100 Words Per Mile: Field of Dreams & Collecting Time

I slowly learned to run again as I approached the one-year anniversary of this project.

July 27, 2021
0.51 miles
4:51

August 2, 2021
1.00 miles
9:23

August 5, 2021
1.00 miles
8:20

August 15, 2021
1.59 miles
13:31

August 19, 2021
2.00 miles
17:00

I’d been trying to collect miles before I sat down to write again, because I’ve been itching to write about Field of Dreams, and I didn’t want to do it in these miniature installments—though that’s how I write everything really.

Last week, Major League Baseball hosted a game at the site of the film Field of Dreams, cornfield and all, between the New York Yankees and the Chicago White Sox. It turned out to be very cool, pretty entertaining (multiple lead changes, a walk-off home run), and everything I thought it could be.

It’s hard to know what the future brings, so maybe you’re reading this before my novel The Cadence of Doom / The Recovery Plan / Yakkers (I’m trying different titles) ever finds a home, but if you know me, Field of Dreams means a hell of a lot to me, and given everything I’ve gone through recently, it’s only grown to mean more. From my love for the game, my impending fatherhood, and my inherent attraction to magical realism—Field of Dreams checks so many boxes for me, it’s beyond rad a story like this exists.

Because baseball operates without a clock and with so many unwritten rules, it’s a natural soil in which to grow a surreal ghost story. The legends haunt the game (Babe Ruth, or in this case, Shoeless Joe Jackson) and tradition prevents us from ever really moving on. Theoretically, a single game could continue on for eternity, which would require a particular kind of immortality. We thrust this idea of immortality onto our heroes, which creates a resentment for the present, a resentment that feels so uniquely American.