Columnist Susan Snyder: Baseball seams a bit dangerous

Tuesday, May 10, 2005 | 8:19 a.m.

How much could I get on eBay for a co-worker with a bruise shaped like a cross?

Granted, the image isn't as resilient as a petrified grilled cheese sandwich bearing the likeness of the Virgin Mary. And my colleague's wife would (probably) object if we tried to place him in a plastic bag for 10 years to preserve it.

But, the Sacred Shiner ought to be worth something -- if only because it could put Las Vegas and baseball on the map. Now that Florida lawmakers have decided against building a new stadium for the Marlins in Miami, officials reportedly are considering Sin City as a possible new home.

Could the foul line drive that smacked my co-worker under his ribs Saturday night be a sign?

Saturday was a great night for a baseball game -- as is any night, when the company is paying for the tickets.

Not sure in what inning the sign was bestowed, as I was too busy glancing back to check the line of people trailing out of the Third Base Grill. With each passing pitch, my chances of getting French fries before the game ended looked slimmer than the 51s chances of scoring a run.

And the only reason I go to baseball games is for the food. Everyone knows that hot dogs, chips, fries, beer and ice cream have no calories when consumed at a ball park. For some, it's passion for the sport. For me, it's passion for anything fried, on a stick or in a cone.

Alas, the fries were not meant to be. The line for a beer was a lot shorter, and as it turns out, more interesting.

While The Other wandered off in search of ice cream, I stood in line for my one, obligatory baseball-game beer. In seconds Cashman Field security guards encircled the guy behind me, who seemed a little sloppy but was not nearly as offensive to watch as the 51s' pitcher loading the bases on walks in the first inning.

"You need to go back to your seat," the guard said him. "You're drunk, loud and obnoxious."

Jeepers, we had 250,000 more of those from California down on the Strip. We are so conflicted.

By the time The Other and I had settled back into our seats, the Sacramento River Cats had scored five or six runs.

Did I mention the weather was nice?

Suddenly, "CRACK!" The ball came off the bat and straight at us like a little leather meteor. Two co-workers sitting in front of us parted like the Red Sea and the ball flipped the hair of one of them as it skimmed past her head.

Then, "OW!" It bounced under the rib cage of the co-worker seated to our left and popped into the air.

We crowded around and watched in amazement as the Blessed Bruise began appearing before our very eyes. We discussed who could have been hit, who almost was hit and wondered who caught the ball. We did everything except obtain an ice pack for the poor, whimpering soul on whose person the omen was revealed.

Ice was delivered minutes later by roughly the same number of paramedics sent to a school bus crash. Thankfully, their aid efforts didn't dull the image. Ice is no match for a holy vision.

So, what's your starting bid?

We'll throw in a chicken tender shaped like Tommy Lasorda's head.