July 21, 1999
Frozen Moments

Devin Pike is a freelance designer. No, wait, he's a DJ. No, sorry, he's a sports nut. He lives in Irving, TX with four cats and a hamster, who are plotting to kill him in his sleep this week.

Convert This Page (Or Any Other Page Where You See THIS Icon) Into a Palm Pilot Doc:

I've been going to sporting events for the last ten years or so. My upbringing didn't leave a lot of room for sports -- my family thought it was best that I stay out of athletics to avoid injury. Their fears were realized when I blew out both patella tendons in gymnastics, but that's not the story today.

The MLB All-Star Game was played last week in Boston's Fenway Park, a stadium that looks like it will fall over if you sneeze too hard on the concourse. The only good place to sit is in the bleachers, and those seats are tough to come by. When I went there in 1995, I did have good seats by normal standards -- 20 rows behind home plate. But the sun doesn't shine there, which makes it the perfect safe haven for older fans.

There, I had the ONLY play on a foul ball I've ever had in ten years. High pop fly off Roger Clemens, who was returning from a rehab stint. When you've got a play on a foul ball, you know it. The trajectory is right, the air around you stops moving. Time stops. Trick is, it wasn't comig straight at me, but to the row in front of me, which was populated with over-80 grandmothers. If I didn't lean forward, the ball would have caved a poor woman's skull in.

So, I reached out, placed both hands above Norma's head, and waited. The ball came perfectly into my hands... and bounced out and over two rows. My hands hurt for the remainder of the game, two pinheads came up with the ball, and Norma didn't even acknowledge my life-saving effort. A beer would have been nice.

Later that year, I was fortunate enough to get tickets to the Ballpark in Arlington All-Star game, where Joltin' Joe threw out the first pitch. DiMaggio was still in relatively good health, and the crowd was going insane. Amazing.

Hideo Nomo was the National League starter, and his wacky delivery was still effective. After he struck out the side in the 2nd inning, Chuck Morgan played a snippet from the end of Phil Collins' "I Don't Care Anymore." It sounded like Phil was singing "Nomo, Nomo... Nomo, Nomo... Nomo, Nomo." Morgan's still one of the best in-house media directors in the majors. I want his job.

Then, on the outer concourse following the game, Muhammed Ali was passing out autographed brochures about the Nation of Islam. Of course, I went up to the small group (it was unannounced, and there weren't a lot of people in that area). This man, who had symbolized power and conviction in my youth, was so frail from Parkinson's it looked like you could blow him over with one puff.

I accepted the brochure from his shaking hands and said, "Thank you, Champ." I don't know if he heard me or not. I didn't care.

When people debate whether Juan Gonzalez was right or wrong in boycotting the All-Star game last week, I just shake my head. It's his loss, after all, as well as ours. How many frozen moments could he have provided?