When you were growing up did you have a special place where all of your dreams seemed possible? Sue and Ron, our college friends, just came to visit from Florida. Sue, who had lived in Brighton, had one request — a tour of her old neighborhood. As we approached an old stone bridge, fireworks erupted in her mind as she recalled playing under that bridge.
Don't we all have a place that reminds us of our youth and simpler times? For me it was the triangle, a piece of land a train ride from New York City. The land formed by the intersection of several streets at the end of my block had no industrial or residential use. Although it was too small for a house or store, it was just right for a sandlot ball field, where my friends and I dreamed Major League dreams with every swing of our bats.
Most of us knew what we wanted to be in life and what team we wanted to be on forever, the New York Yankees. Those of us who marched to a different drummer dreamed of the Brooklyn Dodgers or New York Giants. Baseball was in our bloodstream, spraying base hits everywhere.
Our fly balls didn't need fences to contain them. We were 10-year-olds and dreams were powerful, not the pop of our bats. In our mind's eye our fly balls and line drives had Hall of Fame written all over them.
The triangle was a place where we could escape our yards, stop playing stickball or Wiffle ball, and play like big leaguers with a hardball and a wooden bat. We could be like real professionals and pretend that below our brightly colored caps we wore pinstripes with our name and number sewn on the back. We could chew our wads of pink gum and spit into the dirt and sand The triangle, whose sides were less than 100 feet long, corralled our dreams of fame and fortune.
As a 10-year-old, I often wondered how those pop flies driven high into the sky hardly ever rolled beyond the curb. Each one seemed like a rocket blast. Catching a line drive could really sting if the glove had little or no padding. Sometimes we would "eat" a ground ball that took an erratic bounce. Later coaches would tell us, "That's using your head" or, "That didn't hurt." It did hurt, but that didn't matter, since our sights were set on stardom. A few "stars" along the way were a small price to pay.
When I was in college, long after I had stopped playing sandlot ball, the place of our dreams was turned into a playground with small trees, swings, benches, and two giant manmade turtles to crawl under or over. Less than a decade after college, I pushed my two toddlers, Mary Lou and April, on the swings where right field used to be.
More than four decades have flashed by like a swift base stealer since I played sandlot ball. Now, Mary Lou and April have gone to college, married, and given us five wonderful grandchildren. They are still testing reality with their own changing goals and dreams.
Not too many years ago, I sat with my mother on a worn bench of the triangle after dusk holding her hand. There were broken beer bottles in the sand and in the moonlight you could see that the turtles had been defaced by graffiti. We talked about Dad, his heart attack, and our shared dream for his recovery. I told my mom, "Don't worry about Dad. He's going to get better."
Just then a police car stopped in front of us. The policeman rolled down his window and yelled, "Nobody is allowed in the park after dark!"
I quickly stood up and grabbed my mother's hand and we slowly walked home. As we ambled along, I thought to myself, "Dreams come. Dreams go. Dreams change. Dreams keep us alive. Dad will get better." The triangle was my dream factory, safely tucked inside my heart, where I'd always play out my dreams, with or without a bat.
Dad did get better.