I Dream of Diamonds

Sitting in the stands at the field of dreams on a cool spring evening, wearing a windbreaker to guard against the light breeze. I notice the smells of burnt popcorn, boiled and roasted peanuts, and burgers being grilled. Sounds assault my ear drums as the crowd taunts the visiting team by shouting at the opposing coach who is on the mound with his pitcher. Jeers from the fans instruct the coach to “Leave her in. Take her out.”

It brings to mind when the starting lineup was announced for the other team and the “animals,” as they are known, led by Mongo, would react to each name with questions like “Who’s he?” and statements like “So what!” The game is good tonight as my team, who plays in a stadium named after a former manager for the New York Yankees and Kansas City Royals, holds a slight lead. I taste the hot dog, which I know is not good for me but it pleases my taste buds topped off with mustard, ketchup and relish.

I sit, drinking a soft drink, as I remember a scene from yesteryear. I wish I could go back, but Mongo is gone. Dick Howser is gone. They both passed away. The players on the field are gone: Richie Lewis, Deion Sanders, Luis Alecea, Bien “Muy Bien” Figueroa are now too old to play at a college or major league level. Yet, I sit here, watching them play on a field that is blanketed with dreams, instead of home plate and bases.

The umpire calls the final strike and the game is over. I leave the stadium and walk to my on-campus apartment, I look over my shoulder at the baseball diamond and watch the banks of lights go out as they are turned off.

Baseball season is back and there is no turning out the dreams of a college kid, who is now much older and wiser. Still, the kid in me dreams of riches and treasure.

I dream of diamonds,  as Mongo and the Animals lead the cheers at the Field of Dreams.

The Concrete Museum

Art spray painted on concrete sidewalks, where Sears and Roebuck bicycles and Radio Flyer wagons have rubbed grooves into the cement.

Some of the art work has been done in chalk by little girls who engage in hopscotch. Other art work has been done by teenage graffiti artists who think it’s funny coming up with a rhyme for a man from Nantucket.

There are spray painted graffiti taunts about someone’s mother written in green. Them’s fighting words. If one looks closely, they can see red paint mingled in with the green.

Wait a minute, that’s not red paint — that’s blood.

A little farther up the sidewalk, one sees that someone has taken their time and painted a beautiful picture of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross, wearing a crown of thorns.

The sidewalk has become a museum with the crude paintings, the rude paintings, and finally the Masterpiece. I think about who may have painted the picture and wish I had. I continue walking. Earlier assailed by the cares of this world, I am now calm, thanks to a concrete canvas painting of the most terrible, yet beautiful thing, that has ever happened in the history of mankind – the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.

 

The Concrete Museum, written by Jacob Bembry, December 14, 2015