I've been oh-so-close several times.
The first, which would have meant something, was Roberto Clemente's second-to-last world series home run, which passed just over my head.
More recently, I had one fall between me and the row in front of me in Boston, and was just not fast enough to grab it. I was reminded of an old baseball book I read that talked about a scramble for a ball in which a suburban kid "wanted" it but the urban kid "had to" have it.
A number of balls "presented" to me as part of meeting players with my uncle charlie, including signed ones from Brooks Robinson, Billy Martin, and the unlikely combo of Lou Brock, Enos Slaughter, and Bob Gibson.
I also witnessed this one, , though from behind such that at first I didn't understand why people were oohing and aahing .
I have, on the other hand, been on the collecting end of an errant NHL puck in warm ups, which I presented to Aardvark Jr. as it would have likely killed him if he had been sitting in his seat.