MY BASEBALL FIELD

Glamourous. That’s what I would call my home if someone should ask. I couldn’t show anyone where I reside, though, mostly because I live in a make-believe world where I’m wealthy and successful and have people who do things for me like I used to see on television when I was able to watch it. 

Things can change suddenly, and we often don’t think about that possibility. I’m referring to our lives. Our lives can change in an instant based on the choices we make. Unfortunately, I chose to believe that my job was secure and that I’d move up the ranks and be a VP one day working in the big office with a huge window.

Wishful thinking or sobbing couldn’t help me change my financial circumstances fast enough, and I found myself out on the street. Evicted was not a word in my vocabulary or something I ever thought would happen to me. Still, here I am, a thirty-something hipster with an expensive college degree with nowhere to call home.

I knew watching the minimalist videos on YouTube would pay off someday. Once I sold my furniture and many kitchen gadgets like my Ninja and Instapot, all I had to schlep around with me would fit in a grocery cart as some other homeless folks use on the streets. Sadly, there was no available grocery cart on the streets with my name on it.

Ah, what to do. I walked to the nearest park. I figured homeless people might like the park, so I thought I’d run into one and get some pointers on surviving life on the street. But like the grocery carts being non-existent, so were any homeless folks.

I thought about the cliché, “when one door closes, another one opens,” and when I looked out through the park, I saw what might be my new abode. Thankfully, it was May with warm days and slightly cool nights. Nothing that the down comforter I squeezed into my suitcase couldn’t handle to keep me warm where I was headed.

It looked like a stream of sunrays shone upon the dugout as I opened the rusty chainlink gate on the fence surrounding the old baseball field. I had fond memories of playing baseball there as a teenager; I used to be one of the best pitchers in the county. But now, overgrown weeds took over the fence, a mangle of grass covered the bases, and crusty paint peeled off the buildings. It looked like a scene from a horror movie. I waited for the swings outside the field to make a squeaking sound as they moved back and forth, but my imagination was more frightening than real life. They never moved. 

Considering it was spring and prime baseball playing time, Mother Nature seemed to be the only player on the field. I assumed it was because there were no kids interested in playing baseball or volunteers to coach and tend to the field operations: their loss, my gain.

The dugout was enclosed, except for the opening in the front where young baseball players used to sit on the edge of their seats waiting to get up for bat. I was one of them. And boy could I hit! I had a batting average of .300, and our coach used to tell me I was majors bound if I applied myself to high school baseball to get a college scholarship. Sadly, that did not happen after I sustained a severe shoulder injury while skiing in tenth grade that sat me on the bench forever. Man, my luck! Why do these things happen to me?

I managed to jimmy the lock on the press box (or what the kids called the announcers’ tower.) Ten rickety steps led up to the wooden structure that allowed views of the entire field. It was closed now, but a front-hinged section opened up during games. It was where the nerd kids sat and announced the plays and status of the games. I used to pick on them a lot and had my team laughing at my juvenile and (what I see now as) abusive antics. Huh, those kids are probably sitting in a mansion that they bought with the big bucks they earned from their important jobs and watching TV with their three kids and a big dog that takes up way too much of the couch. So, who’s laughing now?

The boxy wooden structure was big enough to lay down my comforter and pillow for me to sleep there. The adjacent building was the food and drinks stand and housed a bathroom on its side. After dropping off my things in the press box, I checked out the bathroom situation. There was a padlock on the bathroom door. Drat! But there was a window. I made a mental note not to wait too long before I had to go because that adventure would be harrowing without the pressure of needing to relieve myself. 

Overall, the baseball field was not such a terrible place to crash for a while until I could get another job. I didn’t have a car because my youthful dream was to live downtown and walk to work. At least I didn’t have to deal with repo men or women taking my car if I didn’t have the money to pay the loan. Nice, I guess.

Once I closed the door to the press box, no one would ever suspect I was living in there. It appeared that I was the only person who stepped foot on the baseball field in many years. I had hoped that was the case so I could leave my belongings and walk to the store and get some food and drinks to tie me over for a few days. Walking with heavy bags for the mile or so wouldn’t be my favorite thing to do, even though I was in pretty good shape.

When I got back, my stuff was untouched, and I figured my new little camp was going to protect me and keep me safe until my luck turned around. I had one book, Positive Thinking: 10 Steps to Health, Wealth, and Success, by Napoleon Hill; the rest of them got sold at my apartment sale. I thought it would be helpful to change my life. Why didn’t I read it sooner?