There’s a tiny chance that at any moment during a baseball game you’ll be forced to deal with a foul ball: a rock-hard leather sphere hurtling toward your face. It's a prospect at once terrifying and exciting. You could end up with a sore lump on your skull, sure, but you could also come home with a rare prize that advertises your luck, reflexes, and athleticism. Then there's the foul ball I caught. I was a kid at a Red Sox–Orioles game watching batting practice, and the guy next to me managed to snag two balls. He tossed the second one to me. I was ecstatic. Except, if you ask me where that ball is now, I couldn’t tell you. As cool as it was to get a real ball, I never really felt attached to it. I didn't have to work to get it. Some guy just handed it to me. Without the whole “leather sphere hurtling toward my face” part, it was just another piece of sporting equipment lying around the house. Now replace “baseball” with “bird” and “hurtling...