Never before had I seen such selfishness. Never before had I seen people so self-centered. Never before had I seen such greed. It was all for a “special” baseball. A simple baseball. My eyes had never seen selfishness. This wasn’t “ordinary” selfishness. This was selfishness that makes me ponder whether people actually do care about others. At six years old my outlook on people was radicalized forever. My brain could not fathom this event at the time; however, in retrospection I now understand how powerful selfishness is. Selfishness motivates us to do the unthinkable. This unthinkable happened to me.

It all started when my father and I got tickets to see a Pawtucket Red Sox baseball game at McCoy Stadium. I was so excited for the game. I made sure to wear my favorite, blue Boston Red Sox shirt. A Red Sox hat that I had since I was a toddler crowned my head. Since we were seated in a section that received a lot of foul balls, my dad reminded me, “Make sure you bring your glove in case you catch a ball.” I sprinted into the garage, grabbed my trusty baseball glove, and jumped into the car. On the way to the game, I could not stop thinking about catching a foul ball. I would be on guard for any ball that headed straight towards me. If I caught one, I would tell all my friends about it. Nothing would come between that ball and me.

When we reached the stadium, we showed our tickets to a worker at the entry gate, bought some food and drinks, and wrestled through the mobs of people flooding the passageways. Holding onto my father’s hand with an iron grip, I would not let myself become separated from him. My greatest fear was being lost in a crowd. Even though I had already been to a couple PawSox games, I became very nervous walking past so many people. My small body looked up with curiosity at some of the huge people towering over me. Eventually, we reached our seats, and I stared over the field with awe.

The setting could have not been more perfect. Warmness flooded the air, and an immaculate sunset of reds, purples, and yellows ravaged the sky. Most of the seats were littered with people, but some seats were able to breathe easily. Towering lights flickered with dull, white light in the outfield. Sitting a few rows above the Columbus Clippers’ (the visiting team) dugout, I had a perfect view over the field without any obstructions. The drab background of massive, ashen industrial buildings ruined the serenity of the scene.

My hazel eyes stared directly at the players warming up on the field. I watched in awe (along with great confusion) as some players bent their arms and legs in weird positions. The players jogged up and down the field, and they tossed baseballs to their teammates. Even though I had seen this display before, my curiosity in the players’ actions was limitless. I asked my dad, “What are the players doing?” He responded, “They are stretching. The players need to loosen up their muscles, so they can run fast and throw the ball hard.” Still confused, I asked, “What are muscles?” My dad laughed, “Muscles allow your body to move. They attach to your bones. Without them you could not move at all.” I started poking my arms to feel these so called muscles. I felt this weird, thick meat along with my bones. ’So that’s their name,’ I thought.

Just before the game, groups of singers walked onto the field to sing “God Bless America” and the national anthem. My dad motioned to me to remove my hat, but it was already in my hand over my heart. The singer’s beautiful voice shot throughout the stadium to the crowd’s loud applause. My dad clapped his hands, and I followed his lead. The crowd settled down and prepared to watch the game. The PawSox took the field, and the game began. Right after the first pitch, my dad whispered, “I have a feeling you are going to get a ball today.” I smiled excitedly and said, “Hopefully!” I placed the glove on my hand in case a ball flew to us.

“Who is the parent team of the Clippers?” I asked my dad. I was fascinated by the different levels of teams. “The PawSox are playing the Yankees’ farm team.” I frowned in disgust. My dad told me Red Sox fans hated the Yankees, so I hated them back. Another question popped into my head. “Why are the Clippers called a farm team? They don’t play on a farm.” “I can’t really explain that,” my dad laughed.

I watched with great joy as the pitchers whipped balls towards home plate, and the batters swung their bats like swords in an attempt to hit the ball. The storm of baseballs flying through the air reminded me of a meteor shower. I giggled every time the umpire shrieked, “Strike!” The crowd roared when a PawSox player touched home plate. I cheered along with them. I thought the game couldn't get any better; however, I was still waiting to catch a ball. I remained hopeful.

Towards the middle of the game, a PawSox hitter lined a ball to the shortstop who quickly threw the ball to Columbus’s first baseman to end the inning. As the Clippers players jogged towards their dugout, I, along with other people, stood up to try to get the first baseman to throw the ball to me. Suddenly, his eyes met my eyes, and his arm started to throw the ball towards the stands. I realized the ball was coming straight to me! My dad quickly picked me up and lifted me to the sky to catch the ball. My glove was wide open ready to catch the ball as it fell directly towards my glove. Time seemed to move painfully slow as I waited for the ball to hit the leather of my glove. My thoughts were racing. I could not believe it! I was actually going to get a ball. Suddenly, a hand above me shot into my vision and snatched the ball right before it entered my glove. The ball seemed to disappear. A smile fell off my face.

I turned around to see three men in their twenties smiling with great amusement at their catch. Their contorted smiles were possessed with evil. They slapped their hands together as they applauded their friend’s “amazing” catch. I glanced at them confused. They did not catch my gaze back. They also did not catch the nasty glares coming from people around us. It was almost as if I was nonexistent to them. They were too amused with themselves to care about how they just devastated a small six-year-old’s feelings; however, I did not feel sadness nor did I feel like crying. Confusion was my only emotion. I quickly sat back down in my seat, and my dad tried to comfort me. I did not understand how mean these men could be. How could someone be that mean to me? I didn't do anything. I sat in my seat defeated and tried to pay attention to the rest of the game; however, I had no success. “You’ll get another ball,” my dad whispered as he stared at the men. No words escaped out of my mouth. My lips remained glued together.

A lady sitting near us tried to reassure me and sweetly said, “I’m sure you’ll get another ball.” A slight edge in her voice suggested that she was angry at the three men. I did not get another ball despite my dad’s constant promises that I would get another ball.

I could not comprehend the gravity of this moment at six-years-old. I thought that everyone acted kindly and sweetly towards others. I thought everyone put others before themselves. I thought that everyone was supposed to love each other. I was incredibly wrong. I still cannot accept the harsh reality that some people only care about themselves. It was like a train had hit me and broken all of my fragile bones. I now understand the corruptive power of selfishness. Selfishness destroys our morality to pieces. Selfishness plays with us like a laser toys with a cat. Nine years later, I still have not gotten a ball from a baseball game; however, I don’t wish I was an inch taller to catch that ball. I only wish people weren’t like those three men.