There was a field.
Towering black netting and PVC pipe – kept in place with wooden boards – guarded home. Foul poles, some 250 feet away, kept the games fair. Every Fourth of July my uncle would mark out the batter’s box and base paths with white spray paint.
I practiced every time I visited my grandparents. Sometimes it was once a week.
I fired the ball against the boards and ran, lunging for the ball as it skidded past me.
When I grew tired of defense, I picked up a wooden Louisville Slugger. It was made for younger children, but I didn’t have to choke up.
When I played against others, I used aluminum.
I tossed a ball into the air and swung, launching it into the sunburned grass. I ran into the field and rooted around, finally finding the ball lurking among the green blades and dandelions.
I returned to the backstop and stood in the dust. I swung again and again.
And I ran. The rubber bases might be tucked away in the red barn, but no matter.
I knew where to go. If I hit the ball past the infield, I raced around the diamond, feet hitting dead grass at first, second, third.
Home.
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