-Ridiculous-
What are the odds?
Friday, May 22, 2009 – The New Yankee Stadium -- It was Pierre’s first baseball game ever. And he would see it on the grandest stage in America, the just-opened, $1.6 billion home of the legendary Bronx Bombers. At this juncture, Pierre’s knowledge of the game was such that he asked me how teams score “points.” I had to explain to him that in baseball, they don’t score “points;" they score “goals.”
In addition to my expert instruction, he was soon to learn a very hard lesson about the game on his own (and as Michael would later note, the difference between a soccer ball and a baseball).
In the photo above (taken by our gracious host and friend, Rich Szigety), MJ, Pierre, and I were situated in the lower-deck stands along the first base line, watching the home team take batting practice, having arrived about five minutes earlier. As balls crashed into the seats and into unwary fans around us -- including into the chest of a guy just 10-feet away -- I warned Pierre to keep alert, as we were directly in the line of fire. I said it half kiddingly, and then turned away to comment to MJ, “This place is lethal!” Michael J was about to reply when a line shot suddenly bulleted right at us. Pierre -- mesmerized by the deep green of the immaculately manicured grass, so reminiscent of his beloved Luxemburg Gardens in Paris -- didn’t see it coming (but the camera did: see lower right corner of photo).
"Ouch!!!!" In instant, searing pain, Pierre bent over holding his injured arm while the rest of us tried to comprehend what had just happened. Looking down, I saw that the ball had apparently ricocheted off of Pierre into the seat right in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman suddenly materialize, vulturelike. Her nefarious designs were obvious – she wanted that ball. As she began moving in, I gave her a disapproving look, which caused her to hesitate briefly. Seizing the opportunity, I quickly bent over and scooped up the ball, and with great satisfaction, watched as she skulked away empty handed. All this happened in a split second. Then, stadium personnel appeared, called for a medic, and we all escorted poor Pierre up to the concourse, where help soon arrived.
Fortunately, I remembered that I had my camera and took these shots...
“You’re FRENCH!! OMG! What a coincidence!! I had French fries for lunch!! OMG!!”
“If you can’t do this, you’re probably screwed. Oh, NO! You CAN'T do this!? You're screwed!"
(Note a disconsolate Rich Szigety on the far right, frantically attempting to rethink and juggle our evening’s itinerary after this unexpected disruption.)
It would’ve hurt twice as bad without the ball.
Pierre received an icy reception at his first game. Still, all’s well that ends well.
Three days later…still swollen and still sporting a “stitches” tattoo, but definitely improving. Whew! Looks like Pierre may have dodged a bullet when you think of all the other horrible possibilities that could have been (for instance, that ball could have hit me)....wom
