Almost Heaven ...

As I leave the field that gentle evening, after the players and families had left and leaving only a coaching friend behind, I ask myself, "Is this Heaven"? I smile and chuckle as one of the other voices in my head answers, "No, it's Fairfield" to complete the literary reference for my own amusement ...

Well, if it wasn't Heaven, it was certainly on the same street. I figure if you ask Mr. TomTom on the windshield for a course from my couch or the lawnmower to Heaven, the preferred path will bring you right by the field, just this side of Heaven itself.

There I'd been, at a field in East Fairfield, tucked behind a school down a dirt driveway along a bubbling brook that eats foul balls ... They're out of cell phone range out there, but there is a pretty decent port-a-potty ... They've got aged homemade bleachers and room for fans who prefer chairs and a chest high fence for farmer fathers and photographers to lean on from off abit if the chatter amongst the rest gets to be just a bit tooo much ...

Weather's perfect, which is a pleasure and a surprise, as it's often unexpectedly and inexplicably nippy out there in the hills this time of year ... The grass grows a bit long there and the basepaths haven't been weeded in a while and it's a bit lumpy, but it's playable and the dandelions look nice ... Yep, you know, when Jesus spoke of preparing a place for us at His Father's house, this may well have been what He had in mind for the back yard ...

When I arrived that evening, worn from a week of restructuring the livelyhood of others in a well-intentioned albeit uncertain effort to make things work a bit better, I was greeted by smiles. The first two come from moms my age, whose daughters one of my daughters coaches, though not tonight ... Chatter ensues and the grip of the real world loosens.

"I'm getting my camera to take some pictures," I announce outloud to myself and the Moms head off to claim their seats as the bleachers are filling ... I fetch my gear, letting the clammy hand of reality slip away from the back of my neck. I'm home now somhow and, camera in hand, the world can't reach me.

For the next ninety minutes, I watch kids who are not my own play a game they love under the hopeful supportive eyes of those who love them ...

The stands and sidelines fill with older sisters and little brothers, mamas and papas (regular folks, not the singing group from the 60s), a few friends and neighbors, and even a gramma and grampa or two wobble in ... though in truth, I did abandon GrammaB as the need to be alone on the way was a bit too strong that evening for companionship in the little blue car. There are no sides to the crowd -- we all chatter and laugh, as even if we don't all quite know everyone as well as some, as we're all kindred spirits here somehow ... Well, that, and because they haven't hayed the field down firstbase line for a while ... But moreso because everybody's respectful and positive and its easier to intermix and intermingle amongst each other ...

Yep, sportsmanship runs deep this close to Heaven. I'm rooting for both sides as I know kids on each and know how hard they work and how much they love the game. I'm not alone in that -- not only in the crowd, but you can see it a bit on the faces on the field in the grins of recognition as off-the-field acquaintences catch each others' eyes, ala Katelyn, Nikki, Shila, and Whitney of years gone by.

These kids honor the game with their play ... We are treated to mixed pitches thrown for strikes by both pitchers, doubles over outfielders heads, a great backup by a rightfielder, straight steals and delayed steals, rbi bunts that roll fair, a single turned into an out at first by a rightfielder, diving attempts by a banged up catcher, and even a pair of fabulous foul balls -- albeit along with the requisite errors, wiffs, naps and brain cramps that makes all this human ... Even when the ump himself erred (the run scoring fair ball was actually untouched amidst the crash of infielders before it spun foul), the coaches and fans recognized he was doing his best in the spirit of it all (and actually did a very nice job) ...

Eventually, the action ends, one side wins, and the teams shake hands ... and then comes a magical moment. Free to head to the cars to rush to the next, the players pause. And chatter. First with those who came out to support them -- and then, with those they played. "You did great" is a gift given repeatly, wrapped in good intentions and given sincerely among the little rivals ... I flash back to sidelines in Colchester with the Buckless family and in Swanton with the Grenons and in Poultney with Randy and Stacey -- and I know these nex-gen players and families are on the right path.

I smile as I watch it unfold ... This is how it's meant to happen and these folks get it even if they don't know it yet and it's a joy to watch. I think of Everet and his lawn chair and all the last ten years have brought, how proud I am of my own girls for what they're giving these girls like they've been given, how thankful I am that Brad and Everett and Dick and Rhett and Kevin and Joanie and Ralph and Liza helped open all this to me ... and I smile, though I cry this morning as I retell it, hoping from their place at His place, my friend Everett and my Dad Lloyd can see this field ...

And that evening, as I walk back along the dirt road toward the little blue car wedged behind the the school's dumpster, I wonder ... "Is this Heaven?" and I smile. It's darn close.
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