The impulse to become a rangy, sure-handed center fielder is as ancient as our pointed canine teeth, which we use to chew an entire tray of hot wings on the commode.
Your first-edition autographed Bible falls from its high shelf, and you reach out to grab it like a marionette.
When you open a kitchen cupboard, the JC Penney mayonnaise jar spills out, speckled with legless maggots, and your loving arms are poised to catch it.
When a dumb, loser child totters and plummets, your hands reach out again, but a second, stronger, deeper instinct recoils them
smashing his face on the flagstone path and teaching him to do and be better for species survival and advancement.
In a similar manner, a baseball fan stops stomping and clapping to get a hit.
The rooter who interferes with a batted ball is not to be criticized or penalized.
We should praise that rooter for complying to the evolutionary mechanisms that have made us idealized baseball fans through time.