The team mobs Sanchez after the final out. Photo by artolog. (www.flickr.com/photos/artolog)

That week in July, I had driven 800 miles from Arizona to California. And twice that week, I had already driven the 50 miles from San Jose to San Francisco to catch two games. So when Friday rolled around, after all that previous driving that week, I just couldn’t stomach driving up to the city again for a third game — and to see a guy with a 5.30 ERA to boot.

So my brother found a friend to take the tickets off my hands. And when he did, I actually joked, “What’s Sanchez going to do? Throw a no-hitter?” And then I said: “Watch him give up 4 runs in the first, and I’ll be glad I didn’t make the drive up.”

That evening, I stayed in the San Jose area. My wife dragged me to a tech party, and every half an hour, I “watched” the game with MLB.com’s real-time pitch-by-pitch application on my BlackBerry. When Sanchez tossed three no-hit innings, I texted my brother, half-joking that Sanchez was throwing a no-hitter. Then the 6th inning, seventh inning and eighth inning came, and still no hits. By that time, I had stopped being social at the party, and just stared at my BlackBerry. Thank goodness I had a drink in my hands.

By the 9th inning, I ditched the party and scrambled to the parking lot to hear the rest of the game on our car radio. As Sanchez mowed them down in the 9th, I was ecstatic it was happening, but was also overwhelmed with an intense feeling of remorse because I could have been there.

Instead, this was my sucky view.

I have been in the stands for many of the Giants’ memorable moments at AT&T Park: J.T Snow hitting a pinch-hit three-run homer in the 9th inning to temporarily tie the game during the 2000 playoffs against the Mets, Bonds’ hitting his 500th home run, and the Giants clinching the National League Championship Series against St. Louis in 2002. It’s a great feeling when you’re screaming at the top of your lungs and high-fiving complete strangers.

I have never seen a no-hitter before.

Later that evening when we got home, I caught the replay of the game on TV, and during the post-game celebration, an excited Giants announcer Duane Kuiper said something like: “You come to the ballpark, you never know what you will see.”

I turned to my wife and said, “You don’t go to the ballpark, and you don’t know what you will miss!”

Argh.

It will be a while before I give away tickets to a game again.

That means rearranging the baseball section of the bookcase, where he grabs copies of my Giants book, pushes the others out of the way, and then puts mine back in with the front cover facing forward. Then he takes a picture of his handiwork with his BlackBerry and emails it over to me.

Just this past week, I learned that my cousin Clarence does the same thing when he’s at a Sacramento Barnes and Noble near his workplace.

I love my family. They go to the book store, buy whatever it is they’re looking for – the latest bestseller, a magazine, maybe a cup of joe – then they go and see if my book is in stock, and if it is, they give it some love.

The problem with this redecorating is that you can get caught doing it. That was the case two Decembers ago when Little M was in a San Jose Barnes and Noble, where the book was actually on the aisle tables at the front of the store. Prime real estate, yes, but apparently not prime enough for Little M because she impulsively began to move my book from the back of the table to the front. And as she was doing so, an employee – who was right to be alarmed – asked what in the world did she think she was doing?

“My dad wrote this book and I just wanted more people to be able to see it,” she told the employee.

Amazingly enough, the employee accepted that answer and let her do her thing.

This is guerrilla marketing at its best.

The hardcover came out in 2005. And the paperback, which was slightly updated, came out in 2007. I’m just happy the book has had such a long shelf life.

Last Wednesday, sure enough, a foul ball came my way. A line drive, hit hard, screamed toward me from several hundred feet away like a heat-seeking missile. My initial thought was: holy sh–. It’s coming my way!

So I stood.

And in those three or four seconds, I had these frenzied thoughts:

I can catch it!

Wait, it’s going to hurt!

But I can catch it!

The ball was above me. I knew I had to reach high above my head and jump a little for the ball to hit square on my palms. Should I reach out and touch someone, or in this case, something? I was at AT&T Park, after all. But did I really want to hurt my hand, maybe break it, for a stupid foul ball?

Yes!

No!

I was wracked with indecision. I had a slight buzz from one beer but was far from being inebriated to do something stupid, like injure my left hand, which I needed for my livelihood. But hey, if the ball takes out one hand, I could still peck away on the keyboard with the other hand!

Here’s a view from our seats, so you can get a sense of the trajectory of the ball.

My sensibility won out.

As the ball zoomed toward me at a million miles per hour, I half-heartedly reached up as high as I could with my left hand. But I did not jump like I knew I needed to, and so the ball grazed the top of one finger, slammed into an empty seat two rows above me with a loud clank, and then it richocheted, hard, off a fan’s forehead. The guy looked OK, but then a few minutes later, he got up and left, and I never saw him again. Ouch.

I slunk bank into my chair. My finger that touched the ball stung. And so did my pride. I wished I had another beer to ease the pain.

“You know,” said my buddy Pete, who never left his seat next to me. “You would have caught it if you had a glove.”

Ack!

So, for the next few innings, I debated in my head whether I did the right thing. I’ve never caught a foul ball. I kind of went for it. But I didn’t really. To make myself feel better, I concluded I did do the right thing. In reality, the chances of me catching it bare-handed were slim to none. And well, at least my palm didn’t feel like that poor guy’s forehead.