"Where have I been?" you might have wondered. Or not.

 The answer on many a night since late May would be "out at the ball game."

Here in God's Country, we have our own little treat of a college summer league team. It is truly a sublime form of baseball. Young atheletes, perhaps, hopefully, even steroid free, engaged in the game if not always just for the love of it, not for the money, because they receive no pay, all the better to preserve NCAA eligibility.

 Few if any of these young men are just here for the love of the game. Some are hoping to catch the eye of a pro scout. Others want to gain experience with wood bats (the scourge of aluminum having deprived them of that challenge previously). Many are reserves on their college teams, or junior college players about to step up a level, who just need playing time. There are former starting pitchers learning to be closers, and marginal relief pitchers redefining themselves as workhorse starters. Catchers learn to play outfield,or, sometimes fill in at shortstop.

With games almost daily, and a full travel schedule- by bus, throughout Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and dipping to Waterloo Iowa, the level of enthusiasm waxes and wanes. The roster is constantly evolving as players leave in frustration, sign pro contracts, or are injured. Replacements arrive, sometimes filled with promise, occasionally merely to fill a gap. Late in the season - about now, in fact- more players depart, off to early classes, weddings, family  gatherings. The final few games look more like ragtag pick up assemblies than organized baseball.

The weatherman claims summer has not been unusually wet here, yet it seems rain threatened almost whenever our team had a home game. Many of the players with talent merely 'good enough to dream' as noted baseball writer Roger Kahn titled his journal of following independent minor pro ball- develop excellent groundskeeping skills which might help them more in future employment than their playing abilities.

Yet, every night at the ballpark is a joyous event. Any close game rouses the playfulness of even the most jaded athelete, and they emerge wearing rally caps, put their hands up in the air, and mob a winning pitcher or game winning hitter. The crowd is always a great opportunity for people watching, and, when all is well, we share a communal excitement, even bliss. The rare 'bad game' still offers ballpark food, buttery popcorn, and Harry Carey leading us in baseball's anthem of the seventh inning stretch. 

 There is no bad night at the ballpark. No matter what stress my day brought, it melts away, I am as transformed as Alice or Dorothy or Wendy or Harry Potter. For a few hours, nothing battles but the fresh air, the crowd and the simple perfect geometry of Abner Doubleday's game. 

And now the season draws to a close - my team is on the road with two final home games Sunday and Monday. still time to catch just a bit more summer.