I was trying to scooch the silver wrapper out of the way so I could get another bite of my hot dog when I looked up, just in time to see the batter knock a high foul ball into the stands. As it hovered in the air, I knew it was headed right for me. To be honest, I pretty much always “know” that foul balls are heading right for me. They hardly ever are. In fact, they usually don’t end up anywhere near me. But this time it actually did.

Well, it was heading straight for me when a guy two rows up pulled out his glove and snatched it right out of the air. The folks around us patted him on the shoulder, congratulating him on his preparedness and fine catch. He beamed with pride. For a second. That’s when we heard the wailing.

It turned out that in the excitement of nabbing that baseball, he had inadvertently whacked his 4-year-old son on the head with his elbow. Nothing works quite as well for drenching a dad’s fun-fire as the tears of their child. Some folks a few rows forward began turning around and looking to see what all the crying was about. Instantly, the man’s look of pride was transformed into a sheepish look of shame and embarrassment.

One thing I like about baseball (and by this I mean watching, not playing) is that it blends together a sporting event and zen meditation. My brain is almost completely neutralized at a baseball game. I can just sit and watch as my thoughts zip by like stats on a scoreboard. That summer evening in Kansas City as I considered the meaning of flat beer in a plastic cup, I felt at one with that dad holding his baseball glove. I felt at one with all those parents who come to the game prepared to snatch some fun out of the air. It may not always work out the way we’d like. Sometimes there simply isn’t enough elbow room. But you know what, that little boy wiped his nose on his sleeve, took the ball from his dad and then those two beamed with pride together.