MURRIETA, Calif. - I became a member of a small but exclusive club this past weekend. The induction was swift, painful and thankfully, due to some fortunate timing, was not broadcast all over southwest California by my friend, the weekend sports anchor.

Membership criteria to this small but exclusive club is not for the feint of heart. You can, however, be inducted if you faint, but it's much better to remain conscious, so that you can experience every moment as thousands of people look in your direction to see exactly how a baseball made contact with your head.

Friday night at the ballpark was just what I needed after a busy work-week. The Lake Elsinore Storm minor league baseball team was set to start playing at 7:05.

Because I had an eighth grader playing drums in the pre-game show, we got to the stadium with an hour to spare. It was perfect baseball weather. The Storm Stadium, set just off beautiful Lake Elsinore, was in game mode and the stands were filling up fast.

Because my company was in the middle of negotiating a sponsorship agreement with the Storm, I was able to acquire some comp tickets. They were good ones, too, right along the third base line, close to the field, where the action is.

Just before game time, I spotted my friend and TV co-anchor, Mark Stanley. We work weekends together at KZSW-TV in Temecula, Calif. One of the best sports journalists around (some of you may know him; he did some freelance sports reporting in Albuquerque for KOAT-Channel 7 about a year ago) Mark was out pulling together a package for our weekend newscast.

I, on the other hand, sat in my complimentary seat, feeling vulnerable to wayward foul balls.

Mark and his girlfriend stopped by to chat, but left the stadium soon after. Thank God for that. Knowing that good sports journalists keep their eyes on the action, Mark certainly would have caught on film the moment that the foul ball found my head out of all the thousands of other heads in the ballpark that evening.

Now, as an occasional softball player, I've experienced unwelcome contact with the game ball. Those hurt, but at least I saw them coming.

However, this particular rock-hard baseball rocketed out of the field and into my unsuspecting skull as I was walking towards the popcorn line. Yes, I was a moving target, making my way toward outrageously priced snacks, when it happened.

The right side of my head was assaulted with what felt like a swipe of a sledgehammer. I remember thinking "Ow!" but I didn't cry out, fall down, pass out or have any other expected reaction to that kind of impact.

In retrospect, I guess my husband and a few ex-boyfriends were right: I am hard-headed.

Within moments, all the people in the vicinity stopped, stared and talked among themselves. I felt like a freakish celebrity for a moment in time. I didn't like it at all. Once the Storm's EMT personnel arrived on the scene I insisted on being walked out of that area, preferably to an area with a closed door.

Within minutes, Jaime, the nice EMT guy, was flashing a light into my eyes and taking my blood pressure. My 10-year-old had made a beeline to find my husband who in the meantime was wondering who caught the foul ball on the other end of the park.

Having made the dreaded "Carrying The Wife's Purse" walk through the stadium, Mike could withstand almost anything. Anything but his wife in pain.

I won't get into the details of how I deal with things that hurt, but I must say, I do appreciate the beautiful roses I received from my husband and kids the next day - two dozen. (If that's what it takes to receive unsolicited bouquets from my men, it's hardly worth it.)

With my skull intact but hurting, I decided to research the odds of fans getting slammed with foul balls.

I learned to appreciate that the flowers I received were for me, the living, and not me, the dead popcorn purchasing fan. According to a guy who keeps such statistics on the Internet, most minor league teams see about 35 bumps and bruises to fans each season. The death total for the history of professional baseball only reaches five. That's good to know - unless you're one of the five dead fans.

Next week, it's my fifth grader's turn to play his saxophone at the Storm's pre-game show. Yes, I'll be there, but thanks to my other employer, I'll be enjoying the game from a much safer box seat, where your snacks are brought to you, and the foul balls will have to fly much farther to find me.