Zombie Ball

I take a lot of walks on the weekends, usually during the mornings while my family sleeps. I think, I pray, I reflect on those walks. Sometimes I let my mind wonder in an effort to come up with some story ideas.

Last night I decided to go for a walk since it was nice out and there was a slight breeze. The Girl was going to a football game with some friends, and The Babe wanted to practice her new ukulele. I asked The Boy if he wanted to go, fully expecting him to say no. He surprised me with a “Sure, I’ll go.”

We took the five minute drive to the middle school. If you have followed any of my posts on Type AJ Negative, then you know I walk the track around the little league baseball field behind my son’s school. There was only one other car in the parking lot when we pulled in.

We walked. We talked. The Boy told me about playing kickball at school and how much he enjoys playing that game (“I’m a really good kicker, Dad”). It was nice to hear him talk about something that amounts to exercise and not video games. One lap fell behind us and we detoured toward the baseball fields and through the gate.

On the ground beneath one of the metal bleachers on the first base side of the field to the right was a baseball. I picked it up, rolled it in my hands for a few seconds. The rawhide was rough, but the laces were in great shape. We walked onto the field, him still talking about kickball, me rolling the ball in my hands and remembering when he played baseball and we practiced on that very field.

“Dad, we should come out here with a kickball. You can just pitch the ball to me and I’ll kick it.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said, though the thought of me chasing the ball every time he kicked it didn’t necessarily appeal to me.

Near home plate was another baseball. The Boy picked it up and tossed it toward me. I caught it and looked at it. It was clearly in better shape than the other one. The rawhide still smooth, the red strings still tight. It had a few orange smudges on it—it was well used.

On the other side of the outfield fence was a yellow softball. We walked through the gate near the outfield and around to where the softball sat. It was not in great shape. The rawhide had been split in several places, the laces ripped. What little twine was still in the ball had been cut and the thick cork that formed the center of it had a gash in it.

“Man, I hate seeing this,” I said.

“Why?”

“This ball can’t be used again. It’s ruined.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s pretty dead.”

I tried pushing the hide into place, but the damage was done.

“Hey, there’s one over there,” The Boy said and pointed toward the trees that stood up on a hill. The ball was near the top of that hill, but not quite in the trees.

“Go get it,” I said.

He hopped over the ditch, which had recently been cut, and ran up the hill. I plucked another one from the ditch just about where he went over it. I made my way up the hill and there was another baseball in the trees. We would find one more on our way back to that first field where we would toss one of them around a little. Yes, we tossed them around barehanded, but that didn’t matter. What did was he and I tossing a baseball much like me and my dad did. That was a great feeling.

At one point before we started throwing the ball around, my son pointed into the trees again. “I think there is another ball over there, but I think it is dead.”

“What?” I asked, not sure I heard him correctly.

“Over there. I think that’s a ball, but it looks dead.”

I didn’t say anything about the ball being ‘dead,’ but it did make me think about how much kids learn from their parents. I walked into the trees and sure enough there was a baseball there. It was slightly covered by straw. From where I stood looking down on the ball, it could have been a tiny skull with the wisp of gray hair clinging to it. I picked it up, brushed the dirt off of it. The rawhide was completely gone. Like the softball, it had been struck by a lawnmower. The laces that once held the rawhide on were gone with the exception of a couple of strands that seemed too be stitched into its bare strings.

“Yup. It’s dead,” The Boy said.

I nodded and agreed. “It kind of looks like a zombie baseball.”

He gave me a look that stated he was disturbed by what I had said. I laughed.

After we tossed one of the found balls around, we went home. We told The Babe what we had found and I showed her the dead ball.

“Yup, that looks pretty dead,” she said.

“It’s my zombie ball.”

Since then, The Girl has come home from the football game, The Boy has gone to bed, as has The Babe. It was well after midnight when I flipped off the laptop and headed for bed. A storm was brewing outside, the remnants of a hurricane on its way to our neck of the woods. Wind buffered the side of the house from time to time and whistled through tree limbs.

I made my way to the bedroom and stopped after opening the door, but not getting more than a foot or so into the room. I heard an odd sound. At first I wasn’t sure what it was. I cocked my head to the side, my ears perked up. A frown formed on my face.

Is there a rat in my bedroom? I asked myself. That’s what it sounded like. A rat chewing on something, smacking its jaws together. It was a wet, sickening sound. I flipped the hall light on, my heart suddenly crashing hard in my chest. There’s no way there was a rat in my bedroom, I thought, but there had to be. What else could be making that sound?

I opened the door further, not sure if I wanted to see some critter on the floor, chewing on some paper or maybe even a bottle of water or something. What I saw froze the blood in my veins. My heart stopped. So did my brain. On the bed lay The Babe. On her chest was the zombie baseball. The split in the string put there (or so I thought) by a lawnmower blade was a mouth, and it was chewing on The Babe. There was blood on her face, and from where I stood in the doorway, my body casting a long shadow across the floor, I could see one cheek and eye was missing. Zombie Ball was in her chest, smacking, smacking, rending flesh from her.

A scream froze in my throat and my mouth became unhinged. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t make a noise. I couldn’t look away from the horror before me. It was just a baseball—one missing its hide and most of the red string that held it together. It was supposed to be dead! It was an inanimate object, for crying out loud!

DSCN0579I didn’t see it roll off of my wife and off the bed. I heard it hit the floor with a wet THUNK, and my paralysis broke. The ball rolled toward me, leaving a streak of blood on the floor behind it. The blood looked black in the little bit of light from the hall. The ball looked like a knotty wheel the way it rolled across the floor, almost in a wobble.

It was hypnotizing. So much so that it almost reached where I stood, its gaping mower cut mouth near my toes. I screamed and stepped backward just before its mouth snapped closed. If I hadn’t moved …

I slammed the door shut, suddenly aware I had to do something to protect myself and my kids. The ball bumped against the door, not once or twice, but five or six times. I backed up, stopping only when I reached the hall wall. There I slid down until my butt was on the floor, my knees were at my chin and my face was in my hands. For several seconds I sat there in shock, but then my heart broke as I realized the ball—the dead ball—had killed my wife. I cried and cried some more.

I don’t know how long I sat on the hall floor, the light a pale yellow glow, my head tucked into my hands. I might have even fallen asleep. I don’t know for certain. The sound that brought me from my sorrow (or slumber) was another bump at the door. This one was much heavier than earlier. It was also followed by a groan—my wife was no longer my wife, but an undead creature who probably didn’t know who or what she is now.

The thump came again, this time harder. The moan was louder and angry sounding. I stood, my heart in my throat. My bladder released as I backed away from the door, but I didn’t run away. I didn’t get my kids out of bed and get out of the house. I just stood there until just a minute ago. The Boy’s door opened. I heard the hinges squeal. He’s in the bathroom now, but in a minute or two, he will make his way down the hall. I don’t know what I’m going to do, what I’m going to say … how I’m going to explain the puddle on the floor and his zombie mom in the bedroom. Maybe we’ll get dressed as if nothing is wrong and just take my morning walk, but not at the baseball field …

***

This isn’t much of a story. The first half of it is absolutely true. The Boy and I did take a walk on Friday, September 1st. We did find all those baseballs (including the zombie ball) and we did toss one of those balls around for a while before coming home and showing and telling The Babe about our finds.

That’s where the truth ends and the lies begin. I believe all fiction stories are made of some truths and some lies. Blending them is sometimes difficult, especially when you weave in real places and events. You want to keep that realistic feel to it; you want the reader to wonder if the storyline is true or not.

A few years ago, M.L. Dixon did a series of blogs for The Horror Library Blog-O-Rama about phobias. He wrote them all in first person, and in such a manner that people (myself included) grew concerned for him, for his family and for his sanity. The series was one very well told lie and we had all thought it to be true. I have always wanted to capture that feeling, that truth in the lies that Dixon did during the writing of that series. No, I don’t feel I captured it here, but I did have fun writing it. 

I hope you enjoyed Zombie Ball, and as always, until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

AJB

 

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Lost Angels and Blackbirds Part II

It only took him around twenty minutes to get through the neighborhood and out of what he called the ‘town proper.’ It was another term Pappy had used in reference to the areas of town that actually looked like a town and not like country roads that went on forever with only fields to either side with an occasional run down house or barn to break up the monotony. Then he was driving along a stretch of road just outside of town he thought probably went from one end of the state to the other.

He came up on the dirt road to his left faster than he expected, and passed it. He drove a little further down until he came to another dirt road to his right. Ten yards off the main road was a rusty metal gate, a chain and lock holding it in place. He pulled onto the road, backed out and headed in the direction he had come, this time a little slower.

There was a road sign, but it wasn’t the normal Green background with the white lettering. It was wooden and in the shape of an arrow. It looked as old as he was. Black paint that had faded to gray over the years announced the road was Cherry Park Road. He made the turn and followed the bumpy red clay street. He passed a handful of mailboxes as he went, but he saw no houses anywhere nearby.

Must have fallen down, he thought. Or been torn down.

DSCN2720Two miles fell away beneath the wheels of the old truck. Then, as if he had gone over a hill, a baseball field appeared off to his left. He pulled the truck into the tall grass and shut off the engine. To his right were trees and a set of wooden bleachers that faced the field. A mailbox leaned to one side, forced that way with the growing tree beside it.

As he sat in the truck, he looked through the windshield at the tall grass and the run down dugouts (one of which had the words HOME OF THE CHERRY PARK ANGELS spray painted on the outside). His heart sped up and he licked his lips.

Along the top of one of the dugouts sat a flock of blackbirds, very similar to the ones that had been on the wires along his street.

DSCN2725Wendell stood from the truck, his knees popping in nothing short of sweet relief. He stretched his back and arms and then walked toward the field. There was no dugout gate, just an opening that led from outside the field, to the dugouts, and ultimately, on to the field. He stepped inside.

“Not too bad,” he thought. “I can work with this, I think.”

The wooden frame was still in good shape. The ceiling didn’t look like there were holes in it anywhere. The bench was nothing more than two wooden planks, side by side that ran the length of one wall. Chain link fencing separated the inside of the dugout from the field. Though it looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, it still looked like it could be used tomorrow (or today, he thought) by any group of kids who might show up to play a game or two.

Wendell didn’t spend too much time in the dugout. He stepped onto the field where so many kids had probably played, where so many dreams had been born and probably died, as well. He hated that prospect, but it was true. He was a living testament to that, having been a little boy with dreams of big league baseball in his future, only to realize a few years in that he would never be able to hit that little white ball with the red stitches. It didn’t matter how good he was at fielding and throwing, his coaches wanted hitters, guys who could get on base and produce runs. Wendell frowned at this. Other kids could hit, and hitting, he thought, was overrated. How many of those kids could make a diving stop at third base and still throw the batter out at first? If his memory served him correctly, the answer was not too many. The art of the diving player stopping the ball didn’t become popular, he thought, until the seventies. Now everyone could do it.

“I was cool before cool was invented,” he said as he stood where he thought first base should be, and where it clearly wasn’t. He let out another deep sigh, this one more from remembering than anything else.

DSCN2728Wendell looked back at the dugout, then back to where he stood. “First base should be right around here,” he said and stepped through the knee high weeds and grass. For a few moments he thought the bases had been pulled up the last time the field had been used. It made sense—they weren’t cheap if you bought the good ones and all the accessories that go with anchoring them in the ground. A couple hundred dollars apiece, for starters Unless they went with the throw down type that went on the ground whenever you wanted to play. They weren’t all that safe, in his opinion, but he had seen many places use them to cut back on the cost of equipment. Just as he was about to give up, Wendell saw the dirty base sticking out where weeds didn’t seem to dare to grow.

Wendell toed at the bag with one foot.

“Hard as concrete,” he said.

Wendell looked back to the dugout again. He was a lot further away than he thought he would be. He turned his attention to where home plate should have been. The back stop  was on a slight slope and covered with grass and a few weeds, but not nearly as many as the infield and the outfield had. From where he stood, next to first base, there was no way the bases were the right distances apart.

To be continued …

Lost Angels and Black Birds Part 1

This piece was supposed to be a short flash fiction story, but it grew much larger as I wrote. I have divided it into parts. I hope you enjoy it. Drop me a note–I would love to hear from you.

Lost Angels and Black Birds Part 1

Wendell pulled the curtain back from the front window and stared out at the world beyond it. Gray clouds loomed off in the distance. He was certain if he stepped outside, the air would be thick with humidity. The curtains fell back into place and Wendell let out a long breath—a deep sigh to his old lady, one she didn’t hear since she was still snuggled up to a pillow in the bed.

He carefully made his way through the dark house, not bothering with the lights. He knew where everything was, and on the off occasion that something was out of place (that usually only occurred when the grands came by) his toes would find it and for several agonizing seconds they would bark at him in pain. That wasn’t the case on this early morning, where the sun was hidden away by the clouds and the birds twittered about on power lines.

DSCN2730Birds on a wire, he thought as he slid his pants on. They like to sing on the wires before a big storm. They will take flight soon. A sure sign, my Pappy always said.

A white undershirt went on, followed by a short sleeved button down, one that was loose and didn’t hug him tight; one good for working in. Socks and dusty work boots came next, rounded out by an old hat with a white B on it. This had belonged to his Pappy when Wendell was just a little boy, and that was sixty-two years in the past. It didn’t stand for Boston, but Brooklyn, as in the Dodgers before they moved to that damnable Lost Angels town. Though Pappy hated the move and never pulled for the Dodgers again (opting instead for the long time losers up in the Massachusetts area who also carried a B on their hats) he still wore the blue hat with the white letter.

Wendell sat for a moment at the kitchen table, thinking a bowl of cereal or a pancake or three would be nice. Maybe if it wasn’t going to be a gully washer of a day, he would have had both and washed it down with a cup of coffee. The table was just a round thing with an ugly orange Formica top that was speckled with black spots. On it was one of Jolene’s notepads and a pencil—always a pencil, she hated the way pens felt in her hand and the way it glided across paper. Wendell thought that was nonsense. Why wouldn’t you want your writing utensil to glide across the paper? Why wouldn’t you want it to be smooth, unlike pencils, which he always thought sounded like something trying to scratch an itch that just wouldn’t go away.

He pulled the pad and pencil to him. The pencil wasn’t much more than a nub, the tip whittled away to a dull point. Writing with something so small usually made his fingers cramp, but the note he would write wouldn’t be long, a few words, tops, to let Jolene know where he was at in case she woke up before he got home. This he suspected would happen.

Jo,

I went for a drive. I found a field that could use a little love.

Wendell

He set the pencil on top of the pad and flexed the fingers on his right hand. Even those few words made his fingers angry.

How am I supposed to work if my hands already bother me?

DSCN2738He stood and was careful about picking the chair up and pushing it under the table. Though he doubted she would wake if he let it scrape the floor, like with something not being in the right place in the house, there was an off chance she would get up, and then there would be no work done. At least not that he wanted to do.

Wendell left out the front door, pulling it shut behind him and making sure both key bolts were locked. He turned and looked around. The clouds were still off in the distance and they didn’t look like the storm-threatening ones he knew were coming in a few of hours. The air was heavy and wet.

Barry Steiner sat in his rocker a couple houses down and across the street. He already had his pipe lit up. Smoke slowly lifted in the air from its bowl. Barry gave a slow wave, just a sideways motion with his hand. Wendell did the same, but he didn’t think it was as difficult for him to do as it probably was for Barry.

He’s got to be pushing a hundred, Wendell thought.

The birds weren’t chirping, but they were on the power lines that ran the length of the street. There was easily a dozen or more and they all seemed to be looking down at him.

“Good morning, fellas,” Wendell said, but didn’t give a wave to them. No, not with Barry Steiner sitting on his porch, smoking his pipe and watching him just as the birds seemed to be. He reached his truck and looked inside the bed. His tools were there, including the ancient Honda lawn mower he got some thirty years ago.

Before getting in the truck, Wendell looked back over his shoulders. The birds were gone, their stares taken with them.

“I reckon I’ll see you there,” he said and got in. It didn’t matter how hard or gentle he closed the door, it always sounded like a slam. He thought of Jolene waking and coming out to see what he was up to. That thought vanished as he cranked up the old truck. If the slamming door didn’t wake her, then the rough rumble of the motor just might. He didn’t look back to the house. He just backed out the drive, put the truck in gear and drove off as gray smoke coughed from the exhaust.

(To be continued …)

The first ‘sport’ I ever played was kickball. I was nine and it was during recess. I didn’t want to play. I wasn’t interested in playing sports of any kind, but some friends needed one more person to fill out their team, so I, reluctantly, said I would play. I may be wrong, but up to that point in my life I’m not even sure I had ever caught or thrown a ball, and if I had it was probably with little success.

I didn’t know the rules of kickball, which made me even more reluctant to play.

“It’s just like baseball, but without a bat and you kick the ball,” one of the other kids had said. Yeah, okay. I could do that. I thought.

UnknownTurns out, I could. The very first person to kick the ball for the opposing team kicked it right at me. There was no getting out of the way. I would either catch the ball or be struck by it. Somehow—don’t ask me how—the ball hit me right in the stomach. I cradled it in my arms, lessoning the impact. I had caught it. I was kind of dumbfounded. I was like Scotty Smalls in the movie Sandlot when he caught the ball that Bennie the Jet had hit to him in the outfield during a practice.

After staring at the ball like it had done something magnificent for me, I tossed it back to the pitcher and got ready for the next ‘at bat.’ That started me on the road to loving sports and playing as many of them as I possibly could. Baseball was the first of the sports that followed.

DSCN3013

I played my first baseball game at the same school I played my first kickball game: Claude A. Taylor Elementary. If you stood facing the school at the front of the building you would need to look slightly to your left toward the playground. There was a tennis and basketball court beyond it, a walking track slightly further away, and in the far corner near the back fence was the baseball field. It wasn’t much of a field. There was no fence to separate the outfield from the rest of the playground, no dugouts (though there were two wooden benches, one each on the first and third base sides. Surrounding home plate was what amounted to a batting cage, painted black with a cyclone fence ‘netting.’ The bases weren’t much more than hard pillows on the ground.

We were allowed to use the wooden bats and tennis balls from the utility building near the tennis court. There were usually only a couple of kids in the infield to go along with the pitcher. The guy catching the ball was usually on the same team as the batter. There were always three or four guys in the outfield since a tennis ball—especially a new one—would fly forever.

It was one of the very few times I could hit a ball and it would do something more than be a shallow fly out or a ground out.

DSCN3016Though we only played there when the physical education teacher allowed it, we had a ton of fun. That eventually led me to ask my dad if I could play the real game. The real game consisted of a glove, bat, baseball and cleats. I mentioned I wanted to play baseball when I was ten. Knowing we couldn’t afford the equipment, I didn’t think I would ever get the chance to play ‘real baseball.’

Then one day my dad asked if I wanted to go to the flea market. Absolutely, I did. I would do just about anything to spend time with him. We browsed the tables, me not really looking at anything, trying not to get my hopes up if I saw a toy I wanted. We stopped at this one table and Dad talked to the guy behind it. I really didn’t pay attention to what item Dad was bargaining for.

“How much for this one?” Dad asked.

“Two dollars,” the guy responded.

Dad pulled the money from his pocket and gave it to the guy. Then he handed me the first ball and glove I ever owned. I was over the moon ecstatic. Two dollars when I was ten was a lot of money and my dad had spent that two bucks on me, to get me a used baseball glove and a baseball.

I would play baseball, though not for long—I wasn’t much of a hitter, after all. I still tossed the ball around and I still tried to hit better and better each time we played pick-up games after that. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t any good. What mattered is I loved playing and I had fun and I could grab my glove off my bed or the floor or the dresser and run and go play with my friends anytime I wanted to because my dad had parted ways with two dollars so I would be happy.

The baseball is long gone. I still have the glove. It is now probably fifty or so years old.

Now you know where all of this love for baseball fields started.

DSCN3018I went back to Claude A. Taylor not too long ago. I walked through the playground where we played kickball. I walked all the way to the back corner where the baseball field used to be. The batting cage is still there, though the cyclone fence ‘netting’ is gone. The two benches on either side of first and third base are still there. There is no home plate, no bases. The utility building is gone. The tennis court is still there, though there is no net and no basketball hoops. Still, as I stood near where third base should have been, I could almost hear the sounds from my childhood. It was glorious.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

7/19/2017

Throwing Out the First Pitch

I have an odd passion, one that started a few years ago. As I sit here thinking, I honestly believe it started during the three years my son played baseball. I was fortunate enough to be one of his coaches during that time period, and it was an experience that I cherish to this day. It was kind of like reliving my childhood while watching my son play a game I loved—and still love to this day. I don’t know if I’ll be able to explain this as well as I want to, but I’ll give it the old college try.

When I was a kid, the first sport I recall seeing was baseball. My dad and grandfather liked two teams that were truly horrible, for the most part: The Chicago Cubs and the Atlanta Braves. I watched a lot of Cubs games with my dad, listening to Steve Stone and Harry Carey call them (Carey in a tone that sounded slightly inebriated). When I was at my grandparents’ house, it was always the Braves on TBS. Those games were usually called by Skip Carey (yes, the son of Harry Carey, and no, he never sounded inebriated), and a host of other announcers. My great grandmother was a Braves fans, as well (a big time Braves fan). I got my dose of baseball almost every day  as a little kid during the summer and fall months.

Then when I was ten, I decided I wanted to play baseball. For the record, I was never really a good hitter. To be completely honest, I was pretty bad at swinging the old bat. But I could field. I could catch fly balls and ground balls and I wasn’t afraid to dive for anything. And I could throw, though sometimes I sidearmed the ball and when that happened the ball would end up anywhere, including over the fence behind first base. On those incidents I looked like Ricky Vaughn from the movie, Major Leagues.

To speed things up, I didn’t have much of a baseball career coming up. As I stated, I wasn’t a very good hitter, but I could field. Baseball just wasn’t in the cards for me. I later went on to play fifteen years of softball, often playing two and three seasons a year. As fun as softball was, it just wasn’t baseball.

I went to a few baseball games when I got into high school and a lot of softball games (at the time the high school softball team was winning state titles on a regular basis). It was my way of staying connected to the game, the sounds and sights and the joy of a game I was just not that great at.

I got older, quit playing softball all together, and for many years I stayed away from all baseball fields.

Then my son decided he wanted to try baseball. I admit, I got really excited. For three years I was an assistant coach on the teams he played for. I not only got to see my son play, I actively participated in his growth (and the growth of the other kids on the teams). When he decided he didn’t want to play baseball anymore I was saddened a little. Though I have been asked to come back and coach on several occasions, I haven’t done so. I wanted to go to the games my children played, no matter the sport they chose. My daughter played a year of softball and basketball and several years of soccer, and a year of cheer as well. My son played baseball, flag football soccer and swim. They were active, and I didn’t want to be the parent who missed his kids events because he was coaching other kids. I never wanted my kids to think someone else’s child/children were more important than they are.

I coached other sports (my daughter’s basketball team, my son’s soccer teams, and one stunning lopsided victory for my daughter’s last soccer team—that is a long story I may get into one day), but none of them made me feel the same as playing or coaching baseball.

I often go back to the field to watch some of the kids I coached. I hope to see some of them play in college and maybe even the big leagues one day. But that is getting way ahead of things.

When I go back to the fields, I can’t help but look around and take everything in. The sounds of the kids in the dugouts, the ping of an aluminum bat on ball, the cheering of friends and families watching the games, the occasional announcer up in the booth; the many stadium chairs lining fences with parents and friends; the smell of hot dogs and nachos; the younger kids throwing tennis balls against the back wall of the concessions, right between the two bathrooms; the sounds of balls hitting gloves and bubblegum popping. There are so many things to take in at a baseball game, but the biggest and most enjoyable are the expressions on those children’s faces as they get a hit, or catch the ball, or strike a batter out, or win a game … or lose one. To me, the unbridled joy and the true heartache of losing are lost as the kids get older and the game loses its innocence.

I think that is what draws me to the little league baseball fields. Innocence. The naivety of the children when they first join a team, the excitement when they learn how to do something, the thrill of victory, and yes, the agony of defeat. In the beginning, it is all innocent.

That brings me to what I hope to do here. This is not about professional baseball. As much as I loved the Cubs and Braves growing up, I’ve never been a big Major League Baseball fan. I’ve always liked the little league and high school levels, as well as college and minor leagues (to a much lesser degree). This is about old little league baseball fields and the way I see them. Some of these fields are still in use, while others probably haven’t seen anyone playing on them in years. To me, there is a beauty to these fields and that beauty isn’t just in what they are, but in what they may have been at one time.

Just so we are on the same page, I will not just talk about baseball fields. There will probably be stories here. Most of the blogs I write will have a story feel to them. There will definitely be images, and maybe a video here and there. When I step onto a baseball field, it is magical for me. My mind goes in all sorts of directions and the writer side of me gets very sentimental. My hope is to touch you in that same magical way as these fields touch me.

I don’t expect everyone to understand my love of these baseball fields. Honestly, I don’t expect anyone to understand. It’s just something I enjoy.

If you are reading this, I want to thank you. If you enjoyed this post (and those to come) I would like to ask you to please leave comments and subscribe, as well as like and share this post and blog. If you have any suggestions, please let me know. I’m willing to entertain other people’s thoughts.

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

7/15/2017