Sean Berry came up for Montreal, bases empty. The calculations zinged through my head: batter righty; pitcher lefty; me on the first base side; open aisle on the right; tiny, insignificant brother on the left; room behind if needed. I had flippantly remarked two innings earlier that were I to catch a foul ball today, I could die a happy man--now, as always, I prepared myself for such an eventuality, and all the geometry favored my location.

And when you have all that down, you think you'll be prepared, and that when the ball flies towards you, you'll be poised to reach out and snatch that lump of cowhide and stitches in one hand, casually, maybe then uncaringly toss it back like some undersized fish. But when it's never happened before, and Mercker's fastball to Berry is fouled off, and you have but a second to react, calculate and react again...you lunge, desperately, with both hands, and when you catch it you're quickly grateful not to have been cascaded with a chorus of boos for letting the prize slip to the blue seats below.

It happened that quickly--just like that, I'd lost my foul ball virginity. No jumping up and down, just a dazed smile of wonderment on my face at having fulfilled a lifelong dream. And at least I got one part of my dream scenario right: when the crowd applauded my effort, I did compose myself just quickly enough to manage a pirouette to the fans behind me and a quick wave of the catching hand. The moment passed, and the game moved on, but I remained transfixed.

The Braves won, I think by a final of 4-2, with McGriff or maybe Justice belting a two-run shot to open the scoring in the sixth. Matt left early knowing that Atlanta's lead was almost safe, and after we moved to the lower deck for the final two innings, my brother actually had his hands on a foul shot of his own before it was wrenched away by stronger muscles. We traded quips about our terrible bullpen, even though McMichael actually notched a save for us, and the Braves salvaged something from the series. But all I could think about was foul balls, and strikes.

Part of me wants the strike to continue until the game cleanses itself, no matter how long that my take. There are other things to do, other games to see, and believe me, I don't miss baseball for the salaries, for the players and owners, not even so much for the pennant races or the record-breakers.

Bagwell, Gwynn, Griffey and Williams may yet have their years in the sun, but what really depresses is the realization that with every week and month of games lost, for all the fans still waiting patiently through this longest of rain delays, that many more foul balls don't get sprayed into the crowd, and kids like me, or real kids half my age, can't hold them aloft with the triumphant innocence of youth. And when baseball loses its youth, we won't have baseball.

Only rain.