Oct. 13--When a baseball is smacked up, up and out of Wrigley Field, have you ever wondered where it ends up?
More than 5,000 times, it's landed in Moe Mullins' glove.
Behind the ballpark, he gathers for games and practices with about eight friends, just like they did Monday for Game 3 of the National League Division Series.
They hold gloves on their left hands and drink Gatorades with their right. And on the corner of Waveland and Kenmore Avenue, they wait.
A few sit in fold-out chairs, but Mullins, 65, elects to stand. His legs are shoulder-length apart, like he's in the grass just inside the park, ready to field a ball. He listens to the game on his headset. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes are scanning the sky.
Monday's crowd was big. The playoffs promise extra people, and many walked the length of Waveland before the game. As batters took practice swings, an occasional ball popped out of the park where Mullins and his friends shuffled to snag it.
Mullins misses one. It took a bounce before someone younger and quicker grabbed it. He smiled, shrugged it off and turned back around toward the ballpark -- a wall of brick and green steel you can hardly see over now, after two major expansions -- and readied himself again, just like he did when he was 8, the first time he came out to the corner. Just like he has for most home games in the 57 years since.
"I grew up a few blocks down Kenmore," he said, before glancing back up at the sky, glove folded under his right arm. He's been on "Oprah" and been interviewed on the radio, for books, for movies. But he only mentions it after being asked. "I just enjoy it. I keep a pretty low profile."
While the 3,990-square-foot video board erected at the back of the left-field bleachers this spring has blocked some of the action, the group has remained a fixture outside the ballpark
Some fans Monday stopped and glanced at the crew, curious. Sometimes they ask questions.
"And when we tell them, they'll say, 'Really? Come on,' " said Ken Vangeloff, who started playing along with the ballhawks group in 1990, at that same corner. "And then -- crack! -- one comes out."
It's hard to sell opting out of seeing the game in person to sit outside instead, waiting for balls that might not come. Especially as playoff fever heats up. But it's not really about selling anyway.
Of the 3,400 or so Vangeloff's caught over the years, he hasn't sold one.
"I've got bad knees, a bad back. I'm old and creaky," said the 53-year-old. "But when a ball's coming up, nothing hurts anymore."
He said he remembers the first ball he ever caught. To replicate the feeling, he seizes up, his eyes wide, his knees shaking.
"It's still a rush," he said. "It lasts about 10 seconds, but it's a good 10 seconds."
Late in the game Monday, no one in the group had experienced that adrenaline boost because, although there were plenty of home runs, no balls had been blasted out of the park.
Taller video boards and smaller players have changed the scene. About 100 balls a season used to pop out over Wrigley during a game. This year Mullins said the count is at 67.
"The expansions and the lack of steroids has really cut down on our ball collection," he said, blunt but serious. "I go with the flow."
Maybe because behind the ballpark, you're still under the lights. You can hear the crowd shout in unison, "Let's go Cub-bies, let's go Cub-bies." And here, it's not hard to feel like they're cheering for you too.
Dave Davison, 47, has been catching balls on the corner for 25 years. He is excited the Cubs are doing well. But nothing would make him want to sit in the stadium and watch, stagnant and stuck, with a better view but far from the action.
"If you could get me a ticket right now, front row, I wouldn't do it," he said. "It's more fun out here."
That's how Rick Buhrke feels too. He is the oldest of the group. At 69, he played baseball most of his life. He started the same year he first showed up at Wrigley, as a preteen, waiting for practice hits and homers.
"I always wanted to be a major-league ballplayer, but I never was good enough," Buhrke said. "This is kind of like being part of it."
Where the balls actually end up, after the games end and everyone heads home, depends on who you ask.
Vangeloff, who's never sold one, said his are in storage bins. The homers, some signed, are in display cubes throughout his house.
Buhrke keeps them in display cases. The overflow balls end up in trash can bins to store. He donates some to little league teams, or grabs random ones to play catch with on occasion.
Mullins, who has the most, keeps them in fish tanks. Even the famous homers, which he marks with their player and date before tossing them in too. He has three tanks, and each holds about 1,800 balls.
"My wife was getting tired of me filling all the drawer space," he said.
One day, he hopes to donate them to the Cubs, for the team's future museum. He smiles to himself when he mentions it, but for now, he's still collecting.
He'll be on his corner Tuesday. And every other game and practice, right up until the big win, one day, when he'll have "just a big smile on my face."
He'll smile again the season after that, ready for the next practice pop-up or homer. And the next. And the next.
rcrosby@tribpub.com
