10 August 2006

A hot time at the new ballpark

The mercury climbs, the temperature reads 96 and haze envelopes the Bourne traffic circle. The hottest day of the year, and the Bourne Braves are hosting the Falmouth Commodores at the new field that baseball purists say is becoming the Camden Yards of the Cape League.

A field of dreams? Perhaps. The cliché is overworked. But personal dreams for young ballplayers do take shape in fields of green like this where the grass is honest and the game is pure; where it should be played every sunny summer afternoon.

A steady breeze wafts out of the southwest as fans arrive with ice packs, coolers, folding chairs, transistor radios and their cell phones. They are prepared to broil.

The features of the day? Gatorade and sunglasses and those ice cream bars with chocolate covering. No hot dogs, though. The concession stand runs out of gas.

The teams trade two-run innings. Bourne pulls ahead of Falmouth, 4-2, in the bottom of the third and retires the side in the top of the fourth. Bottled water sells like crazy. The price? No consequence today.

Schmoozers arrive, more for the second game of the twin bill, moving smoothly toward the shade provided by the announcer's stand to watch a game designed to be played and enjoyed in the sunshine.

No bother. The folks in the bleachers along the third base line get friendly. The old adage seems alive: a man may be lonely in a crowd, but no one is alone at a baseball game.

"Where do you live?"

"Sandwich, actually. I used to live in Bourne. I moved."

"I live in Falmouth."

"Sandwich has a sense of community. Bourne's too segmented; the canal, you know."

"Falmouth is pretty much well run ..."

"It won't be the best day for the 50-50 raffle."

"Where are you guys from?"

"We're from Revere."

End of the conversation.

After six, Bourne leads 4-3. The game seems to become more work than baseball; which, of course, is not to be played against the clock.

Falmouth ties it, and the talk in the stands quickly shifts to prospects of extra innings in the heat that will not quit. After 6 1/2, though, Falmouth 5, Bourne 4.

Bourne loads the bases in the bottom of the seventh. Falmouth fails to turn a double play ball to short, and Bourne ties it at 5 with one out; runners on first and third.

A passed ball puts a runner on second and a bunt brings a run home; two out, 6-5 Bourne. A long fly ball to deep center field ends the inning.

Beyond the fence at the 395-foot mark a military helicopter follows the tree line, dipping softly and shimmering in the heat to somewhere deep within Camp Edwards.

The game is over. Bourne wins. It is of no consequence for the Braves, who up their record to 8-30 in a difficult season that sees them somehow beating league-leading Cotuit. Go figure.

It has not been the most exciting Braves season. If they had an organist, their signature song would be "The Band Played On." For the fans, there will be another season in the sun. In baseball, there is always another August. It is when box scores are scrutinized, records are checked and titles are decided.

The Commodores, meanwhile, have something at stake. They slap back in the second game, taking a no-hitter in five innings, 5-0, to stay just behind the Wareham Gatemen in the Cape League's West Division.

The early evening ends suddenly when a classic microburst of a storm out of the northwest - complete with thunder and lightning - slaps its way through Onset, across the bay, along the canal and up the hillside to where the Braves now call home. You could smell the rain coming.

Baseball is much like the weather. Nothing is perfectly stable. You count on change. You know how to gauge it. You talk about it. The game is backward looking, full of mascots and superstition and renewal with each pitch and each passing season.

Along the way you wait for that match-up where guile and guts match talent and opportunity. You cheer the winners and lament the losers. There is always that gap between first promise and effortless execution.

Many of these Cape League kids will go on to big league careers. Some will be standouts full of character and destiny. Others will not. Many will ride minor league buses and win and lose in comparative star-struck solitude. They will get to where they are not interested in the score, merely how many runs are needed to tie and to win.

Yet even if they hit the heights, they should remember that the western writer Zane Grey patrolled center field in college before finding his true vocation; and that toward the end home run king Roger Maris sold beer and the distinctly unsentimental Hall of Famer Early Wynn was a boat salesman.

Both players had their days when they performed in record heat and were chased from the playing field by lightning bolts. Just like those last Wednesday night dancing out of the ominous clouds heading toward Braves Field and emptying the bleachers.