As a kid, one of the things I remember most is trying, desperately trying, to play baseball. I had a plastic red tee, a huge thing with a giant cheap baseball on top, and a huge yellow bat, and I remember putting the ball on top, taking what I imagined to be a batters’ stance, swinging a giant yellow bat, and promptly knocking the tee over, the ball falling harmlessly at my feet. I would pic the tee up again, set the ball on top, and start again. On the rare occasions I managed to make contact, I couldn’t find the ball. Needless to say, it was a frustrating endeavor. But I did it anyway, and I loved it.
From the age of 9 at least, I would shut myself in my room for hours, locked into a local radio station in order to listen to the broadcasted games of my beloved Milwaukee Brewers. I knew the numbers, I knew the players, I even started to understand how pitches were thrown in different situations, how pitchers worked to the top of the order sluggers over the bottom of the order batters such as catchers and pitchers. It was the only way I could experience normal baseball. Being legally blind, I never played little league ball, never got to trot out to the sand lot with the neighborhood kids to play ball, couldn’t even play catch with my dad. And it’s still something I am bitter about, right up there with not being able to drive a car. Something I have no control over, but it still follows me around as I see kids playing the great game of baseball in the summer, something I could and will probably never do.
In middle and high school, I got to play adapted forms of the game, the most popular of which was Beep Baseball. But it just isn’t real. There are only two bases, for one thing. Each sounds a tone at a different frequency, and you run to your base when you hit the ball. If you get to the base before the fielding team finds and picks up the ball, that’s a run. No stealing bases, no singles, doubles, triples or home runs. It’s just not real to me. And forget pitching. The pitcher plays on the same team as the batter, trying to throw them something they can hit with an underhand motion. As for batting, well, it wasn’t easy. Imagine being totally blind, holding a bat, and listening to a beeping ball on a tee in front of you. It was hard, because, as in the case of many sports for the blind, everyone is blindfolded so as to put all players on a playing field that is equal for everyone, regardless of vision.
It just wasn’t the same. I tried for weeks on end to hit a ball pitched as slow as humanly possible, but it was not to be. More than just about anything in the world, I want to play real, authentic baseball. The best I’ve done was to fire up Wii Sports and play short five inning arcade games. Even titles like The Show are too hard to see. But not being able to see does not hamper my love for the game, the love for my Brew Crew. Even now, I listen to games as often as I can, and that’s what I have, the radio. It’s better than nothing, but still leaves something to be desired.
Close to my college campus is a park, and in that park, there is a field. It’s a beautiful field, turf on the infield and grass in the outfield, stadium seating and a little concourse. Floodlights line first and third, and it’s truly a sight to behold. The field is called Treyton’s Field of Dreams. At the age of only 6, Treyton Kilar was killed when the car he was riding in was hit by a drunk driver. The field is in his memory, and you can feel it from the moment you come through the gate. There’s a happy spiritual feeling, as well as a somber quiet to the place when it’s empty. Making the journey with a friend, I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the field, the beauty of a community coming together to support a family, a family who had lost a child too early.
Even at 19, I took a child-like joy in sprinting the bases, coming back to home plate, then dashing to the furthest reaches of the outfield, touching the wall. And in that moment, I swear Treyton was there too, playing the game he loved, spreading a smile across my face that wouldn’t leave. I ran back to home plate, and stopped for a moment, snapping a picture of this field from that coveted batters’ position, looking out at the rest of the field. And in that moment, I felt a true connection to baseball. I had never, have never, truly played the game myself, but being on a field built to remember a child gone too soon, I could feel the power of the Great American Pastime on that day. That picture is the one at the top of this article, and I urge you to take a moment and look on that field for a moment, try to see what I felt, the power of baseball, and the excitement of one little boy as he played on his beloved field of dreams.
