Some Saturdays, the sun just barely peaked through the clouds, but others, it streaked down, bouncing off the metallic bleachers, blinding me, and radiating heat. On these days, the pale blue sky was immaculate, without a blemish, and the hot rays soaked through my skin, warming me to the very bone. The cold, silver benches, naturally dull, glittered and dazzled in the early afternoon light, and a brilliant yellow-orange drenched the players in a cheerful splendor, as they danced down the field. The stadium stood, majestic, and spectacular, in the early April light. I sat and watched and listened. My ears filled with the crowd’s exultations, the cheers that emanated from the sea of blue surrounding me. The shrill laughter of the man to my left, a young child’s call, the coach’s constant, deep bellowing seemed to pick up and carry with the light wind, and then trailed off as the wind shifted, and whipped in the opposite direction. The sun scorched the emerald strip of turf that was dotted and lined playfully with thick, criss-crossing, candy stripes. The fresh cut grass, like a neighbor’s lawn, or a baseball game, smelled of early spring and mixed with the pungent odor of spray cans and line paint. The hot, thick, scent of greasy food hung over the bleachers. The stadium often took on that familiar, homey feel that made me feel safe and content and comfortable. Sometimes the sun shone so bright that the whole world was enveloped in a blank, pale, undistinguishable white, like a winter morning when a frosted window reveals the world, wrapped up in a blanket of purity.
My hours spent at Homewood field were vibrant, and timeless. Other times, at night games, the sky would open up and the entire world would spill out on top of us. A harsh, punishing, rain would lash across my face, the wind cutting me deeply from within. And other times a monotonous drizzle would continue for hours, rain trickling down, a slow, torturous, rhythm that seemed to push the earth to its breaking point. The harsh and unpredictable conditions called to me, and seemed to test the will and mettle of others who had so contentedly filled the stands on pleasant, breezy mid afternoons. On these evenings, the sky and the fields took on a pale, glassy gray, one of a stormy coastline or a dull sheet-metal, and during those night games, a thick, heavy fog settled under the clouds, rain bogging the field in mud, and weighing the world down, leaving me alone to soak in the darkness and enveloping me in a constant, pervasive chill. Those nights stung the earth, and froze me to the core, as the raw ground cracked under the incredible pressure of the game and the world. As the bleak skies opened up to cutting winds and lightning, God illuminated the sky in a spectacular and awe-inspiring electrical storm, and even in the harsh black, rewarded me for my loyalty and faith, with a mystifying and natural light-show.
The most beautiful days, and even the ugliest nights, at Homewood Field amassed God’s utter power and reminded me of my insignificance in His world, of my participation in something wholly greater and more important than me. The bright days and dark nights at the field demanded my happiness and appreciation, and commanded my respect. The stadium filled me with emotions, and yet the stands always held among them the resounding thunder of the divine, and carried the resilient quality of victory, ensuring me that the stadium would always be as it was then, powerful and unchanging, and eternal.
