June 18th, 1991. I spent the evening at County Stadium. The Brewers faced the California Angels on a desolate night, at least attendance-wise. I was in my usual Pepsi Fan Club green outfield seats down the left field line with my pop and sister. I had my glove and was ready to go. I even managed to sit in the red seats just a few rows down, which were a price range above my seats. But with no one, and I mean no one, in that section, the usher must've felt especially generous. However, mid-game, I felt the urge to do what I did every game I attended as a kid, the speed pitch. I don't remember how well I threw that night, but I do remember the disappointment I had for the timing of my dismissal beneath the grandstands. While I was gone, Angel slugger Dave Winfield lashed a round-tripper down the left field line and into the section I had all to myself. Plus, to rub salt in the wound, the ball landed directly in front of the only seat pushed down that night, my seat. I never did get a home run ball that summer. . .or ever.