The Field of Dreams

The second stop on our Midwestern Adventure was just as cool as the first. We didnt' spend as much time there. Mainly because it is a place where you come, you take it in an you experience it, and then you leave. There was a calming feeling on that field and there was a respect that everyone showed, but it remained unspoken.

I couldn't believe on the ride to Dyersville that I never saw a single sign or mention of the Field of Dreams. I kept waiting for billboards or at least little arrows that had been attached to telephone polls, but there was nothing. It almost got to the point that you started to question whether or not you were going in the right direction. You are going down a very narrow, cheaply paved country road until you are right on it, then you see the first mention of the place, right next to the long driveway. 

It is incredible to believe that the people who own this spot that attracts 65,000 visitors a year have resisted the urge to make this a tourist trap. They have gone out of their way to let the field be what it is. There isn't an attempt to "recreate the magic" or try to pull you in to stopping and wasting a bunch of money. The owner, who lives in the house and keeps the grounds said that he only wants people who really wanted to be here to come. He doesn't want someone to see a sign and make a quick stop through. He wants people to come because they made the decision to be there. There is something rare in that philosophy (and there is a sermon in there).

I can't explain the feeling that you have as you walk around that feel. It isn't dissimilar to the feeling you have walking into the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris or walking into a sanctuary of your youth. There is history there. There is an unspoken respect that transcends any rules that could be posted. 

Late May is not the best time to go if you are wanting the full experience. The corn had only been in the ground for a few weeks so it hadn't grown more than 6 or 8 inches above the ground.  I would have like to walk out of the corn, and I might if I ever return. 

Walking around the field was an interesting experience for me. I can't remember the last time that I actually walked on a baseball field. I'm sure that it was sometime in high school or early in college.

As I walked through the outfield and around the bases I found that my memories were not of Braves games that I had seen, or Barons games that I grew up with. My memories weren't of ghosts that I saw play on this field or of the legends that they represented. My memories were of the fields of the Hoover Baseball park. I thought back to the 1994 Edition of the 9 and 10 year old Dodgers. I thought about the coaches who had picked me to be on their team and had been patient with me when they realized they had wasted a pick. I thought about my mom and dad and the countless hours that we had spent at ballparks. I thought a moment about my first pouch of Big League Chew and the little tickets we got after the game that entitled us to a coke and hot dog from the concession stand. 

Overall, it was a great stop. A place that I will remember fondly, and a place I will return one day with a son.