The field is just as we left it one year ago: manicured infield, screens scattered along the base paths, red shorts, gray shirts, and young prospects fielding and swinging and sweating under the burning summer sky.
We step onto the warning track, and I can’t help but gaze beyond the center field wall to the Pennsylvania mountainside, hill tucked beyond hill, so full and lush the rest of the world loses its color. It’s a magnificent view, one that’s placed Medlar Field on the tongue of every baseball fan as one of the most beautiful parks in the nation.