Last week, I was sitting in the lower deck at a baseball game, near the wall where the field meets the fans . It was a sparsely populated affair, as the woeful Anaheim Angels were hosting the Chicago White Sox on a cold, cloudy Tuesday night, but the lower seats were populated by a few enthusiastic fans.
One of them brought a beach ball.
The ball started making its way around the crowd, each member joyfully punching the multi-colored orb back up toward the sky so the next lucky group could do the same. As I turned in my seat to catch sight of it, my first thought wasn’t, “Oh, I hope they hit it my way.” Instead, it was just fear; pure, instinctual fear. “Oh no,” I thought.
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