Bounce
Bounce
By Maria Simbra
“This might be our only chance to go to one of these.” My husband, Jeff, poured over the sports pages of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette. Having the All-Star Game in our city in 2006 fed a media frenzy.
“Let’s do it, then!”
I met my husband on a shuttle bus trip to a game at Camden Yards. As newlyweds, we made the pilgrimage to Cooperstown. And years later, as a last hurrah before becoming parents, we did a baseball tour — Citizens Bank Park, Old Yankee Stadium, Shea Stadium, and Nationals Park. Some people can’t believe I willingly, even enthusiastically, went, and also planned the itinerary.
An All-Star Game would be the ultimate get for our collection of baseball experiences. I agreed, this would be our most likely opportunity. However, we had let go of our partial season plan.
“How will we get tickets now? We won’t be on the list.”
“Through a broker.” He pointed to a discreet newspaper ad.
To be legal, the broker’s address had to be outside of Pennsylvania. After we snagged our pricey tickets online from the inobtrusive Ohio website, I drove Jeff downtown to a bar across the river from the ballpark to pick them up.
Like a getaway driver, I waited and watched from the car as he ventured in. My heart pounded in solidarity. His clandestine mission was to whisper a code phrase to the bartender, who would then produce the assets. Could this be a sting? Could it all be fake? My heart pounded in solidarity.
Moments later, my husband emerged with a sly smile and slid into the car. “Got ‘em.”
I sighed with relief, proud of my 007.
On game day, we parked not far from that bar and joined the throngs of fans full of anticipation flocking across the bright yellow bridges spanning the Allegheny River. The city had shined itself up with swept streets, and hanging flower baskets and colorful banners on every light pole. Heavy, gray clouds hovered overhead, imparting an aura of seriousness.
Past the Roberto Clemente statue and extra careful post-9/11 security, we entered PNC Park, abuzz with exhilarated baseball devotees from all over the world. A cacophony of languages and American dialects swirled around me. Fans sporting the baseball caps of teams from far and wide milled about, shoulder to shoulder, like a great United States of Baseball. Sweet smelling smoke billowed from behind right field from the barbeque stand of former Pirates All-Star catcher Manny Sanguillén.
We took our seats upon the metal bleachers down the third base line just inside the foul pole below the left side of the Jumbotron, and hoped for a National League win to secure the Pirates home field advantage for the World Series. This was wishful thinking, of course.
We sat next to a group of pharmaceutical representatives from Venezuela. The men in this circle of colleagues had varying degrees of English fluency, but their smiles clearly conveyed excitement. A college mate of my husband happened to sit several rows in front of us. All around us were local folk, but not your customary, pedestrian crowd. A casual haut monde had come to the diamond to see the all-star spectacle.
At the top of the second inning, the Angels’ Vladimir Guerrero hit a home run to right field. The crowd cheered at the first run of the game.
Just then, a light drizzle started. The drops fell out of the humid, July sky and onto my bare arms, shoulders, and thighs. At first, I enjoyed the cool misting, but then the spitting shower became persistent and annoying.
“I’m going to go to the ladies room.” I nudged my husband. He acknowledged my plan with the jerk of his head and remained transfixed on the game.
As I got up, the National League came to bat at the bottom of the second. I listened to the play-by-play blaring from the overhead speakers in the restroom. To stay under cover until the rain lulled, I slowly strolled the concourse on my way back to my seat.
While I was lollygagging, the Mets’ David Wright hit a home run to left field. The crowd went wild again. This is shaping up to be a good game! I smiled to myself at the fervor.
I approached our row, and the first thing I noticed was my husband, bleeding impressively from his knees. “Oh my God! What happened?” I grabbed my face in horror.
But he was beaming.
With his chin high, he held up a ball. It was David Wright’s home run.
My eyes grew wide with elation.
“It came over here, then bounced here, then went down there, and then — look!” With his rapid-fire account, he gestured at the course of the ball and wielded his prize.
Apparently, it had bounced off a bleacher in front of him, then ricocheted off my empty space next to him and into the aisle just beneath his feet. In the melee that ensued, Jeff immediately pounced upon the ball. A fan from above came down and tackled him, trying to punch it free from beneath him. Jeff’s football and rugby experience came in handy and he did not give it up. His unsuccessful assailant disappeared back into the multitude.
An usher rushed in to check on Jeff. He suffered nasty scrapes on his knees. I moved out of the way to let the usher take him to First Aid to tend to his wounds.
When Jeff hobbled back, he was the celebrity of the section. The Venezuelan drug reps asked me to take a photo of them with my husband and the ball. I leaned back to let his college mate marvel at it on his way back from the concession stands. People came over to ask if they could touch it. I didn’t dare handle it myself, as I wanted it firmly in my husband’s grasp at all times. I worried the rest of the game that someone might try to take it away.
We made it home with the precious orb and without incident. We watched the highlights later to see if we could make out Jeff in the stands.
“Is that you?” I pointed at the television screen at a blur of a man in a ball cap and white t-shirt bobbing down in the left field bleachers after the home run.
“That would be me.” He gazed at the footage as if it were an out-of-body hallucination.
In retrospect, we should have had the ball verified at the time. Without authentication, it’s probably not worth anything in dollars and cents. But to Jeff, it is a priceless souvenir, now safely tucked away amongst his sports mementos.
To me, it is the keepsake of my absence. Had I not gone to the bathroom when I did, the ball, and this story, would have taken a different bounce.
Each time I return to PNC Park, I glance at the left field bleachers. It takes me back to that once-in-a-lifetime All-Star night, even though I missed the remarkable scene.
A moment that happened only because I wasn’t there.
Maria Simbra is a memoirist with words on page in Door Is A Jar and Page & Spine, and on stage at Bricolage Theater’s WordPlay and Moth StorySlams. In her next life, she’s coming back as Annie Savoy. Also, she weeps at James Earl Jones’ soliloquy in Field of Dreams every time.