2004 Citizens Bank Park Section 138

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

A father speaks takes his non-sports minded daughter at a Philadelphia Phillies baseball game.

Inside the ballpark, I conjure nostalgic field of dream memories amidst twilight’s postcard sky. “You know, all of my years coming to the ball park, I have never caught a foul ball. Not one. Not even close. It remains a dream that dates back to my childhood.”

Rachel and I hit the concession stand. Because there were no ketchup packets available at the new multi-million dollar ballpark, a condiment station returned the favor by pumping ketchup at the rate of one quart a second into my corrugated cardboard tray full of exorbitantly priced greasy fast food. Rachel and I sit down in our assigned seats. We grace our laps with dueling cardboard food trays screaming of calories. All is right with the world.

Alex Cintron of the Arizona Diamondbacks settles into the batter’s box. The light hitting infielder swings awkwardly at a high pitch. The ball sails foul down the left field line. I crook my neck and find the spinning ball hurdling towards our section. It draws closer, earning my standing ovation. I remember the food in my lap but I cannot help myself. Cheese steak and French fries fly from their cardboard holding tank.

Settled into the seat next to me, my daughter never moved, winced, or broke stride from eating her finger-licking-good chicken fingers. Meanwhile, I jump over the empty seats in front of me. The ball takes a wicked first hop in the aisle before I bare hand it. I am overjoyed and celebrate in the revelry.

My daughter takes one good look at me and patently rolls her eyes like any other unimpressed teenager. My clothes are covered in ketchup splatter. My shirt has a small rip. Off of the sweaty concrete, I peel my cheese steak sandwich that looks as though it has been rolled in a batter of grime. I realize that the plastic faceplate of my cell phone is crumpled broken. My daughter senses the collateral damage and smirks.

Her sarcasm precedes only the next bite into her chicken fingers. “All those years, now was it really worth it, Dad?”