The Ballpark

On summer nights, my mom, dad, sister and I would go to the Oak Park park and watch the men play baseball. Our neighbor, Mr. Greenhut, was on a team, and we sat in the bleachers, batting away mosquitoes and soaking up the cool night air while we watched him and the other men hit and run. My own father was not healthy enough to play baseball; I wonder had he been, if he would have played along with the other men. The teams wore real uniforms, like professionals, their pants knicker-like, their jerseys lightly striped with the names of a sponsor written in script.

At my age I didn't know how to play the game, but the fun for me was the family time and the freedom that summer nights bestow. I've always loved being outside on a summer evening; the warm darkness gives me a feeling of being enveloped in the security of the world, as though the very air is a blanket. This combined with my parents and little sister was all I needed to feel complete.

One night at the park, my mom sang a song to me:

I love you a bushel and a peck
A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck...

The tune was catchy and the words charmed me. I was loved a bushel and a peck, whatever those were!

At nightfall, the lights of the baseball field came on and you could see the outline of the flying insects against their backdrop. Brown dust flew up from the field when a man slid or a mitt scraped the surface going for a low drive. The small crowd cheered or groaned, children ran up and down the wooden bleachers, their pounding steps making clunking sounds, shaking the seats. There were no tickets, no concessions, no boos or jeers. It was pure summer fun, families, friends, neighbors at the park.