I walked over to the fence near first base and became a silent spectator. I saw a freckle-faced kid sitting alone in the dugout staring at his friends on the field. And as it so happens, I found myself drifting back through the cobwebs of memory to a time when I played ball myself: Evansville, circa 1967.
I had "graduated" in age to try out for Little League at Harwood Elementary School. The new coach's name was "Joe," too, and he vaguely resembled Jabba the Hut with a bad Beatles' hair cut. It was fairly well known that the only reason he wanted to coach was so that his younger brother could play. When you're the coach you can make such arbitrary decisions.
As the coach surveyed the talent on try-out afternoon, he had just learned his brother was a few months shy in age of being eligible to play in our league. In fact, as irony would have it, I was barely old enough to play myself. So I found a place on the team as an outfielder, perhaps by default and some modest talent.
Life was good. I had a new uniform. I was part of the team. Then the season began.
"Jabba the Coach" rarely would speak to me during games and, for that matter, even on practice days. So much of my game time was spent warming my rear end on the bench. Once, when a teammate was out of town, I took his place in right field. Played pretty well for the most part except for one dropped ball on a pop fly.
The following game I was back on that all-too-familiar splintered sofa. The season continued on and I suppose I had accepted the situation as it were.
Then a miracle happened on the last game of the season that only God himself could have engineered. The coach was sick and his assistant, Paul, a foul-talking, chain-smoking yet likeable stepfather to one of my friends, was at the helm.
As we were playing "pepper" tossing the ball back and forth before the game, Paul walked up to me and said quietly, "This is overdue, kid. You're in today. You're starting in right field."
I don't rightly recall having any personal highlights from the game, except for a few caught pop flies and getting to first base either by a hit or walk. But that was all I needed.
When the voices of that summer day echo back to me, I realize now that Paul didn't really know that much about baseball. But I do think he knew the what goes on in the minds and hearts of boys.
A field of dreams, especially for kids, isn't always about winning a pennant or being a standout. It's often just feeling being a part of something.
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