The Foul Ball

This is the story of an unbelievable experience I had while caring for one of our clients. It appears as it was published in Fifteen-501 The Magazine.

"As the owner of a senior care company, I've learned that spending as much time as possible with clients keeps me in touch with what I believe to be the heartbeat of our business. While most still live in their homes with our assistance, many clients reside in facilities. For the latter, we provide a much-needed escape from the monotony that can have a devastating effect on the morale of those who, despite their outward appearance, feel no different than they did 40 years ago.

I had the privilege of taking one such client, Mr.H, to a Durham Bulls baseball game last season. Mr.H, who lives in an assisted living facility in Chapel Hill, has moderate dementia. As with many who suffer from this condition, there are things about his life that are clear as a bell and others that elude him: He can't tell you what he did for a living for 35 years or how he came to be in Chapel Hill, but he can tell you what it was like to storm the beaches at Normandy, how cold the water was, and how he prayed that he would make it to the beach before he was shot down because he didn't want to die drowning.

He can also tell you what it was like to watch Babe Ruth take batting practice during the late 1920's, and how the effortlessly the slugger knocked 10 or 12 balls over the fence. In medical circles, they call these memories "moments of clarity." A s a student of history, I don't mind the repetition of stories, so we spent the first five or six innings of the game talking through some of these moments. He asked me several times whether I had ever caught a foul ball, and mentioned how he couldn't believe that in 83 years of attending baseball games he'd never caught one himself.

As the day wore on, the heat finally got the best of us. After the seventh inning stretch, we decided to call it quits. He asked the foul-ball question again as we were leaving, and I replied that we'd have to wait until next time around. At that exact moment, we heard the crack of the bat and both turned to look. the ball floated in the air toward us in almost slow motion, and after what seemed like an eternity, it landed-- literally--at Mr.H's feet. I bent down, picked it up, and handed it to him. He had caught his first foul ball.

The ride back was quiet to say the least. The entire experience was surreal. He spent most of the time tossing the ball between his hands, smiling, quietly uttering, "Eighty-three years. I can't believe it. Eighty-three years."

When we returned to the facility, he shook my hand, thanked me again and began to walk inside. After four or five steps, he turned around and looked down at the ball, then back at me.

"Maybe you can come sometime and we can have a catch," he said. "Sure," I replied. "It would be my pleasure."

I know Mr.H might not remember that I was the one who took him to the game that day. I know he might not be able to recall what teams were playing. I do know, however, that he'll remember the day that he caught a foul ball. I know that as cloudy as his mind might be, that moment has joined the pantheon of Babe Ruth and Normandy, and I was there to see it. I got to see an 83-year-old become just another boy at the ballpark. I watched a man come alive, if only for a moment.