Can't always get what you want

"Is this heaven?"

"No. It's Iowa."

They're worn out now, those lines, W. P. Kinsella's gift to the Iowa tourism board, as faded and soft-cornered as my old paperback of Shoeless Joe with now a major motion picture printed across the front cover, but at this point, that's okay. It kind of fits. I mean, if there is some true celestial plane, I'm sure it doesn't have dual entrances and two feuding-though-they-claim-not-to be-families at the gates. Then again, even if it does, I'm sure it would probably appeal more than the fourth circle of hell. But enough about the Mall of America.


Today, once we fled that oversized retail tribute to all that is wrong with America and meandered through rural Minnesota and Iowa long enough for "If I call 1-800-75-AMISH" (as the billboards insist) who will pick up the phone?" to seem like a sensible question, we came to Dyersville and the movie site for The Field of Dreams. And, in true Family Vacation style, it had been closed for a hour, or at least the good part had: left and center field would be open for another hour, and if that's not another sign of what's wrong with America today, I don't know what is.

A property line, you see, runs through the field, and after the movie finished filming, the left-and-center folks plowed it and planted it and let it be corn until what do you know, the people, they did come, and it became clear that there was money to be made and souvenirs to be sold and "ghost" ballplayers to dress and corn mazes to be built and zoning to change and neighbors to offend and management companies to hire and oh, if we had managed to speed down those two-lane highways just a little faster we never would have turned in to the Left and Center driveway. But there we were, with a bat and a ball and a glove, and a watch that said 7 o'clock, and a sign on the "real" field to read, that said: Please respect our privacy. Field hours 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.

So, several heavy sighs later, we let the girl trespass just long enough to run the bases because what could it hurt, and we, okay I, muttered about not being able to hit, and it didn't have anything to do with that book or that movie or recaptured moments with my dad because for Pete's sake, I'm not even a boy. But we'd been in the car forever, and it was a beautiful night, and we had a bat and a ball and a beautiful field, and I love to hit and I never do, and thanks to bad timing and that infernal mall, it seemed that I couldn't.

Well, screw that, I finally decided. So we crossed the line and took our gear out to the part of the field that I'm sure is only open that late to spite the neighbors and sell a few more t-shirts. No reason to let principle or their nonsense or the lack of a home plate ruin my night, though barely hitting the first half dozen of my husband's pitches off the end of the bat almost did, 'til he pointed out that I was leaning away from everything he threw at, I mean, to me. And then finally, sweet success. When I hit the ball into the corn, my family began walking away, assuming we were done, but my inner eight-year-old fished it out and "one more'd" my way to satisfaction. I even managed to throw something close enough to the strike zone that my pitcher smacked it far enough into the corn (we were playing in left field, remember) that the ball was gone forever, but by then it didn't matter. We got our hits, and nothing feels better.

The field is the field, and I'm glad it's there, however imperfectly. The feud is stupid. The book is my favorite, ever, untouchable in my heart, and the movie ain't bad either. Tonight was a good night, despite the fact that it wasn't quite what it could have been, and beyond the fact that my husband made a suggestion and, remarkably, I listened to it. I just love to hit the ball.