As another fall begins, I will offer some sports-flavored advice to the few freshmen who are aware of this newspaper.

Life is about to come at you full throttle, and how you handle split-second decisions can have a huge impact on your life. In an effort to make the following anecdote relevant (I'm trying really hard), I present this cautionary tale.

I was covering a recent Milwaukee Brewers game for another publication when Brewers' second baseman Bill Hall hit a foul ball straight back. I noticed veterans of the press box closing their laptops and guarding their precious typing machines. The ball ricocheted off the wall behind me, bounced off the desk and landed next to an elderly sportswriter a couple of seats down. He picked up the ball and, in a move that I took to be a gesture of generosity, flipped it to me.

I was able to appreciate the ball for a few seconds. It had a black scuff mark on it, and the glow of official use in a Major League Baseball game.

Then I noticed it.

A horde of kids in the section directly below the press box had apparently been tracking the ball like wild hyenas track a sick gazelle, and their eyes were fixed directly on me. There was a brief moment of silence — like the time between a lightning strike and the following thunderclap — and then the kids erupted in chants of "Give it here! Give it here!"

I froze. I didn't know what to do. I had never caught a ball at a baseball game in my life, and they were asking me to give it up.

At the same time, how could I, a purported professional receiving 15 whole dollars for the article I would write about the game, possibly keep a free souvenir? Souvenirs are the domain of the fan, the hobbyist. Professionals like me don't bother with souvenirs. We straighten our ties, clear our throats and keep typing.

So I sat there.

Meanwhile, the kids were restless, and parents were getting angry. "Just give the ball back!" somebody shouted. Then the other reporters in the press box started looking around for the jerk who was keeping the ball. One reporter got up from the row in front of me and peeked his head over the desk, asking where the ball was. I had no choice. I gave up the ball.

"Let's give it to a kid," he said, taking it and throwing it into the stands.

And that was that.

The lesson is, freshmen, when opportunity comes to you, bat it away like it's a live grenade.

Otherwise, a pack of baseball-crazed kids might rip your larynx out.

This article was published in The Marquette Tribune on August 29, 2005.