Rocky Colavito’s Foul Ball



As a youngster, my father introduced my brother Rodger (Red) and me to sports. We were already young fans before most kids knew who the Cleveland Browns were. In those days it didn’t cost an arm and a leg to buy a ticket. Red and I always got the cheap tickets to get in and them moved around to find better, unoccupied seats. And we roamed Cleveland Municipal Stadium at will, learning every nook and cranny.

Sitting in Right Field one day with our friend Jerry Szabo, we watched as Cleveland Indian right fielder Rocky Colavito came up to bat. He swung at the first pitch and we saw it fly upwards behind him and onto the stadium roof. I was immediately inspired.

“Rodge, I know how to get on the stadium roof. Let’s go get the ball!” Red didn’t take much coaxing after he learned I really did know how to get onto the Stadium Roof. I had previously seen the ladders and hatches to the roof in highest echelon of the upper deck seats. Sometimes they were open, sometimes closed. Szabo, citing discretion being the better part of valor, opted to stay where he was. Red and I took off.

In the Right Field upper deck I saw the hatch was open. Climbing up and through the opening we gained access to the roof. Like Marines landing at Iwo Jima, we immediately began to sprint in the direction of home plate. Quickly arriving behind the plate, we spotted the baseball, about a foot from the edge. Red crawled over and picked up the ball. We immediately began our return sprint back to right field.

Red was always the better athlete of the two of us. About halfway there I got a pain in my side from running and yelled that I had to stop. He got upset at me and kept running. When I pleaded, he stopped, looking at me in a disgusted fashion. He must’ve had a vision because as we walked past another open hatch a Cleveland Police Officer stuck his head through it and yelled, “Hey, you two, Come here.” .

We were taken to the Stadium Security Office where we knew we were in deep doo-doo. We let it be known that our father was also a Cleveland Police Officer, figuring we might get a reduced sentence. They called him and I imagine dad’s response, after hearing a description of our antics that day, said something to the effect of, “Send those two idiots home!”

By this time it was late in the game, when the entry gates became unattended. Although we were booted out of the stadium, we went to another gate and re-entered. We found Szabo where we left him in Right Field, wondering if we were ever going to come back.

Hindsight, they say, is 20-20. What we had done was calmly surrender to the policeman. What we should’ve done is run like a bat out of hell. Now, come on, what cop can catch a couple of young teenagers who are running for their lives? And we also should’ve looked for an open hatch that was closer to the home plate area!

I’m sure Dad silently contemplated which head doctor he should send his sons to. When we got home he read us the riot act, of course. But we didn’t suffer any just consequences. And after all we had been through, we didn’t even get to keep the baseball.