Last night. Bottom of the second, A’s at Mariners. M’s up four-three. Zito on the mound, Beltre at the plate. Two outs. Two men on. Early in the game, but a nice little bit of tension all the same.
Zito delivers a pretty good slider, which Beltre underhacks into a huge fly ball off to the right side. Hatteberg goes over, even though it looks like it’ll come down six or seven rows back; but then it starts drifting in a bit, and Hatteberg actually has a play, reaching in over the rail. And perhaps not surprisingly, probably due to all the negative publicity recently about fan interference, the first couple of rows of spectators obligingly and responsibly press themselves back and clear the area so Hatteberg can glove it or not, on his own.
Except this one guy. This one idiot guy. That’s right, you lamprey-lipped motherfucker with the black polo shirt and the Art Garfunkel hair, I’m talking to you. What in the name of Satan’s own cockring are you doing bellying over the goddamn stair rail DIRECTLY TOWARD THE LARGE ATHLETE CHARGING AT YOU?
Now it’s not as if this stuff hasn’t been all over the news lately, right? But even if you can’t be arsed to maybe pay attention to events about the game you’re shelling out muy buckos to watch from the third row so you could maybe know not to do this in the first place, possibly you could take note of all the people screaming for you to drop your gear into fucking reverse and take a step back. Hmmm? You think? On my freeze frame, I count at least three other fans bellowing at you: bad-hair tie-tucker, and food-tray man and his bright blue neighbor; and who knows how many others outside the range of the frame.
(On the other hand, the G. Gordon Liddy at top right is grinning like a retarded cartoon camel, so fuck him. But also visible in the frame is a wide-eyed Oliveresque tot cowering adorably directly under the play, so I guess it balances out.)
Yeah, I know, Hatteberg booted it, and he booted it on its own. Ball went off the heel of his glove, so it was, without question, catchable. Screwhole fan flinched back at the last possible instant, and never touched the ball or the fielder. Hatteberg should have made the play.
But on slow motion, it’s clear that the fan isn’t the only one flinching. A couple of frames before the ball comes down, as it looks like the fan’s clutching fingers are going to join the glove-ball intersection, Hatteberg shuts his eyes, and that’s why the ball misses the leather pocket. Now, maybe he had a fleeting Little League moment, or he’s having an off day, or he’s just a crappy fielder in general, and he would have shut his eyes anyway. Or maybe there was an unseen protrusion on his side of the fence that yerked his cup funny. We don’t know.
But you know with all the stuff that’s been going on recently, every professional ball player is at least a little worried, and seeing a fan DIVING OVER THE RAIL TOWARD YOU has got to have an effect. That’s not really an excuse, because Hatteberg’s a pro and he should be able to not think about it, but the point is, given current events, he shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t be forced to think about this, just because this isroed preppysaurus isn’t thinking about anything at all except getting his grubby mitt on a meaningless souvenir. The fielder deserves a clear shot at the play, and he should be allowed to make it or muff it according to whatever luck and skill he’s got going for him at that moment.
Maybe I’m overreacting. This little incident isn’t going to make a reply, or a recap, or be the subject of agonizing hand-wringing by any officials or columnists or talking heads. It turned out not to affect the game; the shoulda-caught-it putout came on the next pitch, when Beltre chopped a dribbler. This was just another idiot fan coming within half a heartbeat and maybe a couple of centimeters of joining the growing roster of stupidity, and then pulling himself back, and the game moving on.
But that’s the thing. There shouldn’t be any pulling back. Goddammit, how stupid do you have to be to even flirt with this kind of boneheaded maneuver these days? Will it be necessary to put pamphlets on all seats in the first five rows before every game, reminding them that if the player wants to try to make a play, you have to let him? Should the ushers be equipped with telescoping cattle prods to keep the yahoos in line?
What’s it going to take, I ask, before these self-absorbed, brain-dead bozos wake up to the world around them?
