Field of Dreams
by Eric Howerton

On the south end of town the Field of Dreams used to border the Block of Lost Time and the Grotto of Spent Futures. As a 
child, my parents warned me that journeying into these shadier neighborhoods meant nothing short of contaminating my 
soul.

“Why’s the Field of Dreams so dangerous?” I asked dad once on the way home from Little League. I’d recently turned ten and started challenging my parents’ convictions through a veil of innocent curiosity.

Dad wore canvas work clothes and smelled of oil from the machines. The dirt under his nails looked thicker than the nails themselves.

“It won’t do you any physical harm, but that doesn’t mean the Field is safe.”

“Why not?”

“When you come up on it you’ll see dreams sprouting wild over rolling hills. They’ll look glittery and new. And once you catch a glimpse, that’s it. You won’t be able to keep your hands off.”

“At school they’re always telling us to dream big. To reach for the stars.”

“I know they are. But listen. I grew up with a guy who bought into all the muck they preached at us, and it did him more harm than good. Few years back he went to the Field of Dreams and saw ‘Governor of Pennsylvania’ shimmering in the sun like a head of dewy cabbage. So what does he do? He puts it in his pocket, takes it home.”

“What’s so bad about wanting to be governor?”

“Quit interrupting.”

“I only interrupted a little,” I said meekly.

“A little is still a lot.”

We passed a Burger King and a Dairy Queen. I was hungry from practice, but I knew mom had dinner waiting and we couldn’t afford detours.

“Governor of Pennsylvania is a damn ambitious dream, and there are plenty of people out there better suited for the job--wealthy people. This guy was a rice farmer from Louisiana with a hole in every shirt. What I’m saying is he didn’t have the wherewithal to govern sheep, let alone a state. Hell, I don’t think he’d even left Louisiana but once for a funeral in Dallas.

Here dad paused.

“Before all the governor nonsense this guy loved farming rice. The Field messed him up something awful. He used to eat boudin and crayfish, find joy in the simple things. Now he’s miserable: drinks too much, jabbers on about cheese-steaks and reviving the steel industry and raising money for his campaign. You put a plate of bugs in front of him; he wrinkles his nose like a nutter and asks for pierogies. And the worst of it--he couldn't care less if the Saints lose, but if the Eagles take a beating he locks himself up for days.”

“The Block of Lost Time is no safer,” dad continued. “Your mother got confused once leaving the yarn store, took a wrong turn. You know how she is with directions. You ask her which way’s north, and she points at the sun.” This was true. Mom had a miserable compass, but Dad’s wasn't much better. “Claims, she spent a year driving from one end of the block to the other watching the seasons change. When she finally got home she burst through the door and demanded I tell her the date. Her eyes begged me to say she’d been missing more than a few hours, but that was all.”

I asked, “Did she ever stop for gas?”

"She said the tank was always full. That’s how we knew something wasn’t right.”

“And the Grotto of Spent Futures?”

“That’s just where people go to buy drugs. Stay away from there.”

“What do drugs do?” I asked, playing the fool. I’d seen people smoke joints at parties—parties my parents had taken me to—and all that seemed to happen was their eyes got bloodshot or they laughed and ate chips until their stomachs distended.

Dad shook his head. “You get too high, then you go real low,” he said gravely. “You’ll do yourself a favor and not give that grotto another thought.”

I told him that one of the older kids on the team, Jose Sin Zapatos, lived in the industrial park the grotto loomed over.

“I don’t want you hanging around Jose, understand?”

I said, "ok," though I had a hunch my father’s fears were misdirected. True, Jose lived in a bad part of town, but there was nothing bad about him. He was generous and kind, with the eyes of a doe and the heart of an angel. He even felt bad about stealing bases. Coach rotated Jose to every position except shortstop, and when he stepped up to the plate he hit home runs farther than any twelve-year-old I’ve ever known.

I smoked my first joint, not with Jose or anyone from the grotto, but at a New Year’s party while my parents toasted champagne on the porch--ignorant to what changes were taking place in the garage. I was sixteen. By that time Jose had left town. Rumor had it after graduation that he’d gone straight to the Field of Dreams and picked “Play Major League Ball.” He never made it pro, though he did end up playing Triple A for a farm team in Wisconsin. A long way to go for a poor kid from Louisiana.

Nowadays, when I drive past my old diamond, I think of Jose and how my dad was wrong to tell me to steer clear. Maybe if I’d spent a little time with him, I would have found the courage to visit the Field of Dreams myself and pocket something before the city plowed it down and sold it off to strip miners. In another life, I could have avoided these canvas work clothes. Instead, I kept my eyes on the nearest horizon and spent all my energy moving toward it. Whenever i stepped up to bat, I hit nothing but line drives. All along I should have been aiming up and overhead.