I was eleven years old when I discovered baseball.

By "discovered" I mean that it became something that possessed me and in turn I possessed. And like so many discoveries, mine was accidental and its results were unanticipated. I had watched a little baseball now and again, at least when forced by my Father, but I thought that it was boring. It was my Father's game, his thing, and I wasn't interested in either one.

He told me that we were going to a ballgame, despite what had happened at the first game we had attended together. He said that I should give it another try and that I might enjoy myself (as if it was a green vegetable).

Our seats were just past third base and about halfway up in the lower field level. My Father handed me his program and offered to get me something to eat, but I showed my displeasure by saying that I wasn't hungry - but I wanted a Coke.

The first two innings were slow, and my Father calmly sat keeping score in his program. He never yelled, or cheered, or got angry. He was like the game itself. I looked down at his score sheet and the unintelligible notations and thought "what's the point?"

In the bottom of the third, there was a runner on second and my Father's favorite player, a left-handed power hitter, at the plate. He leaned over and said that the batter was due, so get ready to cheer. Then he sat up a bit straighter and put his pencil behind his ear.

The count was 2-2 when the batter fouled off a ball down the third base line. As the ball sailed in our direction, the people around us, including my Father, all started to stand up. Arms and hands went up into the air, all reaching, grabbing, and hoping to catch a leather-covered souvenir.

Unknowingly, I had also stood, and when the ball ricocheted off the mob of hands toward us, my Father dropped his program as he reached for and missed the ball.

I just reacted, reaching out with my left hand to catch the ball while simultaneously squeezing the half-full cup of Coke with my right.

Triumph!

Suddenly, the people around us were patting me on the back and clapping.  I looked over at my Father in amazement, holding the ball in front of me. He looked at the ball in disbelief, then at me, and then he also started clapping and cheering. He didn't seem to mind that he was covered in Coke.

I spent the rest of the game asking my Dad questions about the game and chatting with the folks sitting around us. The guys next to me bought me a box of Cracker Jacks.

It was a starting point, the beginning of my realization that my Dad wasn't perfect, but that was OK, and that there were things we could share and enjoy together.  After all, I had caught a foul ball, not a home run.