Work Text:
We join our heroes in the red-golden season of late summer, in that serene brief season between high summer and harvest-time, the golden hour of the year's long day. We join them at the golden hour of that particular day, when everything higher than the lowest floor was ablaze unconsumed with a slanted light, deeper and brighter than any other sunlight all day long, that illuminated all it touched and instead of drowning other colors, made them brighter and richer. We join them in the heartland of North America, on wide open spaces of land beneath an even wider expanse above, so large it seemed to embrace the whole Earth and remind the onlooker the world was round, even though the land all around was flat. There was neither hill nor tree nor canyon nor crater in sight; only the vast open ground, planted as far as the eye could see with the Three Sisters: the maize higher than human heads and as thick as a walking-stick, golden heads nodding in even the softest breeze imaginable; the squashes and pumpkins still half-green and leafy, not yet gravid, still slowly fattening themselves for the winter, still screened beneath great jade-colored fans, which also shielded the bean-plants from the unbearable gaze of the day's burning orb; and the bean-plants themselves, small and dainty, subtly winding their way up the towering cornstalks, little by little, modest aspirants to the light.
In one such field, perhaps one-third of the grain had been cleared away, and instead of cornstalks, there stood electric windmills, and between them, almost as tall, a series of floodlights on poles, obviously powered by the windmills, bent their great heads, like curious Plesiosaurs, over a sandy trapezoid ringed by wooden stands shaped like oversized staircases, its wide end backed by a gigantic half-cage of steel mesh and faded green planks. On either side of this, two fences, twice man-high, embraced half the sandlot, and on the inner side of each, as if in the crook of two elbows, sat a dozen jolly-looking men and women, no two alike except for their clothes; the latter were all of the same cut, though different colors.
At the entrance to the enclosure stood a sturdy farmer, who might have been any age from thirty to fifty, and he said, "Come to watch?".
Artax answered, "I dare say we are, if we can afford it".
The farmer said, "Well, c'mon in. It's only $20 per person".
The trio paid him and went into the stands, where they found seats at just the right height.
Nathan asked, "What're we doing here? What is this place?".
Artax answered, "This, dear boy, is Kinsella Park: the only place left, where one can get baseball tickets for a reasonable price, and still sit close enough to see the game. The only place where they play for the love of the sport, instead of just for money. The only place where players play together who might not otherwise have met, who might never otherwise have played at all; players of every class, creed, and complexion. Almost the only, anyway, and certainly the only one east of Manzanar, where the descendants of those once held prisoner there still play to honor their oppresséd ancestors. This is a field like few others, perhaps no other in the world. This is a place to relax, before we pick up our anxieties again tomorrow. A place where the proud tradition is for once carried on, and never goes out of date".
After that, they sat in silence (except for cheering) and watched home runs and strikeouts over paper cones of piping-hot peanuts and popcorn. There was not a single foul. When the game was over, no one seemed to know who had lost or won, but everyone cheered and clapped, and all the players laughed and hugged each other.
Nathan asked, "What's it all about? Why'd we stop here for?".
Artax answered, "This, son of my childhood friend, was a little moment of peace and loveliness in a journey mostly full of trouble and sorrow; and that's worth more than it seems to be worth, believe me".