Many years ago, my dad impressed upon me the concept that all of life is bittersweet. The poets of the world all knew, expressing it through eloquent words down through the ages. None grasped it with the eloquence of this guy.

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being” he wrote “the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

On this day I share with you a dream of a dear friend.

My Dream of the Field… Kerry Keene

Many are fondly familiar with the 1989 sentimental fantasy movie “Field of Dreams”. In it, Ray Kinsella, played by Kevin Costner is repeatedly told by a mysterious, otherworldly voice “Build it, and he will come.” 

Kinsella ultimately determined that it is a baseball field that needs to be built on his Iowa farm. He sets about to plowing over a portion of his massive cornfield to create it. The “he” the voice referred to turns out to be Kinsella’s long- deceased father.

It all comes together in a magical, poignant scene near the film’s end. A much younger version of Ray’s father emerges from the cornfield deep in the outfield along with a group of other early 20^th century ballplayers. Dressed in his old-time baseball uniform, he briefly reunites with his awestruck son, and they proceed to converse and play catch.

More than three decades later, the field in Iowa remains as a tourist attraction where fathers and sons and mothers and daughters visit and play catch, walk in and out of the cornfield, and take photos. Baseball has long been a generational pastime that has brought grandparents, parents, and their children together and helped create treasured memories.    

My father took me to my first Red Sox game, and we played catch many times. I took my son and daughter to their first games, and we also played catch in the yard many, many times.  Watching them both play their Little League games will always be fond memories forever cherished.    

My son Zak’s final season of Little League at the age of twelve was magical, with his Red Sox team winning their league championship. After, his coach presented him with a trophy for “Best Team Spirit”.   

Tragically, we lost Zak at the age of twenty-six to a motor vehicle accident.

Two hours before a police officer came to our house to inform us of his death, I had just happened to step out in my backyard and recall the times we used to play catch together when he was young. He would sometimes throw one quite a bit off target, it would land deep in the bushes, and I’d have to crawl in and dig it out. We’d laugh, and then resume throwing.

I hadn’t thought about that in quite a while, and it seems much more than a coincidence that the memory would come back to me at that moment.  I could not have imagined what I was about to learn in a couple of hours.      

A friend of mine recently told me that he was making plans to take his young grandson to the Field of Dreams field in Iowa and play catch with him there. I told him about my own personal fantasy, a slight variation of the film’s plot.

My dream goes ….

I go to the field very late one summer night, and no one else is around. I’m standing at home plate with two baseball gloves and a ball. After a little time passes I look out deep in the outfield. I see a shadowy figure emerge from the cornfield, slowly walking towards the infield. As he draws closer, chills run through my entire body.

There was no mistaking that handsome twelve-year-old boy in his Little League Red Sox uniform.

As he comes close and stops about ten feet away, there is an awkward silence for a few seconds. I am so overwhelmed at that moment,  I’m not sure how to react.

“I haven’t seen you in that uniform in twenty years” I finally stammer. “It was a thrill watching you boys win it all that season” I say.

“It was one of the highlights of my early years” he replies. I hold out his old glove and say “You haven’t used this in quite a while. Would you like to play catch?” “Sure” he replies, with a slight smile.

Although he looks twelve, his voice sounds like the last time I heard it, in his mid-twenties. There is a distinct air of wisdom and maturity about him. Unlike those early years, every throw is right on target.

After several more throws, I say “Tell me a little about where you’ve been.” He stops for a moment and says “It’s more beautiful than you can even imagine. I’m learning a lot.”  I reply “I hope I can get to join you somewhere down the line” 

“I’ll be there to greet you and guide you a little” he says, “just like you use to guide me.”

“I feel like you’re with me every day” I tell him.

“Well, I am around you a lot” he says with a grin.

Suddenly, a voice calls out from the outfield. He turns to look, then turns back and says “I’ve got to get back.”

We embrace, and he says simply “I’ll never be too far away”, and walks briskly to the outfield, his image very gradually fading as he enters the cornfield.

On the long drive home, I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of building a baseball field in my backyard.

HAPPY FATHERS DAY PAPALUCHE, and to all those who have known the joy of DAD!