It was a San Diego Padres game and my baseball idol, Tony Gwynn was up at the plate. The sun was shining directly towards homeplate that day, and I could barely even watched his at-bat, half because it was so sunny and half because I was 400 feet from homeplate. No sooner do I look up than I hear a crack of wood, thousands of spectators raising to their feet, and within seconds, a small, spherical object flying towards me. I cup my hands over my eyes to see better, and almost too late did I notice the ball heading straight for my face. With just enough time to instincts to kick in -- and not a split second more -- I hold my glove hand up almost trying to bat the ball away. It arrives with a thud and I look on the bleachers to see where it went. When my dad started yelling at me a few seconds later, I looked down at my glove, and began screaming at the top of my lungs.