[ WP ] Your parents are meeting your fiance ( e ) 's parents for the first time . Over the course of the dinner , it 's discovered that you and your fiance ( e ) have actually met before ...

Sarah loves baseball; that's what attracted me to her first. We live in Chicago, both of us all our lives, so there was always a game to go see. I was a Cubs fan, and she was a Sox fan, but aside from a bit of light teasing, we respected each others' choices in teams. She was kind enough not to point out her team winning the World Series when my own team had n't won in over a century, but still had a champions pennant in her hope chest. That's the kind of woman she was, and I loved her for it. 
 
 We'd met in a sports bar one night when the Cubs and Sox finally drew each other in interleague play. Tickets had sold out almost instantly, and we'd both come to Wrigley Field for the Friday night game to buy from a scalper. It had n't panned out for either of us, nor for a lot of other fans, judging by how crowded it was. I'd found a small table in the corner, and I noticed her standing nearby, shouting at one of the televisions. I offered her a place to sit, bought her a few drinks, and the rest was history ( also, the Cubs won, 5-3! ). We ended up talking for hours past the end of the game, and when the bar closed, we had dinner and some great sex. 
 
 Three years and hundreds of games later, I proposed in the only way I could: through the Jumbotron at US Cellular Field. She said yes ( she later admitted she knew what I had planned ), and the Sox thumped the Royals 11-2. We planned a wedding for the All-Star break, with a honeymoon in five different cities on the West Coast to catch a few games and see different stadiums. But, first things first, we realized that our respective parents had n't even met yet. 
 
 My own parents were divorced, but still on friendly terms. Hers were first-generation immigrants from Portugal, and there had been some friction at first since they were n't expecting her first serious boyfriend to be African-American, but that passed as we got to know each other. We'd each learned our love for the game from our parents; hers had picked it up as a means for integrating into a new culture, and mine had hoped that baseball would be a way for a young black kid from a bad neighborhood to succeed ( they eventually accepted that Harvard Law School was a close second ). We'd grown up going to games, and even though she was hesitant at first, eventually she grew to love the game as well. So naturally, we scheduled our meeting at a Sox-Blue Jays game, followed by dinner at a nice Italian restaurant afterwards. 
 
 Everything went swimmingly; my parents and hers got along like a house on fire, talking about their respective pasts and what they did for a living, how much they loved living in Chicago, and ( of course ) baseball. In the seventh inning, I excused myself to use the restroom. The game was n't exactly a sellout, so we had some good seats along the first base side. As I returned, one of the players from the Jays hit a pop-up foul. I paused on the stairs; unbelievably, it was headed right towards me. I stopped for a moment, and watched as the ball fell right into my waiting hands. I bobbled it for a second but managed to pull it in without dropping it. Then I calmly headed to my seat. Everyone had seen me catch it, and as my family and future family congratulated me on my luck, I handed the ball to Sarah with a kiss. It was n't the first foul I'd caught in my life, so I thought nothing of it. ( The Sox won in the tenth inning, 6-5 ). 
 
 Dinner was outstanding; not only was the food fantastic, but our new family was having the time of their lives. Drinks were had, stories were shared, and even a few recipes were swapped. My parents made plans to visit hers later in the month, and more game days were planned out. It was just as we'd all decided to see the Cubs play the Cardinals that Sarah's father made an off-hand comment. 
 
 `` Maybe this time you'll catch a foul ball,'' he said to Sarah. `` Third time is the charm, right?'' She and her parents laughed uproariously. 
 
 `` This is n't the first time someone's given me a foul ball,'' she explained once she'd composed herself. `` When I was a kid, a young boy gave me a foul ball he'd caught.'' We had a good chuckle, but my father and I exchanged a quick glance. 
 
 `` What game was this?'' he asked. 
 
 `` Well, I was going into fourth grade at the time, so... 1990, I think. Dad,'' she asked, turning to him, `` do you remember who was playing?'' 
 
 `` I do; it was the Cubs and the Mets, August 1990. The first game you and I had gone to.'' My father and I stared at each other. Surely not.... 
 
 I remember that game well; it was the first game my father and I had gone to since the divorce. There had been a lot of tension in the family at the time, I was n't seeing my father as often as I'd wanted, and my mother had thought that this would give us some quality time together. We'd scored some cheap seats near the right field foul pole, and were generally having a good time. Hot dogs and Coke, a little too much sun, and a tight game with the Mets. In the ninth inning, as the Mets tried to rally, one of their players had knocked one right in our direction. The entire stadium held its collective breath; if it was n't foul, the go-ahead runner was on second. We watched as it arced right towards the pole... and narrowly went foul. The crowd cheered as it dinged off the foul side of the pole, but I froze. The ball was coming right towards us. A young girl a few seats ahead of me leapt up to catch it, but it bounced out of her glove. I stretched out my arm, narrowly pulling it in as a multitude of arms around me attempted the same thing. 
 
 My father hugged me tightly, congratulating me on my first foul ball catch. I held it in my hands tightly; there was a yellow scuff along the seam where it had hit the pole. Everyone around me was clapping and asking me what I was going to do with it, but I looked at the young girl who'd lost the catch. She was upset about it, and was sitting quietly, staring at her glove. She'd come prepared for just this, and had n't managed to catch a one-in-a-million opportunity. So, even though I felt as if I'd won the World Series personally, I knew what I had to do. So I stood up, took a deep breath, and headed down to where she sat. I held the ball out and said, `` you can have this.'' She smiled and said thank you, her father shook my hand and thanked me. My father said, `` I'm proud of you'' when I sat back down. ( The Cubs won 2-1. ) 
 
 My father and I did n't say anything about it during the dinner, but we could tell what the other was thinking. Her father chimed in. 
 
 `` When she was young, she did not really like baseball, so I took her to a game to try and encourage her. She almost caught a foul ball, but the nice boy who caught it gave it back to her. Ever since then, she has been a big fan. That boy helped her to love the game, I think.'' 
 
 I volunteered to take Sarah and her parents back to their place, just to sate my curiosity. As we settled in, I asked Sarah about the first foul ball. 
 
 `` Oh, my parents still have it,'' she mentioned. `` It's in their bedroom closet still, I think.'' She stood up and headed upstairs, coming down a moment later. She put it in my hands, the familiar yellow scuff staring back at me once again.
