Field of Life

Taking that first step onto the freshly manicured grass sets the tone for the entire day: rays of sunlight and warmth not yet able to reach the dewy morning grass, the meticulously dragged dirt, and more importantly the shivering shadows of players slowly stumbling from their cars to their dugout, whether it be the first base side or the third base side. Squeaky wheels roll wagons of bats and balls and helmets and tees and nets and gloves and last week’s field dust, you name it. Squeaky wheels roll individual bags of catchers and pitchers, infielders and outfielders, winners and losers, every one of them holding their own talent. Squeaky wheels roll coolers full of succulent watermelon, frosted grapes, turkey sandwiches, and Gatorade G1 Prime, G2 Perform, and G3 Recovery, determining exactly how desperate one is to perform at their best. The familiar sound of metal cleats on concrete can be detected as players drag their feet slowly to their warm-up spot, unload their equipment, and peel off layers of jackets in the cold misty air. Jogging, stretching, throwing- they get warm. There is little noise to be heard, despite the crack of bats on Wiffle balls and the snaps of balls in gloves: we are all tired, both the parents and the players, from the early morning trek to the field. This is Prince Park at seven in the morning. No hustle and bustle, strictly business.
Just an hour later, games begin. In the following hours, silence is replaced with chatter and the eerie lack of excitement replaced with bursting energy. The fans arrive: Grandparents, parents, siblings, and friends take their place in the stands and on the side lines past the fence. Aromas of cooking hotdogs and the sounds of grinding snow cones fill the air. “Play ball!” shouts the umpire. From this moment on, the field is no longer a simple sixty foot by sixty foot diamond of dirt. It has transformed to a complex system of mechanics. Where to hit the ball. Where to throw the ball. What plays to call. Who to play at what position and when to substitute them out. This strategy reflects in the faces of all the players and all the coaches. The success of this strategy, working as a team, as one unit, sends the crowd into bursts of cheers. Beams of sun dance along the sharp blades of grass. White sunscreen traces the shoulders and faces of players, but is soon stained a dirty brown, along with their uniforms, as they dive into bases and after balls. Fans take safe haven under canopies in the stands and sport straw hats while lying under the shade of Oak trees climbing with laughing kids. The sun –enormous, luminous, and brilliant- heats up the air, the players heat up with intensity, fans heat up with excitement. The radiation of energy is overwhelming.
The only decrease of this energy is when the game ends and the next game is about to start. Players scramble to grab food; any food in reach, fruit from the cooler, a hotdog from the snack bar, anything to feed their growling stomachs. Then they find a seat out of the sun: a blanket or a camping chair with portable mister in hand, even an air conditioned car, to escape the heat. They’ve been waiting an hour and forty five minutes to rest their bones and their muscles. The one thing that never rests is their desire. “How long do we have?” are the words from the mouths of many anxious players awaiting warm-ups for their next game. In just minutes, the energy is picked up again for three or four more games until your day of softball is over, only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again, fighting for the title of “Champions.”
Silence and eeriness fill the air once more as the high lights above that have been flooding the fields with light since they came to life just a few hours ago, are turned off. The metal cover slams down over the snack bar counter, indicating its closure. Cleats are stricken against the fence in an attempt to clean clumps of dirt out of the spots between each spike. Cars are packed up, headlights turn on, and players, coaches, and fans pull away from the parking lot to start their journey back, whether it’s to their hotel or their home. Prince Park during a softball tournament is the very essence of extremes. It begins a serene morning, follows into a chaotic afternoon, and ends with an empty field. Despite everything that went on that day –all the energy and excitement- that’s all it really is at the end of the day. An empty field.

-Carli