On Thursday night, I attended the first of a four-game series between the Minnesota Twins and the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.
My dad had purchased primo seats—third row behind the Angels' dugout—and the game turned out to be a thrilling affair.
The Angels pulled out their league-leading 31st come-from-behind victory when catcher Mike Napoli hit a walk-off double in the bottom of the 10th inning.
Fortunately, that made up for the odd turn my night took the inning before.
With two men on, one out, and the Angels trailing by two runs in the bottom of the ninth, shortstop Erick Aybar laced a would-be triple down the right field line. It landed foul by inches.
Like any red-blooded sports fanatic, I shot out of my chair with anticipation of a great comeback, only to sink back down in crushing despair.
I joined the rest of the crowd in a collective groan and wondered aloud, “If only.” The guy sitting next to me to a slightly different approach.
He too moaned with disappointment—and then he started drumming out his frustration on my back.
The whole affair took all of half a second, but in that momen...
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