I once dreamed of playing left field for the Atlanta Braves. I’d patrol the vast, pebble-pocked outfield of Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, nailing runners foolishly trying to score, scaling the chain-link fence to snare would-be home runs. (As a member of the godawful 1980s Braves, I would’ve seen plenty of action in the field.)
My dream ended as soon as it became clear in Little League that I possessed an arm that was less likely to hit the cutoff man, and more likely to hit the cutoff man’s mom sitting in the stands. But even now, every time I’m in a ballpark, I wonder what it would be like to jog out there to left and wait for a ball to come my way.