The time I caught a foul ball

Watching Cleveland Indians baseball this season is rough. Going to a live game can be excrutiating. The team is awful with only a few mild flashes of brilliance (that sports cliche was brought to you by any television sports commentator, lords of the overuse).

One of those notables is young pitcher Jeremy Sowers. So, when my old pal Miles asked if I wanted to catch a Sowers-pitched game Friday, I gladly obliged. To my excitement, he scored some great seats 25 rows directly behind home plate. Gotta love corporate season tickets.

So it was the seventh inning. I was starting to think of what stretches to pull off after the half inning. It would have been the most exciting part to an otherwise dull contest.

Then, with Indians castoff Eduardo Perez at the plate, a ball was cracked right to me. I raised my strangly long and obviously sexy arms into the air waiting for the ball to land in my hands. I also braced myself for a collision. If some idiots can smash little kids into the concrete going after the ball, surely someone would knock me to the ground. Well, apparently everyone was scared of how hard I'd kick their ass because the ball smacked right into my hands. No bouncing, I'm a real man.

Never catch a ball and wonder what it feels like? When you're driving home, go about 20 miles per hour and slap a mailbox. It's the exact same feeling.

What a greaet night. There were fireworks and everything! The real surprise was the Indians winning 1-0.