The Baseball

by Zack Hample

  Dan O’Rourke, the equipment manager for the Phillies, rubs up four “cases” of balls for every three games that the team plays at home. How many balls are in a case? Six dozen … which means … let’s do some math here … 6 dozen times 4 equals 24 dozen … divided by 3 equals 8 dozen balls per game. That’s 96 balls—right in line with what the Boston Herald reported—and O’Rourke will rub even more if the weather’s crappy or if a game goes into extra innings. More math: 96 balls multiplied by 81 home games equals 7,776 balls. That’s a lot of rubbing, and wait, there’s more. Every team plays at least 15 home games during Spring Training—add 1,440 more balls that need to be rubbed up—and don’t forget about the postseason, which can add an extra 1,000 for teams that last deep into October. Playoffs aside, the average team needs at least 9,000 balls per season to be rubbed up; multiply that by 30 teams and we’re talking about 270,000 game balls per season throughout the Major Leagues. Last bit of math: 64 ounces of mud divided by 9,000 balls per team equals—get ready for it— of an ounce of mud per ball. In other words, imagine a U.S. penny cut into 10 pieces. Take one of those pieces. That’s how much mud we’re dealing with.

  Even with that small amount, there’s still room for controversy. Pitchers prefer darker baseballs; the more mud that gets used, the harder it becomes for batters to pick up the seams—to differentiate between the cowhide and the red stitching. Hitters, on the other hand, like it when the balls are lighter (but not too light!) because the seams help them to detect the spin. Equipment managers, therefore, have to use just the right amount of mud in order to keep everyone happy, including the umpires.

  When O’Rourke first began rubbing in 1990, he was working for the Astros and got schooled by a legendary ump whose nickname was “God.” Doug Harvey, working his 29th year in the National League, didn’t think O’Rourke’s baseballs were dark enough, so he dumped an entire bag of them onto the Astrodome floor and, with the help of some tobacco juice, showed him how to do it. O’Rourke took Harvey’s advice and made the balls much darker the next day when Jerry Crawford, another long-tenured ump, was working the plate. O’Rourke said:

  We were playin’ the Reds at the time, and Crawford tells me later how it happened. Barry Larkin’s the first hitter. After the first pitch, he turns around and says, “Jerry, I can’t see that ball. It’s too dark,” so Jerry goes into his pocket and pulls the balls out and says, “Barry, they’re all dark, stay in the box today.” After the game, he said, “Listen, I know what Doug told you—make the balls darker—but honestly, they were a little bit too dark.” So then I just tried to find a happy medium, and it’s not easy.

  O’Rourke eventually learned that the feel of the ball—the texture of the cowhide and particularly the height of the seams—is even more important than the color. The ultimate proof? Several years ago, a starting pitcher on the Phillies (O’Rourke won’t say who) examined hundreds of brand-new balls and picked out the ones that he wanted rubbed up for his next start. (As it turned out, the pitcher got shelled and never messed with the balls again, but still, it was a cool idea.)

  Actual rubbing techniques vary, but every equipment manager agrees on one thing: the mud is so thick that it needs to be diluted. Some guys spit into their hands and rub saliva into the cowhide along with the mud, but O’Rourke uses something a bit more sanitary. He starts by dabbing several fingertips into the mud, then dips his fingers into a cup of water, and smears the wet mixture all over the palms of his hands. This gives him enough mud for three baseballs, and he rubs each one for approximately 10 seconds, sometimes so vigorously that he takes off part of the logo.3 Those 10 seconds are often split up; he rubs each of the first two balls for a couple seconds in order to distribute the mud evenly. Then he rubs the third ball from start to finish and returns to the first two. When he’s done, if there’s still a decent amount of mud on his hands, he’ll simply add a little water and squeeze a fourth ball out of it. Basically, his entire process consists of transferring mud and water from his hands to the balls and mixing and matching as he sees fit. Here’s some more math (because you were going to calculate this on your own anyway): one ball every 10 seconds multiplied by 96 balls per game equals 16 minutes of rubbing per game … multiplied by 81 home games equals 1,296 minutes over the course of the regular season. That’s 21.6 hours of rubbing, and if you add Spring Training and the postseason … yeah. Luckily for O’Rourke, he gets to watch the Phillies’ road games on TV while he does it.

  Does O’Rourke ever mess up and rub too much mud on a ball? Yes, occasionally, but he doesn’t worry about it; he’ll toss it in the ball bag and let the ump deal with it. Where do game balls end up when they get scuffed and tossed out of play? Major League Baseball saves lots of balls for its authentication program; the rest get used during batting practice. What happens to batting practice balls that get worn out? The Phillies send them to the underground batting cages; then, after another round of abuse, the balls head to the minor leagues. Do teams have to bring their own baseballs with them on the road? Not really. The home team provides two cases of balls every day—a standard allotment throughout the Major Leagues—but visitors still bring some of their own. How many balls does each team use per season? O’Rourke orders 2,000 dozen balls in mid-January (more than half of which are for Spring Training) and 1,500 dozen in June. Then he gauges the supply by sight and, if necessary, places additional orders late in the season. (Math: 2,000 dozen plus 1,500 dozen equals 42,000 balls … multiplied by 30 teams equals 1.26 million baseballs per season throughout the Major Leagues.) How much do these balls cost? The exact amount is a trade secret, but as recently as 2009, Rawlings charged $81.50 per dozen.4 That’s $6.79 per ball, and for teams (like the Phillies) that don’t use practice or training balls, it’s $285,250 per season. Given this cost, does ownership limit the number of balls that players are allowed to give away to the fans? “Not at all,” said O’Rourke. “I mean, they’re spending forty dollars for a ticket and six dollars for a beer and ten dollars for parking. If that’s what it takes to bring them back to a game, so be it.”

  1 In the first seven seasons at Coors Field (1995–2001), the Rockies and their opponents combined to score 13.8 runs per game. In the first seven seasons after the humidor was installed (2002–2008), that number dropped to 11.4.

  2 “Lena” is a derivative of “Lean,” Blackburne’s original nickname because he weighed just 160 pounds.

  3 If you’ve ever caught a game-used ball on the fly and wondered how the hell the stamping was already messed up … now you know. And by the way, as soon as the rubbed baseballs dry out, there’s a fine, powdery residue all over them; you’ll never see it or feel it when you snag a ball in the stands because it’ll come off long before it gets there.

  4 Including shipping and handling.

  Luck is the residue of design.

  —Branch Rickey

  INTRODUCTION

  This part of the book gets its own introduction. It’s where we shift gears. Up until this point, you’ve been reading about the cultural and historical awesomeness of baseballs; now you’re about to learn how to walk (or run) inside a major league stadium and catch one (or ten) for yourself. It’s also the place where I, Zack Hample, the author, reappear to serve as your personal baseball-snagging guru, so don’t be alarmed when I talk about myself. I’m here to help. We can do this.

  Now, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve snagged a lot of baseballs—thousands and thousands of baseballs. Some people think this qualifies as a sickness, and at times it’s been hard to argue. I was at Dwight Gooden’s no-hitter at Yankee Stadium in 1996, and I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t fully appreciate it. Why? Because I was brooding over the fact that I’d only caught one ball that day during batting practice. On the other hand, being a ballhawk means that an ordinary game between two last-place teams can easily turn into something special for me. That was certainly the case on June 18, 2009, when I set a personal record by snagging 32 balls at an otherwise forgettable Diamondba
cks-Royals game in Kansas City. Okay, fine, so I only got one ball that day during the actual game itself. Forgive me. Most of my balls have come from pregame warm-ups, but I’ve made some big catches too. In addition to the 125 foul balls I’ve snagged during games, I caught Barry Bonds’s 724th career home run, 2 of the last 10 homers ever hit at the old Yankee Stadium, and the last Mets homer ever hit at Shea. Beyond the obvious questions that this raises—How do you catch so many balls? Where do you keep them all? Do you even have a job?—people always want to know why. Why did I start collecting? Why do I keep doing it? Why is it still fun for me after all these years?

  Because beating the odds never gets old.

  Whether I’m convincing a scrubby middle reliever to toss me an old ball during BP or making a leaping catch on a game-winning home run, I feel like I’m getting my hands on something special. But it’s not just the physical memento that I’m after. Chasing baseballs quenches my competitive drive, makes me feel connected to the sport I dreamed about playing as a kid, and sure as hell beats going to the gym. I’ll often spend an entire game on my feet, running back and forth from one side of the stadium to the other, depending on who’s at bat. Power-hitting righty? I’ll race out to the standing-room-only section in left field and hope that he goes yard. Slap-hitting lefty? I’ll sprint over to the seats behind the plate and camp out in a tunnel in case he swings late and fouls one back.

  For me it’s all about creating my own game within the game—one that’s far more complicated than simply playing lefty-righty matchups. What if there’s no standing-room-only section? What if the ushers kick me out of the tunnel? What if the game is sold out and there aren’t any empty seats? What if the weather sucks and the teams don’t take batting practice? Every stadium is different. Every season is different. That’s the beauty of it. There are always new challenges, and I almost always find a solution; the last time I went to a game and left empty-handed was September 2, 1993. We’re talking more than 650 consecutive games—perhaps many more by the time you read this—but enough about my ballhawking stats. It’s time to help you compile some of your own.

  CHAPTER 9

  BEFORE YOU ENTER THE STADIUM

  LUCK VERSUS SKILL

  When Barry Bonds hit his 714th home run to tie Babe Ruth’s career total, the ball was gloved by Tyler Snyder, a 19-year-old junior college student who had snagged hundreds of batting practice homers over the previous decade. Eight days later, when Bonds connected on number 715, the ball bounced out of the bleachers and into the bare hands of Andrew Morbitzer, a 38-year-old marketing director who happened to be standing in line at a concession stand for beer and peanuts.

  Luck is a funny thing.

  Snyder had essentially attended the game for the sole purpose of catching Bonds’s historic blast. Morbitzer, on the other hand, wasn’t even aware that Bonds was due to bat when he left his seat in the middle of the fourth inning. And yet Snyder may have been just as lucky. Sure, I could argue that the young ballhawk skillfully chose his spot in the right-center-field bleachers, but what if Bonds had swung ¼ of an inch higher or 1/10 of a second sooner? What if the ball had hit a bird, or if a freakishly tall fan had been sitting directly in front of Snyder? What if the wind had been blowing in that day instead of straight out to center field? What if Brad Halsey, the opposing pitcher, had thrown an off-speed pitch instead of a 90-mile-per-hour fastball? What if that pitch had missed the strike zone, or if Bonds hadn’t swung at all?

  When you consider all the factors that have to fall into place, and when you hear lifelong season-ticket holders complain about never having even come close to a ball, it might feel like the odds of catching one are nearly impossible. While it’s unlikely for any fan—seasoned ballhawk or otherwise—to walk away with a milestone home run ball, there are dozens of other ball-snagging opportunities at every game that have nothing to do with odds or luck. In many cases, if you show up prepared and use a little common sense, you’re pretty much guaranteed to go home with at least one ball.

  CHOOSING A GAME

  Big crowds suck. Tickets are hard to get, parking is a nightmare, stadium security is insane, bathroom lines are endless, and there’s lots of competition for foul balls. But don’t worry. As long as you live near a stadium that isn’t always sold out, you can beat a good chunk of the competition simply by avoiding it. All you need to do is choose your game wisely.

  Weekend games, for example, are more crowded than those played during the week. Attendance also increases during the summer (when kids are out of school) and on days with popular promotions (like fireworks or free T-shirts). If possible, resist the urge to see visiting teams with huge fan bases, such as the Yankees, Red Sox, and Cubs; even if you attend a weeknight game in September when it’s 39 degrees and the home team is 20 games under .500, there will still be a large crowd.1 Read the box scores. Look for the attendance. It’s always listed at the bottom.

  Another thing to consider when choosing your game: batting practice. Teams don’t take BP on the field when it rains, and they often skip it on day games following night games (so their fragile superstars can sleep late). This makes it much harder to get balls. Same deal with doubleheaders. It doesn’t matter if they’re single or separate admission. There probably won’t be BP. I’m not saying you should pass up a chance to see 18 innings of baseball in one day. Just don’t expect to see the batting cage or any of the screens set up when you head inside.

  STADIUM SECURITY

  Imagine going to a baseball game and being allowed to sit anywhere you want. It happened to me in 2009 at Camden Yards when, after two long rain delays chased all but a few dozen fans away, Orioles management flashed a message on the JumboTron and invited everyone to “have a seat in the lower level.” If only stadium security could be that laid-back every day, but let’s face it, that’s never gonna happen. Attending a game should be relaxing, but in the post-9/11 era, some stadiums have become so heavily guarded that they feel like border crossings.

  Chicago’s U.S. Cellular Field has the strictest policy when it comes to limiting access: if you don’t have a field-level ticket, you can’t enter the field-level seats. Period. Not even during batting practice. At Yankee Stadium, if you don’t have a field-level ticket, the guards will send you back to your seat when the visiting team starts taking BP, and at Citi Field you can’t get down into the seats behind the dugouts unless you have a ticket there—not even two and a half hours before game time, when there are 11 other fans in the entire stadium.

  Every stadium has its own rules, some much stricter than others, and in some places it seems as if the ushers and security guards change them at will. I could tell you how to break them all—outsmarting stadium personnel is its own game within the game—but I don’t want the commissioner to sue me, or worse, for teams to wise up and crack down.2 The key to snagging lots of baseballs is staying mobile, and in order to do that you need to have access to as many different seating areas as possible. For the rest of this book, whenever I tell you where to go and when to be there, I’m going to assume that (a) you have a ticket for that section or (b) you happen to be in a stadium where security doesn’t mind if you run all over the place.

  BUYING TICKETS

  I’m not going to tell you how or where to buy tickets. Common sense dictates that it’s safer to buy them directly from the team than from some random dude on craigslist, but that’s your choice. If you want to take chances in order to save a few bucks, be my guest. But hear this: no matter where you get your tickets, you need to make sure that you’ll actually have them in your possession before the stadium opens. Why all the fuss? Because on rare occasions you might be forced to pick them up at a will-call window that doesn’t open until the gates open. Imagine how frustrated you’d feel if you were stuck in line, waiting to pick up tickets you’d already paid for, while hundreds of fans were streaming into the stadium to chase home run balls. (This was a bigger issue in the old days, back when tickets didn’t have bar codes and America O
nline hadn’t yet been invented. If you waited until the last second, you couldn’t get your tickets emailed to you. You had to pick them up in person.)

  As for which tickets to buy, you’ll get a better sense of that in the next few chapters, but basically, beyond the obvious issue of field-level access, there are three main things to consider:

  Your budget—If money isn’t a concern, you might as well buy seats right behind the visiting team’s dugout. You’ll have ball-snagging opportunities throughout the day, and when you’re ready to check out a different section, the ushers probably won’t stop you.

  Your goals—If you’re only interested in home runs, buy tickets in the outfield. In fact, if you’re at a stadium with an outfield standing-room-only area, you can buy the cheapest tickets and just hang out there.

  Early access—Some teams allow season-ticket holders to enter extra early; if you can get your hands on season tickets (this is when craigslist might actually be the best option), you’ll be on your way to ball-snagging heaven.3

  WHAT TO BRING

  Bring a glove. Bring a glove. Are you paying attention? Bring a glove. Don’t make me say it again. It doesn’t matter if you’re the most athletic person on the planet. I don’t care how old you are or how strong your hands might be. Major league baseball players are capable of hitting line drives in excess of 120 miles per hour. Trying to catch one barehanded doesn’t make you tough; it simply means you’re an idiot. But beyond the safety factor, a glove serves two big purposes. First, when you’re lunging or jumping for a ball, it’ll provide a few extra inches of reach, and second, when you’re trying to get a player to throw you a ball, it’ll help convince him to give it to you instead of the gloveless fans who will also be shouting his name.