A legend to me, Bobby Pfeil! 1969 my first major league baseball game, Mets vs. Giants at Shea. Right before my father and I left to take the 7 train from 74st., my mother said “make sure to catch a foul ball for Robby.” My father says “Don’t say that, it’s not likely.” Of course 7 year old me keeps asking my dad if he’s to catch a foul ball. Well you can probably see where this is headed… we’re in the Mezzanine and sure enough a ball off the bat of Bobby Pfeil heads right towards us and my dad makes a one handed catch. What are the odds? And, I still remember the look on my mothers face when we got home and I had a ball in my hand. Priceless and I will always remember Bobby Pfeil! Box Score in comments. Edit to add: My father wanted to put the ball in one of those acrylic baseball holders but 7 year old me wanted to play with the ball with his friends. Of course, we played with it in the rain for hours and the ball didn’t survive and fell apart. That’s a 7 year old brain for you.

For most baseball fans, legends are made of Hall of Fame numbers, clutch performances, or iconic moments replayed for generations. But for me, one of my greatest baseball legends is Bobby Pfeil, a name not often found in the record books but forever etched in my memory. His name is tied to an unforgettable moment in my life—the day I attended my first Major League Baseball game and witnessed an event that defied the odds.

It was the summer of 1969, and my father and I were heading to Shea Stadium to watch the Mets take on the Giants. Excitement coursed through me as we prepared to leave our home near 74th Street to catch the 7 train. Just as we were heading out, my mother playfully said, “Make sure to catch a foul ball for Robby.” My father chuckled and replied, “Don’t say that—it’s not likely.” At seven years old, though, I clung to that idea. Throughout the ride to the ballpark and even as we took our seats in the mezzanine, I kept asking my father if he was going to catch a foul ball. He kept trying to temper my expectations, but the idea had already taken hold in my young mind.

The game itself was a blur, a mixture of towering fly balls, the roar of the crowd, and the simple joy of being at Shea for the first time. Then, in what felt like an impossible stroke of fate, a foul ball was hit high into the air—right off the bat of Bobby Pfeil. As I watched it soar, time seemed to slow down. The ball arced perfectly toward us, and my father, reacting with the reflexes of a seasoned fan, reached up and made a clean one-handed catch. I was in shock. My mother’s casual remark had somehow turned into reality, and I was now holding a baseball from my first-ever game. The sheer improbability of it all left my father shaking his head in amazement.

When we got home that night, I can still picture the look on my mother’s face. It was a mixture of disbelief, delight, and the kind of silent acknowledgment that sometimes the universe conspires to create moments of magic. A simple night at the ballpark had transformed into a lifelong memory, cemented by that one catch. My father, ever the protector of mementos, suggested we put the ball in an acrylic display case to preserve it forever. But, as any seven-year-old would, I had different ideas.

That baseball was not meant to sit on a shelf—it was meant to be played with. My friends and I took it outside, tossing it around in the streets, playing with it for hours, even as the rain started to fall. The ball, once a pristine artifact of my first game, began to wear down. Eventually, the seams gave way, and it fell apart, unable to withstand the abuse of childhood play. At the time, I didn’t regret it. To me, it was just a baseball, something to be used rather than displayed. But as the years passed, I realized what a treasure that ball had been—not because of its physical worth, but because of the incredible story behind it.

Today, the ball itself is gone, but the memory remains as vivid as ever. Bobby Pfeil might not be a household name, but for me, he will always be a legend. That game, that catch, and that improbable moment shared between a father and son at Shea Stadium will always be one of my most cherished baseball memories. Even without the ball, the story lives on, proving that sometimes, the magic of baseball isn’t just in the wins and losses, but in the moments that defy the odds and last a lifetime.