E-Mail This Article to a Friend My five most unusual ballpark experiences BY CHRISTOPHER YOUNG

Having been born in Cooperstown, I’ve often figured that my birthplace was responsible for initially infusing me with "baseball in my blood." As I grew up, playing sandlot ball, Little League, and following my then-beloved New York Mets through their early years (while developing a healthy distaste for the cross-town Yankees) provided an additional foundation for my love of America’s pastime.

Yet life in the boondocks of Central New York’s dairy region didn’t give me too many opportunities to see Major League Baseball games, so my first 25 years provided me with fewer than a dozen chances to see a professional ballpark in person. In 1984, when I moved to Boston’s South End (with Fenway Park but a 20-minute walk away), that game total increased exponentially, and by now I have probably witnessed more than 500 MLB games, including visits to Anaheim, Oakland, Montreal, and Chicago.

That’s a lot of baseball games. But a handful of those I-was-theres stand out for the unusual experiences that came free with the ticket, so thanks in advance for allowing me to indulge in these wacky-but-true reminiscences.

• September 20, 1969. Everybody remembers his or her first baseball game, and I have more reason than most to recall mine. My folks drove us down to Tarrytown, New York, to visit some old friends for the weekend, and the hosts had already purchased tickets for the Saturday-afternoon encounter between the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Mets at Shea Stadium. I distinctly remember saying to my dad on the four-hour drive down, "Wouldn’t it be neat if we saw a no-hitter?" In retrospect, it wasn’t such an outlandish thought, since there had already been five no-hitters thrown that season (four NL, one AL, including no-nos on consecutive days in late April), but the match-up of journeymen hurlers Gary Gentry versus Bob Moose didn’t offer much hope on that day. But did it? To this day, there have still been only two no-hitters thrown at Shea in its 40-year history, and sure enough, I was indeed there for one of ’em. Because against all odds, the 21-year-old Moose completely shut down the vaunted Mets offense that day, and that improbable no-hitter became the apex of his unremarkable 76-71 career. As a Mets fan, the outcome was disappointing, but that loss was more than offset 26 days later when the New Yorkers stunned the baseball world by crushing the Baltimore Orioles in five games to win the World Series — which made Moose’s feat all the more extraordinary.

• July 4, 1983. In between my first game and this affair at Yankee Stadium, I had been to four other pro games — two more at Shea, one at Montreal’s Jarry Park, and my first at the House that Ruth Built — before driving down with some friends for the Independence Day tilt between the Yanks and Red Sox. It was the finale of a four-game series between the long-time rivals, and there had been no shortage of offensive firepower in the first three games (12-8 NY on Friday, then 10-4 and 7-3 Sox) leading up to the holiday head-to-head between Dave Righetti and John Tudor. The last thing on my or anyone’s mind that day would have been a pitchers’ duel, but damned if we didn’t get one. Furthermore, as the game progressed, I began to realize that the Red Sox not only weren’t scoring, they weren’t hitting, either. And they didn’t — all day long. With the stadium at a fever pitch as Righetti headed into the ninth with his no-hitter still intact, he calmly mowed down Glenn Hoffman and Jerry Remy before (amazingly) whiffing Wade Boggs to clinch the stupendous feat.

Understand a few things, now: most baseball fans have never seen a no-hitter in person; I, in the span of six games, had now seen two. Even more astonishing: from June 23, 1964, when Philly’s Jim Bunning threw a perfect game against the woeful Mets in newly opened Shea Stadium, until September 4, 1993, when Pinstriper Jim Abbott no-hit the Tribe — a span of nearly 5000 MLB games played in the New York metropolitan area — there had been just two no-hitters thrown within the city limits. And I had seen them both. And not even as a Big Apple resident; as a jamoke from the hinterland driving in four hours for the games! To quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up. What, pray tell, are the odds that a Cooperstown-born kid from the sticks would see New York’s only two no-hitters in a six-game span? Furthermore, I may very well be the only person who attended both no-hitters.

• June 22, 1987. Those first two would be tough to top for sheer drama, so I won’t try. On this night, I had gone alone to the game, purchased a standing-room ticket, and, as is the propensity of anyone holding such a ducat, hoped and scanned for an actual seat. In this day and age of consecutive sell-outs at Fenway, it’s much less plausible, but back in those days, standing-room patrons always scoped out those unoccupied seats. I was fortunate to find a seat on an aisle in the infield boxes on the first-base line, and while I kept waiting for the rightful owner eventually to kick me out, by the time the game reached the halfway point, I figured I was in the clear. Then, with two outs in the bottom of the sixth — nearly two hours into the game — the inevitable happened: the guy whose seat I was using finally showed up. I was not pleased. But what could I say? It was still his ticket and his legitimate seat, even if he didn’t bother to arrive at the game until almost 9:30. Reluctantly, all the while grumbling, I slunk back to the standing-room area in the upper concourse to watch the remaining proceedings. Coming to bat during my march to ballyard purgatory was Wade Boggs, who at that time was in the later stages of what would ultimately be a 25-game hit streak. There was a crack of the bat and then a roar from the crowd behind me, and as I turned around, I saw a foul ball heading toward ... toward ... and into the exact seat that I had just had to surrender. The ding-dong occupant, who was just getting settled in with his food and drink, had no chance of catching the coveted ball, and he probably ended up with beer and mustard all over his lap. (I hoped, anyway.) Seemingly, my one chance at snaring a foul ball was foiled by a sixth-inning killjoy — one pitch after I had left the premises. Curses!

• August 23, 1992. For a baseball fan, seeing a no-hitter is wondrous, and seeing your team win a World Series is life-altering, but most visitors enter the ballpark with smaller expectations, all the while harboring a latent dream. Mine finally came true a dozen years ago. Sitting with a friend courtesy of his third-base grandstand seats on a Sunday afternoon, I watched then–Seattle Mariner Ken Griffey Jr. get into the batter’s box to face then-Soxer Roger Clemens. The pitch was fouled off to the left. Toward us! That ball was coming right toward us! Everyone stood in our section, hoping to catch it, and as it bounced off the hands of the guy behind me, I grabbed it out of midair. I pulled it down and just stared at it for a couple of seconds. I caught a foul ball. Hold it up, you idiot! Thirty-two years old, and I was as gleeful as a Little Leaguer getting his first hit. The ball still sits proudly on my Phoenix desk with the black scuff of Griffey’s ebony bat and Roger’s grimy fingerprints (if you look real close — maybe not). Memories of that day still warm the cockles of my heart, and unless it’s happened to you, it’s hard to convey that feeling of pride and accomplishment (albeit extremely providential). But it was particularly satisfying after that near-miss of five years earlier, which at the time for a card-carrying bleacherite like me seemed to be my sole chance for grandstand glory.

Strangely enough, just a few weeks later, as I sat in the center-field bleachers in section 35, a friend who accompanied me asked, "Do baseballs ever reach this far out?" "Nah," I said, "although it could if it were a tremendous shot." Next pitch — I am not making this up — Sox batter (now Indians manager) Eric Wedge drove it straight into center field. Right toward us! Again. The home-run ball bounced off the stairs below us and caromed right to me, and another fan and I simultaneously grabbed it. After a short tug-of-war, I released it, realizing that this guy in full Red Sox regalia deserved it more than a guy who had just caught a foul ball in his last game. He looked like I felt two weeks earlier; an unbelievable ear-to-ear grin adorned his face, and I marveled at how funny fate is sometimes. After seeing hundreds of major-league games, I finally caught a foul ball, and then had my hands on another one in my very next game. What are the odds?

April 12, 1998. Still the most unbelievable game for pure excitement I have witnessed at any park. Well, the most unbelievable inning, anyway. Click here for the details.

Indeed, I have been blessed, and as the baseball summer of 2004 unfolds, I can only hope that your baseball-fan experiences — whether it be in Boston, Portland, Nashua, Brockton, Lowell, or Pawtucket — offer you similar opportunities to acquire treasured memories. For a baseball fan, that’s what we live for.

"Sporting Eye" runs Mondays and Fridays at BostonPhoenix.com. Christopher Young can be reached at cyoung[a]phx.com