We U-turned then took a left at TY's . . . I had a strong urge to see Githens Field, worried that the dustbowl of my youth would be long gone. Lo and behold two blocks later, after we passed George Mitchell's house on our left, I saw  they'd made a park of the Githens plot. We walked slowly across its basketball court, and I jumped to assure that I could still touch the net if not the rim. It, backboard and pole supporting both had not been changed.

Githens Field itself was a stunner. I'll not forget that first view. Lush green everywhere, far greener than I'd ever seen it. As though dressed up and dreamlike for my long-delayed return home.

Yet its backstop was gone, replaced by a tiny section of fence. And its spectator stands were no more. Two aged, sun-bleached benches for opposing teams seemed the same planks that were there then.

Walked to the pitcher's mound and paused there for minutes, then to homeplate for minutes more as I positioned feet, awaiting the next pitch. I was stunned to see lush grass all the way to the outfield. The scrub weeds and poison ivy that used to begin where fenceless outfield ended had been long cleared. Only healthy grass beneath magnificent shade trees remained. Even in my memories, Githens had never looked this good.

Oddly, three saplings with bright, rust-colored leaves were planted in deep left field toward the foul line, side by side and precisely spaced. No taller than I, they were out of place . . . a left fielder couldn't play with them there. They were like garlands hung on roadside cross where youth had died.

But the big-old tree into which Jerry Inglesby once hit a home run (with me pitching) still stood. Jade hadn't accompanied me onto the field. But when she saw me place both hands on that sturdy tree and begin patting it — as though it meant much — she came from shady first-base area to join me under its huge limbs. It had witnessed generations of kids playing ball, with families watching. . . . Had I been alone, I would've climbed its thick branches and stayed for an hour, taking in what I thought I'd lost.

We lingered within that tree's shade for many minutes . . . me looking toward home plate, hearing boys playing ball long ago with no cares but for the game itself. And it dawned on me that Githens Field was so green and untrampled because today's youth find scant interest in playing baseball, least of all on a muggy summer afternoon. Even its base paths were abloom with young grass that wouldn't last if players played.

That's a shame for them far more than I 'cause I'd never seen that field of my dreams look as glorious as it did on Saturday, 17 July 2004 . . . 35 years to the month that I'd last gone home.

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