A few months ago my 12-year old son and I went to a Major League Baseball game.
We got there early.
For batting practice.
We both brought our gloves.
Just in case.
As soon as we walked into the stadium, my son sprinted directly into the right field pavilion.
He locked in on one of the visiting San Diego Padres and yelled.
“Hey Adams, throw me a ball.”
My son knew him as Adams.
Because that was the name on the back of his uniform.
I knew him as relief pitcher Mike Adams.
Because he’s on my fantasy baseball team.
But either way.
Adams picked up a loose ball and threw it our way.
The throw was a little short.
But my son short hopped the ball.
As it hit the ground.
Like he was playing first base.
And presto.
He had himself a souvenir.
The goal of every young boy.
To go home from the game with a souvenir.
That was the same goal for Cooper Stone.
A six-year old fan of the Texas Rangers.
Cooper and his dad Shannon went to a Rangers game a few weeks ago.
They sat in the front row.
Behind the left-field scoreboard.
One of the best seats in the house.
On their way to the game, they stopped at a sporting goods store.
To buy a glove.
Just in case.
Or perhaps they had a feeling that this would be the night.
The special night.
The night that Cooper would head home with a ball.
The night he would never forget.
The Rangers took a 1-0 lead in the top first inning.
Courtesy of a Josh Hamilton RBI.
Cooper’s favorite player.
At the end of the first inning, Hamilton headed out to his position in left field.
Right in front of Shannon and Cooper.
As their luck would have it, moments later a foul ball caromed off an empty seat.
And landed next to Hamilton.
So he picked up that loose ball.
And tossed it into the stands.
Like he had done.
Countless times before.
Hamilton said he had heard a fan scream earlier to throw a ball his way.
So he threw it that way.
The fan was Shannon Stone.
Cooper’s dad.
The throw was a little short.
So Shannon reached over the railing.
To catch the ball.
For his son.
But the throw was shorter than Shannon expected.
And when he reached out to catch it.
He leaned too far forward.
And lost his balance.
Falling over the railing.
20 feet down.
Head first.
Onto a concrete floor.
When the paramedics got to Shannon, he was conscious.
At least conscious enough.
Conscious enough to be heard saying:
“Please check on my son. He is up there by himself.”
Even in his worst moment.
Before anything else.
Shannon was a dad.
The emergency personnel checked on Cooper.
And took him from the front row.
To the front seat.
Of the ambulance.
That drove his dad to the hospital.
But on the way there, things took a terrible turn.
A tragic turn.
The trauma from the fall sent the 39-year old father into “full arrest.”
He was pronounced dead an hour later.
The story shocked the world.
The baseball world.
The Texas world.
My world.
How could this happen?
Why did this happen?
The answer to these questions didn’t matter.
The only thing that did was that a father was gone.
And a son was scarred.
Forever.
I don’t know the Stone family.
But I’m a dad.
I’m a human.
And I can’t help feeling for what they must be going through.
Even though I can’t even come close.
To feeling what they are going through.
A father and a son head to the ballpark.
For a night of perfection.
And what transpired was anything but.
The best of times became the worst of times.
In a matter of seconds.
Recently I visited the Ballpark in Arlington.
For a game.
My friend and I bought the cheap seats.
But snuck into the good ones.
Right behind home plate.
To see a game.
But from the moment I got there.
I couldn’t stop staring.
Staring at left-field.
Right above the scoreboard.
Where the game didn’t matter.
Where a boy lost his dad.
