Anyone who grew up playing baseball knows that the merit of a given ball field may be quickly determined by its outfield. There are, of course, a range of factors upon which this judgment will be based: the distance from the edge of the infield to the outfield fence (if there is one), the length of the grass, the presence of molehills, the way the infield dirt and outfield grass meet, etc. Starting last summer, I began meeting with a group of friends from around Nashville every Sunday of the warmer months at Cleveland Park out on the east side of town around 3pm for a game of baseball. A random assortment of service industry vets and musicians of all stripes, we make plans and talk trash on an internet forum throughout the week to keep the chatter going in hopes of a good Sunday Funday turn-out.
Cleveland Park is nestled in an East Nashville neighborhood just on the other side of the river from what I’ve nearly always considered the better bank of the Cumberland. Oprah Winfrey’s dad’s barbershop is around the corner and there’s a swimming pool reserved for God-knows-who beyond the softball field adjacent to our self-proclaimed home turf. The dirt is always clumpy and sometimes we’ll show up to find the bases have been ripped up by some youth not realizing his or her actions amounted to the desecration of a sect of a certain mindset’s holiest of temples. We don’t complain; we replace and play.
I’ve grown to love this field and its imperfections: from its ever-fluctuating base paths to the inexcusably crooked foul lines that look like they must have been painted by someone suffering from vertigo. But the real treat of Cleveland Park is the view from the outfield. From left field, where our ragtag squad naturally migrates to throw the ball around to warm up every week, one can look towards home plate and see the downtown Nashville skyline peering over the trees beyond, the Batman building reminding everyone our precise location in space and time. In centerfield, even the most adept beer league outfielder can find it impossible to judge the proper place to position him or herself for the batter as it extends a bit further than one might expect. Such a depth can easily lend itself to a lost centerfielder, and bloopers in that direction often end up soaring over the head of one that either miscalculates or underestimates. After all, our range out in the field isn’t under the scrutiny of any scout, and more often than not, there’s a cigarette or a beer in the hand of those who selected themselves for “where the ball doesn’t often go.” Looking towards home, the right fielder has a nice view of the ticky-tacky houses, constantly under threat of foul ball bombardment, behind our Sunday sanctuary.
On weekdays around 3pm, I long to stand in the tall, unkempt grass with the train tracks at my back, mere paces from the other side of the right field, chain link fence. I can almost hear the startling whistle and rattle of the train that never stops the game but acts as an all-too-perfect addition to the idyllic American baseball experience we had set out to recreate.
So our outfield is far from perfect, but out there, the outfielder may take solace in the fact that he or she is doing exactly what their American arms and legs were bred to do: play ball. Yes, it’s hot as hell and the bugs have a way of making themselves known to the outfielders far before their infield counterparts can come off that sense of ground ball high alert enough to notice. But the outfield is a place of reflection and anyone that can let such petty discomforts ruin that leisurely freedom wasn’t meant to play the game from out here.