I Hate Number 12

At the ballpark, dude hits a homer. Bomb onto the lawn beyond right field. I'm standing there, waiting to catch the ball. Guy with tattoos and a beer cuts in front of me to snag it. No bigs, I didn't move, was comfortable where I was. Besides, what the hell am I going to do with a ball?

“Hey, here's that ball I caught on a bounce after some dude hit a homer.” Not my kind of party conversation, no offense. And it's not as funny as what actually happened.

About that. Guy with tattoos and a beer gives the ball to his kid, who then starts running around with it. Kid runs back toward the fence, starts throwing the ball in the air. You know, like kids will do.

Dad drinks his beer, game goes on. Kid is maybe 3 or 4 years old. I have no idea, everyone under 20 looks the same to me.

Grandma's like, “He's gonna throw it over the fence.” Dad says no way and keeps drinking.

Kid throws the ball into the fence a bunch of times. No arm, no coordination, lots of determination. Like the fence is an obstacle he's going to overcome.

The outcome is obvious to everyone but dad, who is oblivious. I'm rooting for the kid to succeed.

He does. On about the 20th try.

Dad can't believe it because he's a dumbfuck. Seriously, game's still going and he yells out, “Hey Number 12!” right as the pitch is about to be thrown.

Goddamn number 12 holds up a finger. After the pitch he calls time and picks up the ball, throws it back to dad, who—I'm not shitting—gives it back to the kid.

The whole family cheers. Dad still can't believe it. I hate number 12.