Butterfingers and the baseball

August, 1933, a depression year. My parental birthday present was the unaffordable gift of $1.25 for me to buy a grandstand ticket to a Sunday double header at Chicago’s Wrigley Field. My heroes, the Chicago Cubs, were to play the hated St. Louis Cardinals.

About the 6th inning of the first game, the batter fouled a pitch into the stands directly at me. I cupped my bare hands to catch this prize. The ball popped into my eager grasp, and promptly popped out. It bounced on the concrete ramp to seats in front of me and was quickly scooped up by a boy with surer hands than mine.

“Stunned” hardly describes my despair. My mood was not brightened any by neighboring fans who laughingly joked at my “butterfingers.”

An individual who had witnessed the tragedy was an older policeman from the Chicago Police Department who was on duty at the exit ramp close to my seat. After the intermission between games, this patrolman approached me, thrust a new baseball into my hands and said, “Here, kid. Hold on to this one.” Apparently this benevolent man had taken the time and effort to go the Cubs office to obtain a ball for me.

I am now 88 years old, still a Cubs fan, and after all these years still reminiscent of the altruistic officer who felt sorry for a desolate 12-year-old boy and changed his gloom into sunshine.

George Dettenmayer, Pittsboro

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