"That's gonna be a souvenir."

As anyone who knows me well (or who has carefully read this blog) will know that I have a tiny tendency toward paranoia. Not in the sense that someone is out to get me, but in the sense that dangerous or interesting or random things will happen to or near me. That plane flying so low -- is it about to make an emergency landing and I get to see it? That guy in the movie theater who is acting crazy -- does he have a gun under his coat? Do I need to be ready to duck under my seat? As these thoughts pass through my head (they don't stay long, as I'm not certifiably insane), I wonder if I would be helped in some way should the worst happen. Since I am attuned to the crazy man's behavior, will I be one who survives his rampage because I was aware and reacted to the metallic clicks of him chambering his first round and quickly take cover?

Of course, none of these musings has ever been more than fantasy. Sometimes the delusions are of a more minor (and pleasant) nature: maybe my purchase of k.d. lang's version of "Crying" will be the billionth iTunes download and win me the big prize, or I'll show up as a single at a golf course and be paired with Alice Cooper or Samuel L. Jackson.

This mild paranoia is one reason why I try to take a baseball glove on the rare (very) occasions when I attend a major league game: I always hold out hope that a ball will come my way and I want to be ready. As Pasteur said, "chance favors the prepared mind." So as I sat last night at the Giants-Angels game at AT&T Park (I took my mom to her first game ever at the park), and I watched the foul balls flying into the stands, I tried to keep the glove on my hand and be ready.

We had great seats -- seven rows from the field, just behind the on-deck circle on the first base side. I knew any foul hit to us would either be a screaming liner, or a very high pop-up. The liner didn't worry me too much -- if I caught it, I'd be a hero, if I didn't, the crowd would forgive my not being able to handle such a hard shot, being only 60 feet or so from the plate.

No, it was the pop-up that worried me. I had this fantasy of a very high ball arcing straight to my seat (Field Club Section 110, Row G, Seat 2), giving the cameras plenty of time to find me waiting with my glove extended. Which would mean plenty of time for me to realize that I would be on TV, preparing to catch what would be in baseball parlance a "can of corn" and let nerves interfere with my ability to catch. Miss it and I'd let the whole section down and maybe end up being a humorous replay on that evening's edition of "SportsCenter." As I considered this, I thought "well, maybe now that I've had that thought, I'll be able to put it out of my mind should that actually come to pass. Maybe I've expended the nervousness now, and I'll know that since being nervous won't help me make the catch, I'll just have to make the catch."

Through the first seven innings, nothing came close. Plenty of action directly behind home plate, including one into the press box, and several balls down both the right and left field lines. Then, in the top of the eighth, just as I put the glove back on after eating some peanuts, Angels catcher Mike Napoli, with one out and a one and two count on him, popped up a ball, high and right into my section.

At first I thought "it's too far back, it's out of my reach." But then I decided that strange ricochets happen all the time, so I got my glove ready and turned toward the action. The ball came down about six rows above me, went through one fan's hands and caromed off something -- right towards me. I leaned a bit to my right, guided the ball into the glove with my right hand and closed the webbing around it -- I had it! I had the ball. I turned immediately to my mom and nonchalantly presented it to her. (I neglected to say earlier that the other part of my foul-catching fantasy was that should I make a catch I would not mug for the camera or raise my arms in the air as though I'd just pitched a three-hit shutout in game seven.)

It's not a huge deal, catching a foul ball. All I had done was to be in the right spot at the right time for a mostly random occurence. Still, I felt proud that when I got my chance, I didn't boot it, and acquitted myself with a modicum of grace. (Although I must say it was gratifying to receive the ovation and congratulations from the other fans in the section.)

When I got home last night, I immediately went to the TV and watched the play several times (including twice in slo-mo), thanks to the wonders of the DVR. When the ball left the bat, the Giants announcer said "That's gonna be a souvenir." And it was. Mom's souvenir.

If I can get the catch in a digital format, I'll post it here or on YouTube.com.

TOM