Kick Out the Sports!
by Bob Cook

Bob Cook's weekly ruminations on sports appear Mondays in Flak.

A ball isn't just a ball. In certain hands, a ball can transform into an Orb of Confusion, the device that Mermaid Man, the elderly superhero on "SpongeBob SquarePants," tosses to turn his conniving, powerful foes into simpering, drooling idiots.

There's just something about a ball that can turn any sane human being into a simpering, drooling Orb of Confusion victim. Or if the game is hockey, a Puck of Confusion victim. (None of this is to be confused with the Temptations' 1970 hit, "Ball of Confusion," which has nothing to do with a ball, per se.) Perhaps it's because the ball is the centerpiece of most any game. Its idiomatic use denotes control of a competitive situation. "The ball is in your court." "If they don't play fair, take your ball and go home." "I balled your girlfriend."

What's the most valuable praise a player can get after a pro football game? The game ball. Grown men weep with joy when they are handed a ball, similar to the one they used during the game, as a reward for a job well done. Many of these men are millionaires many times over, yet those game balls will be remembered and preserved forever, unless the recipient runs into some hard times and has to hock the ball on eBay.

It's a reaction not dissimilar to the intense pleasure members of my 7-year-old son's Pinto League baseball team felt when their coach gave them a game ball. My son has his beat-up-looking baseball, with "Game ball/Cubs vs. Orioles/5-4-04," written in permanent marker, on his dresser. However, unless he grows up to become the second coming of Mark Prior, my son probably will never be able to sell his ball on eBay.

Still, seeing his excitement inspired me to shell out $140 for miniature basketballs to hand out to the most valuable player each game for the 6- and 7-year-old coed hoops team I coach. When I handed a ball out at our team's first game Jan. 7, you'd think, by the hushed reaction, that I had just knighted somebody. Such is the Orb of Confusion — first, that I blew $140 on mini-balls, and second, that their presentation became a quasi-religious ceremony.

You don't even have to earn a ball to fall prey to its power. One of the first innovations of the Arena Football League, a way it meant to communicate it was the ultimate fan-friendly experience, was that if a ball goes into the stands, the fan who catches it gets to keep it.

Meanwhile, a foul ball hit into the stands is fought over by fans who lust like pit bulls for the last scrap of meat, whether it's off the bat of a major leaguer, or off the bat of a player in the sub-Class A Frontier League. For those fans who don't have hot bodies that appeal to the amorous instincts of major leaguers, their feeling that a foul ball is a relatively easy way to get a piece of a player creates an Orb of Confusion.

But certainly collector lust feeds much of the powers of the Orb. Sensing a potential financial windfall, fans sued each other for possession of Barry Bonds' single-season record 73rd home run — and then watched their legal bills eat up every penny, and more, the ball brought from sale. A few years later, an investment banker bought $25,000 worth of outfield seats at Dodger Stadium, then resold them to fans who promised, in writing, to hand him Bonds' 700th career home run ball if they caught it. Bonds actually hit his 700th home run in San Francisco, whereupon it was sold at auction for more than $800,000.

Recently, one person has gotten a particularly potent hit off the Orb of Confusion, reacting as both a player and a fan.

For most of his career, Boston Red Sox backup infielder Doug Mientkiewicz was known mostly for having the most difficult-to-spell last name in Major League Baseball. Now, among Boston fans, he's the doofus who won't give a particularly precious ball back to the Red Sox Nation, just like Andrew Jackson wouldn't give Georgia back to the Cherokee Nation.

Mientkiewicz happened to be the late-inning defensive replacement at first base when the Boston Red Sox were about to wrap up their first World Series victory in 86 years. Ever since pitcher Keith Foulke tossed the ball, Mermaid Man-style, for Mientkiewicz to catch for the Series' last out, this formerly mild-mannered utilityman has become a simpering, drooling victim of the Orb of Confusion. Mientkiewicz spirited the ball away, put it in a safe-deposit box and got it an official certificate of authenticity, the kind of thing star-naming registries send you to prove a speck you can't see in the sky does carry your name, as per the $54 you sent.

Mientkiewicz, who earned $2.8 million last year, initially told the radio station WEEI the ball, once sold, could put one of his kids through his alma mater, Florida State. That may not seem ambitious, but between the rising cost of college and the less-than-expected prices for Bonds' historic home-run balls, he is probably being realistic.

After fan outcry, Mientkiewicz said he was joking about the money part, and that he and the Red Sox are discussing who may have rights to this magic ball. Still, the Mientkiewicz case proves that no matter how jaded, how professional, how sane you are, the right ball in the right hands is an Orb of Confusion. Commence drooling.

E-mail Bob Cook at bobc@flakmag.com.