Watching the HR derby last night, I couldn’t help but be alternately amused and disgusted at the antics of the floating fan base taking in a view of the right-field facade of PNC Park. These people, in their brightly coloured canoes and kayaks, were so jacked up to watch the derby that they chose their obstructed view seats with care - only about 175 feet of concrete stood between them and the action.

They couldn’t have stayed home and actually watched the hit-a-thon, they had to go down to the waterfront because they knew one thing everyone else knew, but about which they didn’t particularly care: the balls were coming.

I’ve noticed over the past couple years, that the fervor of ball-enticed fans has escalated to a level shared only by addicts looking for a fix, and Elsa, in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when she tried to save the Holy Grail from falling into a crevice. A foul ball, a ground-rule double, or a HR in a 12-3 game; it doesn’t matter. People want the ball, crave the ball; they must have that ball!

I caught a ball once at a Jays game. I took it home, played catch with it, and then left it out in the backyard. It eventually rotted, giving me the opportunity to unwind the layer of thread and get to the the rubber core. I didn’t really care at the time because, guess what, I had other baseballs!

The ball-crazy fans last night - who bailed from their watercraft at the sight of a ball - were obviously representatives of some American Legion team that had lost its last ball in a neighbour’s backyard. And the neighbours dog was so big and ugly that a legend about its ball-eating tendencies had spread throughout the neighbourhood…wait, that was Sandlot.

Jumping in a river for a baseball is idiotic. Repeatedly jumping in the river for multiple baseballs means you should be fired from your job and forced into some kind of class or social society that deals with people from all facets of life who get overly excited at other trifles. Like people who drive down the street honking when their team wins. Or anyone who wears an official jersey with their own name stitched on the back.

And you don’t even want to know what happens when a bat makes its way to the stands - or even close to the stands. “Hey, it’s a bat!” Considering anyone outside of the major leagues would be hard-pressed to remember the last time they used a wooden bat, it’s really amazing how much fans want that piece of lumber. Then they can put it in the closet, forget about it, and sell it on EBay, or at a garage sale. It might even be passed down in the family, a cherished relic: “Son, this is the bat Melky Cabrera used to go 1-4 when the Yankees beat the Royals 5-2 in 2006. Love it.”