Miracles & deaths at our ball & amusement parks

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As the following post deals with dead amusement park mothers and nearly-decapitated ballpark babies, I apologize in advance for the tastelessness that’s bound to ensue. I just can’t help myself.

So I ask that you please remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop.

We enjoyed a great all-American frolic Saturday in nearby Altoona. We started at heirloom Lakemont Park, home to the world’s oldest surviving-roller coaster, the 111-year-old Leap the Dips.

Next up was the night game between the Altoona Curve and the Erie SeaWolves. The two parks are adjacent and Lakemont’s Skyliner roller coaster serves as an appealing right field back drop.

Discordant death stalked us nearly every step of the way.

You can’t strap your precious daughters into a rickety 111-year-old roller coaster and not think of that poor woman who plunged to her death on the Six Flags coaster in Texas.

From what I’ve read 52-year-old Rosa Ayala-Goana was instantly aware her safety harness had failed. She screamed for them to not to start the ride. Her screams were ignored.

What could be more tragic?

How about this: Taking your newborn to a baseball game and having it decapitated by a foul ball.

This nearly happened right before our eyes.

We were sitting in the first row of the upper deck just up from third base.

They were great seats. I was happy because I felt confident my 14-year streak without catching a foul ball was about to end. I’ve caught three fouls at Major League baseball games and two of them were remarkable enough to earn huge ovations from more than 30,000 fans, and more thrilling moments are rare.

But I knew I’d have to be careful. We were on the first row of a 20-foot precipice that terminated on a concrete concourse.

I thought of that guy -- another Texas fatality -- who reached to catch a Josh Hamilton souvenir ball, slipped and broke his neck falling headfirst, oh, about 20 feet onto a concrete concourse. It happened right in front of his 6 year old son.

So we’re sitting there in the third inning with top Pirate prospect Greg Polanco batting lefty at the plate. On the third pitch, the 6-foot-4 Palanco swings late at an outside heater.

Oh, how I wish this story could end with me describing how the kid snagged the screaming liner and Bucco scouts rushed up to offer long-term contracts.

But that is not what happened.

What did was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen in a ballpark -- and I’ve watched the Pirates play 20 years of losing baseball.

The mother was holding the baby to her chest so the child was facing us when the liner struck somewhere in the tiny torso. I have no doubt if the ball had struck the baby in the head the child would have been killed instantly.

The crowd gasped.

The baby was silent for what seemed like 30 seconds. He then let out a wail loud enough to cause the home plate umpire to turn and admire the volume.

I called the Curve office this week and was told the baby was fine. Thank God. It is to those of us who witnessed it a bona fide miracle, although I foresee a future where the guilt-racked mother will become so over-protective the kid’ll be wearing bubble-wrapped body suits until he’s at least 21.

It reminded me of one of the most miraculous survivor stories I’d ever covered.

It was Nashville in about 1989. I was working the newspaper phones when I heard an 18-year-old boy had spun out on a country road picking up a split rail fence link in the trunk. My eyewitness said: “The horizontal fence hit the tree and went through the trunk, through the car’s back seat, through the driver’s side seat, through the driver -- and just shish-ka-bobbed the kid.”

Shish-ka-bobbed him!

It was the perfect quote, one I’ll never forget.

And that’s how they loaded him onto the emergency chopper. They cut the chair, kid and pole out and flew the whole works to the trauma center.

What happened to the kid?

He was released the next day, a result that led to the second memorable quote from the story. The surgeon told me: “You couldn’t have picked a better spot to have a baseball-sized rocket run through your torso without causing any lethal damage. It’s a true miracle.”

Amazing.

Where was the reckless kid heading?

He was on his way to acolyte at his local church.

So much mayhem among even all the innocents at ball games, amusement parks and those on their way to pray for salvation.

Anyone know where I can buy a closet full of bubble wrap jump suits?

Related  . . .

The one foul thing we all crave

How old will you be in heaven?

Death to boring dinner deaths

Priorities: work or cheap beer baseball?

Priorities: Work or cheap beer baseball?

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I’m becoming convinced God won’t let me succeed because my story would be a terrible example to the youth of America.

And in a pop culture landscape dominated by people like Kim Khardashian, the Duggars and Lindsey Lohan that’s saying something.

But each of those examples has something compelling: looks, charisma, traumatic circumstances or hyper-active reproductive organs.

Me, I have this blog emblazoned with the logo: “No Paychecks. No Prospects,” like it’s some kind of cockeyed virtue.

You’d think by now I’d try and do something to change that circumstance.

And I might, but every time I consider doing just that I weigh the pros and cons and think, well, gee, that doesn’t sound very fun.

So I’m not going to change, even as change is about all I ever have in my savings account.

Even on weeks when I have work to do, cosmic interventions arise. That’s what happened yesterday when my buddy called with earth-shaking news:

It’s Thirsty Thursday in Altoona!

Thirsty Thursday is a Yuengling Beer promotion at the ballpark that’s home to the minor league Altoona Curve ball club.

Yes, Paul texted me just yesterday and reminded me we’d talked about going. I suppose it’s a sign of maturity that my first instinct was to decline.

But it was Paul, it was just an hour away and . . .

It was Thirsty Thursday in Altoona!

Here’s how he explained it to me a few weeks ago: “It’s a cheap beer bonanza. They sell 12-ounce Yuenglings for something like a buck. And, get this, the first pitch is at 10:30 a.m. Do you know what that means?”

I did.

For one day at least, I’d be missing “The Price is Right!”

To me, that feels like a real sacrifice, which gets back to my point about being a bad example.

When he told me the first pitch was at 10:30 a.m., my first thought wasn’t, man, I really should stay home at work. No, my first thought was, well, going to the game means I’d miss ‘The Price is Right.’ Is that a sacrifice I’m prepared to make?”

I convinced myself it was.

Why?

It’s Thirsty Thursday in Altoona!

This, for me, is a bucket list item itching to be checked off.

Attending a day baseball game and enjoying a few beers in the sun is one of life’s most sublime pleasures. It’s visual and conversational feast for convivial people. But professional baseball is ruining a big part of it by charging $8 for a can of domestic beer that probably cost about 80-cents to produce.

Not surprisingly, the team that does this most to me is named the Pirates.

We’re Lutheran, but I’m pretty sure I consider myself non-denominational when it comes to worship. But denominations are very important to me when it comes to drinking beer at ball games. My denominations are $5, $10 and $20.

I’ll never be a $50.

Me and my buddies all used to be devout $20s. That meant any time the vendor came by any one of us could produce a $20, purchase four beers for $4 each and still have healthy leftover to tip the vendor. It was perfect.

Then came the price creep.

I first noticed it, where else, in New York City, home of the over-priced everything.

I was with my buddy Kyle. He took me to a game at old Yankee Stadium. To show my appreciation, I told him I’d buy the beers.

So I ordered two beers and passed a $20 down the aisle. We were in the middle of the aisle so the transaction involved passing the money and the beer over about 10 other savvy Yankee fans.

When my crumpled $20 reached the vendor, he said, “Hey, pal . . .”

I interrupted him.

“Oh, you keep the rest,” figuring he’d get a $5. I wanted the Yankee fans to be impressed by my big tip.

“Uh, sir . . .”

“No, no, my good man. I understand the importance of tips to your livelihood. Please. It’s my pleasure.”

I went to sit down, sure the exchange was becoming tedious to the surrounding fans.

Whether it was or not, I’ll never know. But I recollect verbal evidence it had to the vendor who said, “Hey, asshole! You owe me another $2.50.”

It was a near perfect humiliation. I gave the guy $2.75. He could keep the quarter.

It was $22.50 for two ballpark beers! Outrageous.

Of course, the beer at PNC Park in Pittsburgh is now $8.25, an amount I refuse to pay, choosing to spend the game sulking in my sobriety.

So today promises to be a bit of stumble down memory lane. It’s me, Paul, our friend Dave, and maybe another guy. There’s a chance we might be $5s.

Either way, it promises to be a great day. That’s just the way guys like us roll.

Maybe I can be a roll model after all.

Related . . .

Buc bosses asinine over “seat integrity”

Taking pregnant women to the ol’ ballgame

Go Bucs! Jumping on the bandwagon over jumping on the bandwagon