How not to foul up a trip to the ballgame

I always thought of them as ball rats, those irritating kids who clustered along the foul lines, begging for players to toss them baseballs as they trotted off the field after batting practice.

They didn’t understand two universal truths: Balls that weren’t hit during a game didn’t count, and players didn’t want to be bothered by annoying youngsters.

I saw enough of that kind of childish behavior attending Minor League games in North Carolina to last me a lifetime. These urchins had no pride, no conception of what made catching a foul ball hit during actual competition such an important milestone, a treasure.

There was a time in the majors when foul balls had to be returned to an usher so they could be saved and used later on. Team owners were so cheap they not only underpaid players, but also cried poor on nearly every aspect of the organization’s bottom line.

What they didn’t appreciate was the potential benefit of allowing fans to keep the balls as souvenirs, creating a deeper connection between them and the game itself. Now it’s a common thing, and in my view, it makes baseball stand taller than its brethren.

I mean who wants a basketball that lands in your lap?

What good is catching a football after a conversion kick?

And if you get hit by a hockey puck, God forbid, you’re bleeding.

All of which is prelude to the first and only time I was lucky enough to come into possession of a foul ball hit during a game.

You’d figure I’d been way too fortunate already, having witnessed not one, but two no-hitters, something very few folks can claim.

The first was Aug. 19, 1969, when Ken Holtzman, pitching for the then-first-place Cubs, blanked the Atlanta Braves, a lineup that included eventual home run king Henry Aaron, 3-0. Our entire family was there that Tuesday afternoon in Wrigley Field, never suspecting we were witnessing history until the sixth inning.

What brought us to that realization was when Mom, who was keeping score — her habit any time we went to games — looked up and asked, “Did you know he hasn’t gotten a single strikeout?”

Normally, when someone’s authoring a gem, he collects a lot of K’s, scorekeeping shorthand for a whiff, so this was very unusual.

Still, Holtzman kept the Braves off balance, mixing breaking balls and changeups to augment well-placed fastballs, and by the time the ninth inning rolled around, Wrigley was shaking to its foundations. When the final out was in the books, the place erupted.

History will note that following that high-water mark, the Cubs reverted to their snakebit selves and blew a nine-game lead, losing the pennant and paving the way for the Miracle Mets to win the title.

Speaking of losers, the Cleveland Indians — still seeking their first World Series championship since 1954 — hosted the Toronto Blue Jays Sept. 2, 1990, a matchup of teams heading in opposite directions, one poised on the cusp of an era of dominance, the other, well, not just yet, though a renaissance was in the offing.

But that Sunday afternoon, it was all Toronto as Dave Stieb polished off the Tribe, 3-0, allowing no hits along the way. Hundreds of Blue Jays fans, knowing that nearly all home games in Canada were already sold out, made the trek to Cleveland to support their team. They were boisterous but polite, gathered as they were behind where my fiancée and I sat on the third-base line.

And as if seeing two no-hitters weren’t enough, I’ve witnessed games with perhaps 50 Hall of Famers playing in them including Mickey Mantle, Al Kaline, Carl Yastrzemski, Rod Carew, Lou Brock, Johnny Bench, Reggie Jackson and Mariano Rivera. I’ve been to Fenway Park, Riverfront Stadium, Busch Stadium, Comiskey Park, Kauffman Stadium and Hi Corbett Field.

And that brings us to Grainger Stadium in Kinston, North Carolina.

Located about 45 minutes west of our new home near the coast, it was a grand old ballpark, opened in 1949, and for many decades served as the Class A affiliate of the Indians, which was a plus. We’d see young players who would, in time, excel on the big stage.

But just being in that place was reward enough. Parking was free, concessions were reasonably priced and the playing surface itself was perfect, making Grainger the jewel of the Carolina League.

My wife and I preferred to sit along the third-base line, mere feet from the foul line, and I always made sure to bring along my glove.

I had a couple of close calls with line drives ripped our way and was always prepared — I prayed — to protect her from harm, but I never really had a good chance to snag one as a treasured souvenir.

Then one evening, along about the seventh-inning stretch, I left the bleachers and headed down the concourse to use the restroom. All of a sudden, I heard a roar from the crowd and figured I’d missed a home run or at least a double. That was when I became aware of a bright white baseball bouncing on the concrete, headed right at me.

Without slowing my stride, I scooped it up smoothly and pocketed it, much to the chagrin of a passel of ball rats who, I hope, learned a valuable lesson that night, the one about proper ballpark etiquette.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where patience is a virtue but fast reflexes matter too.