One of the great things about sports are the moments that become a part of not only the communal timeline, but our own. All of San Diego will remember where they were when the Padres claimed both of their pennants, or the day Dennis Gibson knocked down that Neil O'Donnell pass to send the Chargers to the Super Bowl, but only you will know what it means and how it's a part of your personal story.
On the other hand, there are the memories that are 100% ours. Maybe you met Jake Peavy at an autograph signing at a Chevy Dealership, or you spotted (then harassed) Tony Gwynn & family at a Sockers game. Or maybe you finally caught a foul ball at a game. Never mind that it was hit by Terrence Long, you finally have yourself that ball you'd been longing after.
For me, that moment came during batting practice during what I would have to guess was the 1991 season. I'm sure I'm not alone here, but I was the kid who had to get to each game early and watch batting practice. The obsession then became securing a foul or home run ball. It was elusive as could be, as I seemed to emit some sort of energy that kept baseballs out of my general area. I kept at it, though. Brought my glove, got there early, and awaited my opportunity to score the prize of a lifetime*.
Benito Santiago entered the cage. No doubt about it, that stance was unmistakable. I don't remember if it was the first or tenth pitch, but it came off the bat fast. It took a moment for me to realize it, but that ball was headed right for me! Holy shit!
This was it. All of the practices, seasons, tournaments were mere preparation for this very moment. My time had come and oh my god, it's in my glove! WAIT, NO! WHATTHEFUGOTTOBEKIDDINGME!?
Body checked. By a middle-aged man shagging BP balls; you know the type. It was in my glove, and he tried to steal it from me. Now, it's laying on the Jack Murphy Stadium field, between the wall and the outfield fence. No-man's land. A cruel joke perpetuated by the baseball gods in the form of a guy we'll call Darrell. Nothing against Darrells, but he looked like a Darrell. Fuck you, Darrell.
It is said that it's darkest before the dawn...and just as it seemed all hope was lost, a hero emerged. His name is Andy Benes. He mounted his white horse, tossed his hair about, and rode to the rescue of this young man. Where he could have easily tossed me any old ball, he set about to retrieve the ball that was lost. Darrell was determined to try and get that ball, but Andy told that guy to take a hike and made sure I got the ball that was rightfully mine.
A small gesture, but one that meant the world to this young fan. You're a good guy, Andy Benes.
* - I ended up using the ball to play baseball with friends. Relentlessly. Hey, it was a REAL MAJOR LEAGUE BALL. Well, National League ball. They still had separate balls, back then.
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