A moment in my life as an Orioles fan:
Summer, 1997. I'm at Oriole Park at Camden Yards with my Dad, sitting out in the bleachers. We have an up-close view of the misadventures of Geronimo Berroa, one of a laundry list of right field butchers in the recent history of the Birds. Others who come to mind are Jay Gibbons, Bobby Bonilla, even (briefly) Pete Incaviglia and Chris Sabo. Chris Sabo! During the game, a deep drive is hit into the right field corner. We stand to get a better look. Berroa races - as much as he was ever able to race - after the ball, disappearing; our view is obstructed by the out-of-town scoreboard that creates a sort of mini-Monster from the right field fence. Those of us in the bleachers share a tense moment of uncertainty before the roar of the rest of the crowd confirms the improbable. He caught it! We exhale. Dad goes into an impromptu comedy routine, clutching his chest like Redd Foxx and swaying on his feet. "Oh my God! I don't believe it! He caught the ball! It's a miracle!"
For some reason, that is my only memory of Geronimo Berroa in an Orioles uniform. It's also proof that cynicism is hereditary.