Having a ball at the park

Vinnie Meuwissen pulled a ring of keys from the pocket of his khakis and unlocked the gate to Chaska Athletic Park.

On the field, the Cubs warmed up before an empty grandstand. Bats cracked against balls. Balls slapped into gloves. The sun hung hot and brassy in the west, driving a parching wind across the field.

Meuwissen paused and squinted at the blue-shirted players. Almost 60 years ago, he cut sod for the original ballfield from a nearby farm. In his youth, the 81-year-old was a catcher on town ball teams.

He wiggled the fingers of a beefy hand as if the sting of a fastball still lingered.

"It's hard on the hands," he said. "Today, they've got a suitcase for a mitt."

Now he's the ticket-taker. Raising the window in the ticket booth, he tacked a torn piece of paper to the booth's front: Adults $2.00, seniors $1.00, under 18 free. Then he planted his elbows on the counter, leaned forward and watched cars pull into the parking lot.

Two seniors waved their season pass. "Hi, how are you?" Meuwissen said. A woman carrying a red and black uniform on a hanger stopped, confused. "Are you a player's lady?" Meuwissen asked. She nodded. "Go ahead," he said.

"Hi, Robert. Hello, Billy. Hey," he said to another woman. "You should be happy; your Celtics won!"

The loudspeaker boomed. "Gentlemen, remove your hats and face the flag at center field for the song of the greatest nation." Men carrying lawn chairs froze. A little girl stopped in mid-stride, put her finger in her mouth and looked at her dad for guidance.

The first batter hit a grounder for an easy out. On the other side of the right-field fence, Scott McCarty and three boys played their own game, tossing a ball back and forth. Ethan and Luke were his sons. The third was Jacob Hudson, whom they had just met.

Jacob, 8, was dressed all in red. He had kicked off his black sneakers and was running barefoot in the grass. All bony boy knees and knobby feet, with pale serious eyes and a dusting of freckles, he had hair so blond it mimicked the glare of the sinking sun.

Sweat glistened on men's foreheads and soaked baseball uniforms, but Jacob was cool and dusty. When the McCartys moved on, Jacob played by himself. Innings passed. The big lights above the diamond snapped on. Players' shadows stretched giant across the field. Jacob played, spinning and diving and jumping for imaginary balls.

And then ... crack. A shout: "Watch your head!" Necks craned as a foul ball soared over the fence and dropped into the grass. Jacob swooped to the spot just before a swarm of boys.

He danced over to his mom with a big grin, and then ran back again, tossing the ball in the air and catching it. Up down up down -- and then a man's hand reached out and plucked the ball from the air.

He bent over the stunned boy. Baseballs are expensive, he said. The team needs the ball back. But I'll give you a quarter if you come with me to the concession stand.

He turned and walked toward the grandstand. Jacob dropped his mitt into the grass and stood with hands on his hips, twisting his toes in the sod, looking like he would protest. Then his shoulders sagged and he slowly followed.

His mother walked toward a bathroom in the cool depths of the grandstand. Jacob trailed her into the tunnel, holding his shiny quarter. He sat down in a scattering of sunflower hulls that had fallen from the seats above, and cried.

A baseball, after all

The sun sank behind the trees. A searing pink striped the darkening sky. Jacob -- who, if truth be told, had three baseballs at home; four, if you count the one that's lost -- played in the grass. He spotted a pitcher and catcher from the visiting team warming up.

Can I have the ball when you're through? he asked shyly.

He fidgeted against the batting cage wall, peeking around the corner every few seconds to see if they were done.

The pitcher dropped the scuffed yellow ball into the boy's hand, and Jacob galloped off.

It was dark. Clouds of mosquitoes threw themselves at the towering lights. Damp, grumbling men left their seats, swatting bugs, mumbling about the score. Chaska was going to lose.

Meuwissen pushed himself out of his chair and pulled out his keys.

"The boys were tired," he said, unlocking the ballpark's exit gates. "I'm going to see if there's any popcorn left."

Mary Jane Smetanka • 612-673-7380