Dreams of a Poor Child

I was once asked where story ideas come from. Well, it didn’t happen just once, but many times. I always say, ‘they come from everywhere and everything.’ Yeah, it sounds lame, but it is true. Story ideas really come from anything I see, anything I hear, anything someone says.

Today, we took a road trip out to Hartsville. It was just a little day trip to get out of the house. On the way home, we drove through Bishopville and did a bit of exploring. We came upon an old baseball field…and the story you are about to read is directly inspired from it. Enjoy.

Dreams of a Poor Child

Picture this:

A long country road, cotton fields on one side, separated by slat board houses, open fields on the other side for as far as the eye can see. Cotton may have grown on that side as well, but now it’s mostly weeds and trash tossed from cars passing by (mostly bottles and cans and faded chip wrappers). Not too far away and left behind in the rearview mirror sits a prison, big, impressive and as out of place in that space of country just between two little towns. The prison isn’t important for this story, but it is part of the area, and now it is an afterthought.

What does matter for this story is on the left hand side of the road (as you go away from the prison and head south). There’s a park, complete with a large playground that has several slides, ladders and monkey bars. There are swings, both for able-bodied kids and the disabled ones. There are benches for the attentive (or unattentive) parents or adults that aren’t parents at all or maybe the teenagers who begrudgingly take their siblings there. It’s a respite for them; an opportunity for peace from the whining and nagging rug rats their parents don’t want to take care of.

A kid is on the playground. He’s maybe eight and his red shirt has a hole in it, as does both the knees in his faded blue jeans. He’s swinging, swinging, swinging and dreaming of jumping out and flying away from there.

Like the prison, the playground isn’t all that important either, but it’s part of the scenery in this low-income part of the world. What is important sits just beyond the playground. It’s a place where dreams are formed, but so few of them come to fruition.

The ballfield is closed in with cyclone fencing that has rust spots throughout its length and on all sides. It forms a cone around the field. The dugouts are to the left and right of where a cracked home plate is forever embedded into the ground. Each dugout holds a wooden bench, which at one time had been smooth wood painted blue, but now is bare of any paint and splintered throughout its length. The outside of the dugout is nothing more than painted plywood that has warped over the years, Mother Nature having done a number on the untreated lumber.

An opening where a gate should have been at the dugout’s entrance leads to the field, which had once been taken good care of. Now, after the unusually wet fall and early winter, the infield is an orange clay mud pit. The bases, which were never soft to begin with, are hard as rock. Stepping on one of those the wrong way could lead to a broken ankle or worse. Yes, there are worse things than a broken ankle.

The outfield grass had long since encroached upon the infield, covering the base path with what amounts to thick patches of moss. The outfield, itself, is deep to center and left, but shallow out to the right. The outfield fence stands eight feet high, a black rubber pad along the top having begun to crumble beneath Mother Nature’s watchful eye—yes, Mother Nature and her vengeful eye had her way with that part of the field as well. There’s a gate in left center. One would assume it was there to make it easy to retrieve balls hit out of the park. Or maybe it was a shortcut to a neighborhood that once existed nearby.

Beyond the ballpark is a football field, minus the goal posts, and a basketball court with no goals and a cracked concrete surface. Like the prison and the playground, none of those things matter. Neither does the wooden bleachers on either side of the baseball field or the concession stand with its boarded windows that is near a dirt road that leads to the parking lot.

Pay attention here. You can’t see this, and even if you can, just listen.

That’s the sound of young boys and girls on the field, playing baseball or softball. It doesn’t matter which. You can hear them screaming from the dugouts, we need a pitcher, not a belly itcher. That’s the sound of a wooden bat on the rawhide of a baseball, a thwack that is distinct and easily recognized.

Keep listening. A young boy just called out, ‘I got it,’ or ‘mine, mine,’ the universal language for I’ll catch it. Someone calls the out. One. Two. Three. Change sides. Batters head to the field. Fielders head to the dugouts.

Still, listen. Is that the sound of a ball slapping a mitt? Is that a called strike? Maybe it was a ball, just a little off the plate.

Strike three, you’re out!

Ball four, son, take your base.

In this impoverished area where stomach grumble after a meal of half a bowl of rice and no water to wash it down, where shoes so tight feet are cramped and blistered and damaged for life, where gloves are stitched together with shoe laces or wire or maybe there’s no gloves at all, but a milk carton tied to a hand to protect the palms from the sting of a hot shot from a bat; yeah, in this place the game—the dream—is the escape. And it’s the dream that often goes unrealized once life invades and washes away the innocence.

But if you listen carefully you can hear the game being played by those young boys (and girls, let’s not forget them). Close your eyes and listen.

Just listen. Open your mind. Open your heart. Listen.

And when you do open your eyes, look to the field, to its dilapidated dugouts and mud caked field. And what do you see? Yeah, there’s a little boy—the same one who earlier had been swinging on the playground dreaming of some place besides there. He stands on the pitcher’s mound, the rubber long gone. He is slightly hunched over, one hand behind his back, an imaginary ball spinning with the movement of his fingers. He stares in at a batter who is only there in his mind.

He straightens. Both hands come out in front of him, coming together in front of his chest as if he is in prayer (and he just may be).

His arm goes back.

His front leg kicks out in front of him.

And he fires the ball toward home plate…

Thank you for reading, and until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

 

 

A Moment of Silent Reflection

This morning I got up early, grabbed a cup of coffee and headed out the house. I made my way down to a baseball park behind the middle school. On my days off I usually drive there and I park in the same spot and I get out and walk my dog. We do three laps and head home. It’s always so serene and beautiful. With it being spring, the morning was still somewhat cool and there was a slight breeze blowing in.

Today, I didn’t get out of the car. Not right away, at least. I sat there, staring out the window at the world just outside. There was only one other person there, a black woman walking the track around the park. I watched her go until she was out of sight. I don’t know about other folks, but I always take a notepad with me when I go somewhere. Being a storyteller, I hate getting somewhere and not having something to write on if an idea is sparked. However, I sat there, no thoughts traipsing through my mind. I wasn’t even sure why I had gone there in the first place. My dog, Josie, was at home, so I wasn’t there to walk her.

So, why was I there?

I took the pad and a pen and I stood from the car. The breeze felt nice, but folks it’s going to be a hot day here in South Carolina. I stood in the parking lot for the longest time, staring at the playground, the walking path, then turning slowly toward the baseball fields. It was so quiet and peaceful in a way my mind has never been.

Then I started walking. It was slow and I guess I probably looked like a tired person trudging across the parking lot toward the baseball fields. Once there, I sat on one of the bleachers and just looked at the baseball field. It had been used in the last couple of days. I could still see chalk lines down the third and first base lines and remnants of chalk around home plate where the batter’s box was. In my head I could see the kids playing, one team wearing black jerseys, the other one light blue. The ump was in his usual dark blue uniform, catcher’s mask covering his face for protection. There were kids in each dugout, some paying attention to the game while most of them gabbed with each other. The coaches were serious-looking guys with potbellies with their team hats and jerseys on. They were constantly barking at the kids about one thing or another. And there were people in the bleachers and in chairs along the fence and…

And it was just my imagination.

Before I knew it I was jotting words on the notepad. Those words are as follows as written on the notepad:

Scott drove to the park. It was such a familiar place, one he had spent many days at as a youth. It was—always had been, he reckoned—the one place he had always felt the happiest.

No, it wasn’t the same as when he was a kid. Back then, when Mom and Dad brought him there when he was just out of diapers, there was only the one playground. There was no play sand or wood chips to make the place look nicer. There were no plastic, twisty slides or platformed play sets to spark the imagination and appeal to the parent’s eyes. And isn’t that what it’s all about these days? Appealing to the parents?

Not back then, when the playground was nothing more than a set of monkey bars, a teeter totter (or was it two? He thought it may have been two.), a bank of four swings with the hard wooden seats (not the rubber ones they had now), a tall slide of metal that in the summer it got so hot that if you slid down with shorts on you went home with burn marks on the backs of your legs. Scott could almost feel the sting as he sat in his car.

And there was a water spigot. No, not a water fountain, where the press of a button put out a rainbow arch of cool water. What they had was a straight pipe coming up from the ground, a hose spigot with a water valve you turned to get water to come out. Sometimes it was cool. Other times it was just as hot as the summer day was. At all times, though, it was sweet relief. Whether it tasted good or not didn’t matter. It felt good going down. On more than a handful of occasions he had stomach cramps from drinking too much water and going back and playing.

That was all that was there until Scott was around ten: one playground and a slew of trees opposite from it. Then the land the trees stood on was purchased by a construction company and a year or so later, a baseball complex stood where the trees had been.

How many days did he spend at the ballpark—no longer just the park—when he was a teen wishing he could play, but knowing he sucked at it? More than he could recall. Probably just about every day there was a game. But those weren’t bad days. They were good ones, back before Mom got sick and died and Dad…well, Dad never recovered from that blow in his life, and as far as Scott was concerned, he couldn’t have cared enough for his son to keep on keeping on. If he had cared, he wouldn’t have put the bullet in his head when Scott was only sixteen.

It’s not much and it’s very rough, but it’s the beginning of what I think will end up being the novel I’ve been struggling to write for about a year now.

I left the ballpark and headed home, my thoughts no longer centered on the first few paragraphs of a story, but on how a few moments of silence often leads to a story. This is the way it is for writers. This is real life and this is what we look for before writing a story. A story idea can come from anywhere at any time. And it’s a wonderful thing.

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