Immediately when I walked into the stadium, a table with freebies and a spinning wheel beckoned me over. I filled out the paper with a bit of false information: names, email addresses, phone numbers, things of this nature.
I really wanted the stress ball shaped like a baseball (complete with finely decorated red "stitchings") and spun with all the luck I could possibly muster behind the elegant spin.
It clicked on the last peg of "frisbee" just before "baseball," alas, in a moment of intuition and extreme commitment to my goals, I manually set the wheel to the rightful position. The oblivious wheel attendant handed the stress ball over and never suspected any foul play.
Please with myself, me and my buds sat in the upper deck (section 203 to be exact) and passed much of the game in absolute splendor.
In the bottom of the eight inning, a player from the other team was at bat.
First pitch, strike.
Second pitch, ball.
Third pitch, foul!
The ball came sailing. . . . . up . . . . up . . . in a section to our left! Maybe thirty feet away, (most definitely just in section 202).
I was excited. I clenched the baseball in my right fist, trying to let my jealousy subside. Needless to say, my interest was honed in on this wily batter.
What if he hit another up here? I had to be ready!
Fourth pitch, strike. 2-1 count.
Fifth pitch, CRACK!
Like a heavenly being, floating into the dark evening sky, I saw the baseball coming closer. Its destination: SECTION 203.
The ball came closer and closer and closer. I rose to my feet, still clutching the stress ball that only pretended to be such a wonderful orb of American heritage and tradition. A ball, stitched together with the history of a nation. Our country's pastime.
When I realized the ball's trajectory would place it three feet to the northwest of me (practically in the hands of a sweet-looking older gentleman) I had a change of heart from my original intention to storm the bleachers. I wanted to pillage like a viking, take Normandy, impregnate a "sovereign" nation with troops to help "spread democracy."
Instead. . . I realized the ball deserved a home where it was cherished. I was going to be a reckless parent, obsessed with the idea of a complete home environment, decorated with a fantastic ball that flew straight into my arms, designating me as the chosen one.
As the ball fell into the bleachers, slipping through the delicate man's hands with a THUNK! I proudly rose my fist.
"YES! I got the ball!" and held my stress ball in the evening air.
The audience applauded (what I assume - and assume incorrectly - was my illusionary stroke of good fortune catching the ball.) I beamed.
The ultimate bait and switch! All for the fans.
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