Making a Pitch for the Field of Dreams

Their favorite movie star is Shaq. Their favorite restaurant is the 7-Eleven. They are 11. And one day they will all be famous. Just listen.

“When I grow up, I’m going to play for the Chicago Cubs,” the center fielder says. “And I’m taking them to the World Series.”

They plan to play baseball forever, these boys, every spring, summer and fall for the rest of their lives. Because that’s what you have to do if you want to play in the major leagues. And they’re all going to play in the major leagues. Just listen.

“When I sign my first contract, I’m buying my dad a brand-new Corvette,” the second baseman says.

“A red one,” he says. “With power steering.”

They’d like to play together as a team if possible, drafted like a carton of eggs, all 12 of them playing for the same major league ballclub.

But if that doesn’t work out, they’ll go separately, wherever they are needed, off to sign big contracts and buy their fathers overpriced sports cars.

“Baseball rules,” the right fielder says with a shrug. “I mean, it just rules.”

As they discuss the future, I stand behind them and bark out baseball stuff.

They like it when I bark out baseball stuff. They don’t hear me, really, but they know I am there, reminding them when to bat and not to put gum under the bench--useful stuff like that.

“Watch the game,” I growl, which is as useful as baseball advice gets.

Especially right now. The opposing pitcher is having trouble throwing strikes. And most of his pitches are floating in like beach balls. And that’s something an on-deck hitter should probably know.

“I’m taking this guy to Mars,” the first baseman says, throwing a death stare at the pitcher.

“If he throws me the heater, I’m hitting it to another planet.”

They are totally fearless, these boys. And a little clueless. Which, when you’re 11, is sort of the same thing. There are a couple of swings that miss.

“I’m taking this guy to Mars, too,” says the second baseman.

“Strike three!” says the umpire.

SECOND INNING: They are standing along the dugout, 12 guys with $35,000 worth of orthodontia, crunching sunflower seeds with their teeth.

“I love sunflower seeds,” the shortstop says.

At one time, batting bags were used to carry bats and gloves. Today, they mostly carry food.

As they eat, the second baseman is pretending to speak French.

“Crush zee bawl,” he cries to his teammate at the plate. “Crush zee bawl over zee vall!”

The other players think this is funny, the way the second baseman speaks French. To them, sounding French is the same as speaking French. And it’s pretty hilarious, the way this guy makes French sound.

“Crush zee ball!” they all scream.

“Strike three!” yells the umpire.

THIRD INNING: As always, the subject of past injuries comes up.

“One time, I got dirt down my pants and had to call time out,” the shortstop says.

But it gets worse.

“One time, I was eating jalapen~o sunflower seeds, and the jalepen~o got in my eyes,” the catcher says. “I couldn’t see anything. I got a double and a triple.”

Most of the injuries are food-related. Many of them involve puking.

“One time, I hurled while running to second base,” the center fielder says. “Everybody laughed.”

FOURTH INNING: There is a close play at home plate. As with all close plays at home plate, there is much screaming from the coaches and the parents.

For two minutes, tempers flare. Blood vessels bulge. One father goes totally nuts. Then another father. It’s chain-reaction insanity, the kind you see at frat parties and prizefights.

“What happened?” asks the center fielder.

“I don’t know,” says the third baseman. “I think my dad just bit somebody.”

FIFTH INNING: Sometimes they sing.

“Love me, love me, say that you love me,

Fool me, fool me, go on and fool me,

I can’t care ‘bout anything but yooooooooooou. . . .”

A lot of teams discourage players from singing Cardigans songs in the dugout. Not this team. This team loves the Cardigans.

“Cardigans rock,” the right fielder says.

SIXTH INNING: Eventually, the subject of marriage comes up. Of all the topics they discuss in the dugout, marriage is the one they feel most comfortable with.

Mostly, they are against it. Unless they can marry their moms.

And marrying their moms just doesn’t seem practical right now, what with their moms already married to their dads. The legal bills alone could set them back years. And holidays would be so awkward.

Besides, who needs a wife when you already have a really great mom, there to cater to your every need and treat you like a little prince?

No, a mom is all the woman they need right now, thank you very much. Besides, most of them just haven’t met the right girl yet. Generally, the girls they’ve met have been big disappointments. The girls don’t cater to their every need. The girls don’t treat them like little princes.

“Girls drool,” the shortstop says.

“Yeah, girls drool,” agrees the pitcher.

Then something sort of strange happens.

A player from one of the girls’ softball teams walks past the field carrying her batting bag and her glove. Her blond hair is streaked with sweat. Best of all, she is eating sunflower seeds, spitting the shells through the fence like a real ballplayer.

“She sure can spit,” the first baseman says.

They are all pretending not to watch her as she stands along the fence, spitting sunflower seeds like a pro. And there is nothing more obvious than a bunch of guys pretending not to watch a girl.

“Girls drool,” the left fielder finally says.

But no one agrees. No one says a word.

LAST INNING: “It’s over?” asks the first baseman.

“It’s over,” I say.

Pete Rose once said he’d run through hell in a gasoline suit to keep playing baseball. And that’s the way these guys feel right now.

The summer is going fast, and they want to keep playing, squeezing every base hit from every golden day. Because, even if you’re going to play forever, you never take a summer day for granted. But this one’s gone, just another line score in the record books.

“Who won?” asks the right fielder as they pack up the gear and toss out the Gatorade jugs.

“We did,” I say.

“That’s awesome,” says the right fielder.

“Baseball rules,” he says, as if stating a fact of life. “I mean, it just rules.”