Ball hawk travels across country to set record

KANSAS CITY, Mo. -- Today is shaping up to be a very bad day for Zack Hample. First of all, it's raining. Big-league baseball teams usually don't play in the rain, but more to the point, they definitely don't take batting practice in the rain. And batting practice is the perfect time for Hample, the most renowned figure in a baseball subculture known as ball hawks, to shine -- when home runs and foul balls fly around the stadium, and when ballplayers are most likely to toss a ball to a fan who asks, and when Hample will have very little competition from other fans. If this rain keeps up, Zack Hample will not shine. Second, Hample is running late. Hample does not like to be running late, even though his definition of late is still more than three hours before today's game between the Kansas City Royals and the Chicago White Sox. After a game the night before in Minneapolis, Hample and a buddy he's brought on this three-week road trip drove halfway to Kansas City, but they didn't leave their hotel in Iowa until nearly noon. This fact did not sit well with Hample. Nor does the fact that, at this moment, his buddy feels no particular rush to get to Kaufmann Stadium, Hample's ball-hawking heaven, where two years ago he scored a then-personal best 32 baseballs in one day. There are baseballs to be caught, records to be set -- can't his friend understand this? -- yet here his friend stands, lollygagging in the hotel lobby while the first fans will walk in the stadium just 30 minutes from now! "We have to get to the stadium," says Hample. "I'll run to the stadium. I don't care. I'll be running all day anyway." When you are a world record-holder, these are things you worry about. Finally, a room is secured. Hample tosses his computer inside, tells his buddy he's heading to the game without him, then meets up with a 19-year-old ball hawk who idolizes Hample as if he were a professional athlete himself. The friend, Garrett Meyer, asks about Hample's numbers for 2011. Hample smiles: He topped 1,000 balls earlier in the week, the first time anyone's done that, nearly double the previous record. The friend's jaw drops open. The car turns into the stadium lot as Hample tells of recent ball-hawking exploits. (Thirty-six balls in Cincinnati, a new single-game record!) Hample jumps from the car, then he pauses before he heads past the tailgaters and autograph hounds. The rain has stopped, so batting practice will be on. There's a childlike glimmer in Hample's 34-year-old eyes. "Let's go catch some balls," he says, then sprints toward the stadium, getting inside with moments to spare. -- These are the rules. These are the secrets Zack Hample has used to become the world's top ball hawk, with 5,681 balls leading into this gray Kansas City evening: - Show up as early as teams allow for batting practice. - Bring a glove. Zack only gives balls to kids who bring gloves. It shows they're trying. - Get a seat that allows for lateral movement. The worst place is in the middle of a row, stuck helplessly as another fan runs to an errant ball. - Focus on players throwing balls to you. There are only so many foul balls or home runs during a game, but you'd be surprised how often players oblige if you ask for a ball. - Know the names of players. And coaches. And umpires. Bring rosters so you can decipher the more obscure players. Address players by their first names; call coaches and umpires by "Mister." - Be aggressive. Don't fight with fans; do jump over seats and railings, do sprint to foul balls in your vicinity, do be loud yet friendly when you ask for a ball. - Learn another language. Hispanic ballplayers are more likely to toss you a ball if you ask in Spanish, Japanese ballplayers more likely if you ask in Japanese. - Bring two ballcaps: home team, away team. Put on the appropriate cap when you ask a player for a ball. - Doesn't hurt to have a third cap, either: an umpire cap, to help charm umpires into a ball. - Be a good judge of fly balls. Take fungo practice if you need to. - Pick your ball-hawking spots. New York stadiums are terrible; Baltimore, San Francisco, Texas and Atlanta are wonderful. - Have stamina. Because one thing you will learn in a day with Hample is this: Snagging major-league baseballs is no can of corn. You may scoff that he'll take a ball any way he can get it, not just home runs: A leftover batting practice ball sitting alone in the seats, or a ball coerced out of a bat boy. But even these are not easy. "A ball is a ball," he says, "and it takes skill to get it." -- "They just hit a ball into the seats -- crap crap crap," Hample says. Typically, this would be a good sign. This would mean the home team is taking batting practice despite the wet field, each swing a chance for Hample to pad his numbers. However, part of the deal with Royal's early-bird tickets is this: Fans can't stand in the outfield until the stadium opens to everyone at 4:30. And not many batting-practice balls reach the seats behind the dugout. And so, as ball after ball rains into the left-field bleachers at Kaufmann Stadium, Hample stands helpless, an usher watching him like a hawk. "This is painful right now," says Hample, his season numbers at a standstill. "I really want to be out there. Jeff Francouer is hitting. He's gonna hit bombs." Today is Zack Hample's 118th big-league game of the season. Kaufmann Stadium is the 27th stadium he's visited so far on this year's 30-stadium tour. He has snagged 1,019 balls since Opening Day, from home-run balls that fell into his glove to balls he's fished from fountains with a vegetable steamer Hample rigged to a piece of string. Hample's previous record had been 543 balls snagged in one season. Last year, though, was a difficult one. He had a stressful deadline for his third baseball book -- a collection of stories about baseballs throughout history -- and at the same time, his father was dying of cancer. So Hample didn't attend many games. His father died near the end of the baseball season at age 84. Two weeks later, a rival ball hawk caught his 544th ball of the year, beating Hample's record by one. So this year Hample doubled down: He would set the record. He powered through a sprained ankle from dashing down the steps at Citi Field in pursuit of a ball, an injury that sent him on a ball-hawking road trip in crutches and a boot. The record came at the All-Star Game in Phoenix, number 545 a third-out ball tossed up from Prince Fielder. Hample set a new goal: 1,000 balls. He got it last week in Cincinnati. Now he's shooting for 1,088, double the previous record. But today in Kansas City, even as the rain disappears, Hample has a feeling this could still be a very bad day. Players walk past him, 20 feet away. Hample raises both arms to get their attention. None look. "John, wanna play catch?" he says to White Sox pitcher John Danks; no response. "What's up, Will?" he says to White Sox pitcher Will Oman, garnering a nod and, with luck, a toss-up later. Then a Royals pitcher wanders down the third-base line, ball in glove. Hample whistles. The player, Nate Adcock, looks up. Hample raises his arms. Adcock wings the ball his way. It lands in the empty seats. "Here it is," he smiles, holding a bright-white pearl. "The streak is alive." The streak now stands at 779 major-league games. That's how long Hample has been to major-league games without being shut out. The last time he didn't catch a ball was Sept. 2, 1993. Ball number 5,682 is what ball hawks call a "pearl" -- a barely-used ball. These are found in batting practice, before umpires rub game balls with mud. There are other nicknames for the souvenirs. There are "game-used balls," which, all things considered, are preferable. Some old-school ball hawks call anything not caught on the fly a "garbage ball." "At-em" balls are hit right at you, and "Easter eggs" are lone balls hidden among empty seats. Ramon Castro, a White Sox backup catcher, walks by. Zample raises his old, cracked Mizuno high in the air. Castro whizzes a ball at him: Snap, right in the glove. Ball number two. Balls three and four come soon after, foul balls Hample chases down. The stadium opens up, and finally, Hample can head to the outfield. However, elementary-aged competition is all around him. "Jake!" Hample yells at pitcher Jake Peavy. But Peavy tosses two ball up to a brother and sister, maybe five years old, each with a glove. "I can't compete with that," Hample says. Alexei Ramirez is up. Hample stands behind the left-field seats in front of a fountain. Ramirez hits a deep blast. Hample gets under it, positioning himself in the walkway. He braces one arm against the railing. The ball descends toward earth, and Hample pushes off the railing, launches himself skyward, stabs at the ball with his glove, and Splash! Missed it. New strategy. Zack brings out the vegetable steamer. He tosses it in the fountain, trawls under the ball, andbingo! Except an usher is walking toward him. "You do that and everybody will do it," the usher says. "Everybody should be able to do it," Hample replies, stuffing the ball in a Ziploc bag. This is something Hample does not understand: Why some teams restrict one of the most exciting moments for fans, when, snagging a ball of yarn wrapped in leather and held together with 108 double-stitches, a fan becomes part of the game. "I don't want to feel like I'm in New York when I'm in Kansas City," says Hample, who was ejected from New York's old Shea Stadium four times for snagging too many balls. "Kaufmann Stadium is officially not as fan-friendly as it used to be." -- How does a 34-year-old man become a ball hawk? The more confounding question: Why? Hample grew up in Manhattan, his mother a bookstore owner, his father in a profession as childlike as ball-hawking: cartoonist and author of children's books. Baseball was Hample's only love, playing into college. Since 14 he took the subway to Yankee Stadium or Shea Stadium. He'd go by himself so his ball-hawking wasn't encumbered by friends. "It's like why people climb mountains," Hample says. "I just do it to see if I can do it." Ball-hawking became the stat Hample counted on the back of his imaginary baseball card, his own version of fantasy baseball. But more than any stat, he loves the story behind each ballm a connection to famous ballplayers and the game Hample loves. He's caught plenty of historic blasts: The final home run hit by a Met at Shea Stadium (Carlos Beltran). Two of the final 10 home runs hit in old Yankee Stadium (Jason Giambi and Johnny Damon). Barry Bonds' 724th. Mike Trout's first home run earlier this year, which incidentally is one of Hample's top highlight reel catches, where he tracked the ball, looked away, jumped over a row, then jumped at the last second. Hample heads toward the visitors' dugout at the end of batting practice and pops on a White Sox cap. Perhaps 60 people are crowded around, all trying for a ball. Nearby is Autumn Broockerd, a 6-year-old girl at the game with her dad. She snagged her first two balls today. Not far away is someone nicknamed Big Glove Bob, after the baseball glove he brings. A couple rows back stands Tom Ink, who met Hample at a game a couple years ago. Ink brought his two sons, ages 8 and 6, to catch balls with dad. "I'm 48 years old," the father says, "but I'm still a kid when it comes to baseball." The game begins. When a righty is up, Hample stands in left field, the more likely place a home-run ball would land. Then a lefty comes up, and Hample sprints to right field. He does this 36 times during the course of nine innings. An 8-year-old boy catches on and follows him. An Alex Rios home run falls into the left-field bullpen, but the ball is tossed to a kid. A Mike Moustakas home run to right-center is headed directly at Hample, but the ball falls short of his reach, barely clearing the fence. By the later innings, Hample looks dejected. He's stuck at 5 balls for the day, the ones from batting practice. He sees a kid with a glove. "You get a ball today?" Hample asks him. The boy shakes his head. "You want one?" The kid's eyes light up. When a fan died earlier this year, falling as he tried to catch a ball thrown by the Rangers' Josh Hamilton, Hample's first reaction was selfish: Would this be the end of players throwing balls to fans? It wasn't. The only difference Hample has noticed is a bit more caution by players, like the outfielder who motioned for Hample to move a few rows back from the outfield fence before tossing a ball. "People can die doing anything," Hample says. "You can choke on a bite of food and die. Does that mean you should eat all your food pureed?" It's the ninth inning. Alex Gordon finishes his warm-up tosses in left then turns to the stands. Hample holds his arms up. Gordon lobs a ball his way -- straight into the fountain. Hample pulls out his vegetable steamer and tosses it into the fountain. Fans gather round. An usher walks over just as Hample pulls the ball from the fountain: number six on the day, number 5,687 for his career. Soon, the game is over, and Hample walks from the stadium. He'll be back the next day, snagging three more. "I'm in my own world when I'm at a baseball game," he explains. "All the stresses in life go away, and the most important thing is catching a ball."