I am willing to bet that there is not a baseball field in this country that isn’t haunted.
Unless the lights are on and kids are playing, I won’t go near one after dark. But I know the ghosts at this one. Pony League played here. Boys from thirteen to sixteen. Played for years here; I’d say at least thirty. Been empty at least ten years now, and in a sad state. But the ghosts here are all from the early days. Kids that played near the end of this field’s run weren’t nearly as crazy about the place; not nearly so tied up with it. By then it was just one more program, along with soccer and swimming and half a dozen other things.
Those boys that played here way back then had their best days on this field. Some of them, anyway. There were boys who were men by the time they turned sixteen and played their last year here. They owned this place and owned their lives then in a way like they never did after that. I remember one old boy, died of a heart defect when he was thirty-one, hit six home runs in a row. Six times up and six times over the fence. Handsome young man. Had girls falling all over him. Loved one of them.