Field Of Screams

by John Christmann

When the movie Field of Dreams shows up on TV, I often watch it. As syrupy as the story is, I love how the father and son were brought together again through the magic of a good old-fashioned catch in a cornfield in Iowa. Of course, as my wife wisely points out, instead of playing catch, the father and son could have just hugged each other and talked. But then this is why Field of Dreams is not a chick flick, and why I will probably never see my wife and daughter out in the backyard throwing hard balls at each other.

Despite the hokey nostalgia that often accompanies baseball, I do have fond memories playing catch with my Dad. On lazy summer evenings we would stand at opposite ends of the yard and just throw the baseball back and forth. We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. We communicated through the feel of a baseball pounding solidly into our gloves. It was a two way conversation rich in respect, admiration, and love. Even when I dropped the ball.

It is not surprising then, that I looked forward to the day when I could play catch with my own kids, to complete the cycle, to feel what it was like to play on the Dad side of a catch. When my first son started T-ball at age six, he lacked the strength and coordination to have a satisfying catch. At age seven he was much stronger, but I still spent a lot of time running after errant throws. There were very few satisfying thumps in my mitt, and we curtailed playing catch entirely that summer after he misjudged a throw and tried to catch the ball with his nose.

But by the spring of his eighth year I knew he was ready. During the winter he had broken a lamp with a bean bag, so I knew he had the strength. And since the lamp was located just to the left of the door way where his little brother stood, I knew his accuracy was within the diameter of my reach. And so, as the cool winds of March gave way to fresh, warm days that smelled of summer, I got out the gloves.
“How about a game of catch?” I asked my son enthusiastically one glorious Saturday morning.
“No thanks, Dad,” my son replied nonchalantly, oblivious of my pained expression, “I’d rather play lacrosse.”

Lacrosse?

These days, lacrosse is an increasingly popular springtime sport, complete with well-organized youth leagues, turf fields, and overly engaged parents. And for many kids, lacrosse presents an attractive alternative to baseball. But for Dads like me who blithely grew up believing that baseball was the quintessential American sport, lacrosse still seems like a silly stick game introduced by communist Frenchmen with a disdain for peanuts and Cracker Jack.

But the real problem is this: I know nothing about lacrosse. It was not offered as a sport when I was a kid growing up in the Midwest. In fact, the only thing I knew about La Crosse was that it was somewhere in Wisconsin and the home of Old Style beer and the G. Heileman Brewing Company. I learned this by watching the Chicago Cubs play baseball on TV. So until my kids are old enough to drink beer, lacrosse is probably not a sport I can help them with.

That spring, as our baseball gloves lay dormant, my son ran around the back yard alone slinging a hard, seamless ball from a shallow net affixed to the end of a long stick. He had to wiggle the stick as he ran to keep the ball from falling out. To compound my humiliation, I had to shell out a small fortune for pads, gloves, and a big white helmet that he could barely hold on his head. When he suited up he looked like something from Star Wars.

But after awhile my son grew bored running around the back yard alone wiggling his stick in the air. So he came up with an idea. “Dad” he asked, “Do you want to play catch? You can use your mitt and I will use my stick!”

It wasn’t quite the game of catch I had hoped for, but I happily agreed. My dream of a father-son bonding experience in the back yard was finally unfolding.

We took our hallowed positions in silence at opposite ends of the yard. I pounded the ball into my mitt a few times, then wound up and stiffly tossed him the ball. Being the first throw of the season it was a bit high and wide for him to catch. But he deftly raised the stick in the air and snatched the ball clean in the net. And then, with one continuous motion he brought the stick around in a long graceful arc and flung the ball back to me. It went like a missile, straight over the top of my mitt and into my forehead, knocking me flat to the ground.

From someplace very far away I could hear my father coaching me. “Get in the ready position, son. Get that mitt out in front of you and be ready for bad hops.” I could see clouds swirling in the blue sky. The sun was out. The birds were singing. It was a nice day for baseball, I thought.

And then, a dark shadow crossed the brilliant sky. It hovered above me, a black silhouette against the sun. It was the head of an Imperial Storm Trooper from the G. Heileman Brewing Company. “Dad! Dad!” it shouted, “Are you OK?.”
“It’s a good thing your toss wasn’t three feet lower,” was all I could think of to say.

Later, slumped in a couch with an ice pack on my head, my son came in to comfort me. He wriggled in under my arm and laid his head against my chest. We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. We communicated through the feel of hearts pounding solidly in our chests. It was a two way conversation rich in respect, admiration, and love. Even though I dropped the ball.

Finally, I spoke to him.
“You are really good with that stick. I’ll bet you can be a good lacrosse player if you want.”
“Yeah,” he said absently, “but I still want to play baseball too.” Then, eyeing the darkened TV, he jumped up, grabbed the remote, and tossed it to me from the opposite end of the family room. It landed with a satisfying thud in my hands.
“Hey Dad,” he said plucking out a DVD, “You wanna watch Field of Dreams?”

From under the ice pack water trickled down my forehead and into my eyes.
“Yes son,” I said blinking away the tears, “I would like that.”

In my sappy movie of father and son baseball, the music swells and the following epilogue scrolls poignantly down the screen:

John’s older son gave up lacrosse and went on to play baseball for several seasons until he realized it was excruciatingly boring; his real passion is soccer. His younger son still enjoys the game, although he spends most of his time twirling around the outfield picking dandelions. John continues to play catch with both of his sons. It is satisfying, but vastly overrated as father-son activities go. He is currently writing a screenplay entitled "Marsh of Dreams". It is about a man who lays synthetic turf over a swamp in New Jersey and learns to play lacrosse with his daughter.