guidance for grown ups who bring gloves to games

i mean, beyond just not doing that

During the Home Run Derby on Monday night, a man nearly ended his own actual life tumbling over a ledge at Coors Field trying to get a ball from dishwater painting Oakland A Matt Olson, of all people. At first, I felt I could not condemn this man as firmly as I would if the mishap had transpired at a regular game, because, well, who am I to deny the chaotic ecstasy of witnessing eight big boys launching a billion giant dingers that is the MLB Home Run Derby, the most American event this side of when my family friend almost blew off his fingers doing illegal fireworks at a picnic in honor of my dead uncle? I shouldn’t do it, and I never would. But then he made this unhinged statement to MLB.com: “Once I saw that it was coming in right over here, I started trying to get close. Once I got a little closer, I realized, ‘Oh, I’m going to go over.’ I just dove and tried to get the ball.”  The lust for balls felt by adult fans across this nation is feral and ferocious and it must be addressed. Our dudes (gender neutral term, though, of course, it is mostly men) are in grave danger out here. They very well might die for real and even if they live they look dumb as hell. This is not scolding. It’s not yucking someone’s little bitch idiot yum. It’s having the generosity of spirit to say that the foul ball to the first baseline second deck hit by a third string utility guy just called up from somewhere in the Midwest won’t fill the gaping chasm inside of you, Brian, and you desperately need to reflect on why you think it might.

As a rule, I don’t make it my business to worry about the behavior of others unless, like, they are actually hurting somebody, or, more urgently, if they are playing audio on their phone out loud in public, at which point the involvement of a guillotine is best. Racists and those who put ketchup on hot dogs should get shouted down face to face at the ballpark, but most everyone else ought be free to do as they please. That said, we do, for these few, last fleeting moments, at least, sort of live in something more or less resembling a society; as such, we must do our best to exist together peaceably, and I simply cannot do that with the grown ups who bring their gloves to baseball games until some basic improvements are made.

1. You don’t have to give that kid the ball, but you also can’t box them out to get it

A sect of the population that is equally, if not more, tiresome to me than the glove-bringers are the self-righteous goons who will insist that anybody who happens upon a ball is morally obligated to give it away to a child seated nearby them. First of all, most little kids at a baseball game were brought there because their ragged parents have to keep filling up the days til school starts again, and the ballpark has beer. The average baseball game takes a little over three hours, which is a lot to ask of a child, unless, of course, that child was me. But I also watched the film Titanic a lot in 1st grade. Some of us are built different. And for every one tiny old man who loves baseball and would be thrilled to have a real MLB gameball as a souvenir, there are nine normal kids who just want to eat a whole bag of cotton candy and throw up in the car. 

So keep the ball you caught. Whatever. Once at Fenway when I was eight years old, a ball landed right at my little brother’s feet. He was seven and wholly disinterested in sports. My father and his friends, who had all sprung forward to make the grab, and missed, grumbled uneasily. They wanted to take the ball away from Jack, you could tell, taste, and I think it would have been mostly fine if they did. About a week later when he’d forgotten about the whole ordeal, I took it myself. So hoard your bounty away from little Jayden and Madison if that will soothe your heart. Somebody can buy them a ball at the team store on the way home in the fifth inning when they throw a fit because their iPad died. Not to discount the very real feelings of kids, who are people, albeit short ones, but a child just physically cannot care as much about a baseball as an adult who showed up with a glove does, because their brain is nowhere close to finished baking. If you’re the one who brought the child to the game then… okay, you should probably hand over the ball, but I’m not interested in litigate the politics of the relationships anybody has with kids in their lives, so do you. I mean, the main thing is you just really can’t trip them down the stairs. People hate prolific MLB ball collector slash the Smeagol of baseball Twitter Zack Hample for occasionally knocking over, pushing, or otherwise brutalizing random little kids to get to yet another ball. I hate him for being a gigantic nerd. Still, it is probably best not to actually engage in any kind of hand to hand combat with children while in the pursuit of stray baseballs or otherwise. 

2. Stay in your own row until the ball lands, you filthy little scavenger

This one should be simple but decades of game attendance tell me it is anything but. Stop running down the aisle. Do not jump over the next row of seats. Keep the damp cloud of your person in the square footage it was assigned upon purchase of a ticket. If there’s empty seats or a clear walkway it is perfectly reasonable to scurry over and collect your nut, but we can’t have any diving efforts going on. The odds of a fan making a good catch in the stands, already remarkably small, decrease dramatically when the supplemental physical challenges of running, jumping, and/or climbing are added, and the risk vs reward calculation becomes entirely untenable. Further, some of us are trying to have a bizarrely colored margarita, or flirt, or explain to troubled friends which player we believe might be a Jazz Age serial killer reborn as an unpredictable relief pitcher. We’re busy. Sit down. 

3. Be willing to throw the ball back if the writhing masses demand

Ball hoarders need to learn to have some solidarity with their fellow man. While I was never the kind of kid that was overly interested in getting a ball, I was deeply, profoundly interested in joining the drunks in the bleachers chanting “THROW IT BACK! THROW IT BACK!” at some poor sap that’d caught a homer from a non Red Sox player. This was how I learned about community. I discovered collective action, and it tasted like hot dog water. Should the opposing team hit a home run that lands in your row, and you get to make the big catch you’ve been waiting all your life to attempt, but the fans want the ball returned in a pointless, feeble protest which will more than likely result in your immediate expulsion from the park? Sorry, time to warm up that arm, Old Sport. Whichever Q-pilled dork or very Christian Wet Guy (two distinct but often difficult to differentiate pro baseball types) launched the home run wasn’t going to sign it for you anyway, baby, let me see that thing hit the grass.

4. Okay, but, please know how to actually catch a ball

Perhaps my solemnest and most bald-hearted little request is that please, for god’s sake, if you are not actually able to catch a ball, leave your glove in the box in the basement beside the yellow third place field day relay race ribbons and mummified pair of Mitre soccer cleats with grayed mud still hugging the spikes. Be kind; do not inflict your incompetence on strangers. Yeah, obviously lots of people at the game will throw their clammy paws in the air and make a half-hearted, laughing attempt at a grab should a ball come their way, and almost none of them will ever actually perform a successful snag. That’s fine. Live laugh love your broken thumb. Bringing a glove into the equation changes everything. When a fully grown person who pays taxes and has a sore back sometimes for no clear reason comes to a sporting event outfitted with the equipment necessary to make themselves an active part of that event should the opportunity arise, there is an expectation that said adult is actually able to fulfill that role. If, when the moment comes, the ball is just going to ricochet horribly off the stiff and nervous wad of leather propped on the meat hook of your hand, as if instead of a glove you’re holding up a rock hard stadium pretzel, everyone in the section will have to wear that shame. If you never mastered the basic skill of catching a baseball in a glove, then don’t force me and thousands of others to be debased in the act of watching you try. There’s no shame in having been the type of kid that could not commit to the muscle memory the habit of bringing over your non-glove hand to secure the ball in place after catching, but, bro, if that’s you then grab your beer and duck like a normal person. Billy don’t be a hero, Sean don’t be a televised embarrassment to the plumber who coached your mighty mites team.

5. FYI there is literally a game going on

Apologies for being like, “Oh, you enjoy baseball? Name all of its absurdly vague and complicated balk rules,” but the truth which I fear the glove bringers may not be aware of is that every time you pay for a seat at the park there really are more than a dozen professional athletes down there on the field playing a whole game, and you’re able to watch all nine innings of it if you can stop trying to Hungry Hungry Hippos any ball that escapes the field of play. Though, to be totally transparent, if you’re actually going to catch the ball with your mouth, disregard all of the above and go with god my titanium toothed king.