Baseball? Sure, why not?

So those of you who know me, which is all five of you who read this blog, know that I do not do the sport thing. In high school I hung out with the stoners who walked slowly from one fence to another just so I wouldn't have to run. The only time I've ever hit a ball with a bat was in the MTC, and that was only with a lot of encouraging from the Elders, and possibly a desire to be hit with a ball so I could go home. So when my roommate asked if I wanted to go to a Diamondbacks game I said, sure, why not?

My roommate plays the organ, a talent which got us our awesome tickets. It has been her lifelong dream to play the organ at a Diamondbacks game (ok, maybe not lifelong, but it is an awesome goal) so her mom made some calls and got in touch with Bobby, the super cool organ player. He hooked us up with tickets and we were on our way.

Awesome Seats, Hot Baseball Players

I really wanted a pretzel with cheese, so during the 2nd inning (see how I have learned words!) when we all went to find food I located a lovely salted carb with cheesy fat to dip it in. It was $3.50 for the pretzel, and $1.50 for the cheese, the cheese was a total rip-off, but who wants to eat a soft pretzel without cheese? I picked the medium drink because it was $5, so the total would be $10 and I wouldn't have to deal with pesky change. We all headed back to our seats with our respective food and settled in for the game.

In the bottom of the 3rd a foul ball was hit our way. I did not stand up, because what the heck am I going to do? Try to catch a ball?!? The thought is laughable, on many levels. Plus it was sailing clean over our heads anyway to the upper tier. What I didn't see was that it didn't quite make the upper level, instead it hit the railing, made an about turn and headed directly in our direction. It was at this moment that I wanted to take the last sip of my drink, so I leaned forward, and the ball made it's landing. It hit my back and rolled down to my butt. I was trying to think of a clever way to say that, but in reality there is none. My butt caught the ball. Someone dove in to steal it, mildly violating me in the process, but I figured at this point, it belonged to me. I leaned back and hit him until he gave up. I am now the proud owner of a baseball:

We also got to wear a World Series ring that belonged to the organist and sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" with the giant bobble-head guys, which was filmed for tv.

World Series Ring

The moral of all of this is to always buy the medium drink. If I had bought the small, I would have saved $1, but I also would have been out of lemonade by the bottom of the 3rd and would not have had any left to reach for when a foul ball was heading my way. I would have been reclined in my seat and that rouge ball would have hit me right on the head, rolled behind me and some sticky jam hands kid would have picked it up. Then I would have been in the hospital with doctors saying things like "minimal brain activity" instead of teaching today. Or maybe they would let me teach with minimal brain activity, who knows? The students have it, why can't I?