Competition

Yesterday, I watched baseball on TV all day and, as usual, I paid close attention to all the balls that went out of play.

In Toronto, where the fans have always been (a)pathetic, Derek Jeter’s eighth-inning homer landed right on a staircase in straight-away center–and there wasn’t a single person who’d stood up to try to make the play. The ball smacked a step and bounced to the back of the section, and THEN some guy in the front row jumped up. Good job. It must be a Canadian phenomenon. The fans in Montreal reacted the same way. When I was there in 2000 and 2003, I actually saw some people duck out of the way of foul balls and then not even pick them up off the ground. Surprisingly, I didn’t catch many balls there. Even though the crowds were microscopic, it was tough to move around during batting practice because of the bizarre/cramped layout of the outfield sections. Then, during games, the ushers were strict and snotty. You’d think they would’ve been nice to the 143 fans who bothered to show up, but no, they were checking tickets all over the place.

In San Francisco, it was a different story. Yesterday, Bonds’ 705th career jack was instantly gobbled up by a kayaker in McCovey Cove. When I visited Pac Bell in 2002, I was shocked by the intense level of competition. There were (and probably still are) a bunch of regulars who patrolled the promenade beyond the right field stands. These guys had nets attached to homemade, floatable, hoop-like objects. They had rope tied to these hoops and hurled them into the cove when balls splashed down. The balls, I learned, would sink after about 30 seconds, so these guys had to act fast. They’d try to throw their hoops just past the ball and then drag them back through the water. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. The whole stadium had a ball-collecting vibe. Whenever Bonds came to bat, hundreds of people shifted toward right field.

There’s something about small ballparks. The three stadiums where the competition is fiercest are all places where balls routinely fly completely out of the park. At Wrigley, the famous Ballhawks have created a whole culture of chasing gopher balls on Waveland and Sheffield Avenues. Outside Fenway, there’s a guy named John Witt who for years has monopolized Landsdowne Street and the parking garage directly behind the Green Monster. And then there’s SBC.

Every ballpark has its regulars. In New York, I’ve battled many familiar faces over the years, but I seem to be the only ball collector–in this town–who’s stuck with it this long.