From the book
Chapter 1
Shoeless Joe Jackson Comes to Iowa
My father said he saw him years later playing in a tenth-rate
commercial league in a textile town in Carolina, wearing shoes and an
assumed name.
"He'd put on fifty pounds and the spring was gone from his step in the
outfield, but he could still hit. Oh, how that man could hit. No one has
ever been able to hit like Shoeless Joe."
Three years ago at dusk on a spring evening, when the sky was a
robbin's-egg blue and the wind as soft as a day-old chick, I was sitting
on the verandah of my farm home in eastern Iowa when a voice very
clearly said to me, "If you build it, he will come."
The voice was that of a ballpark announcer. As he spoke, I instantly
envisioned the finished product I knew I was being asked to conceive. I
could see the dark, squarish speakers, like ancient sailors' hats,
attached to aluminum-painted light standards that glowed down into a
baseball field, my present position being directly behind home plate.
In reality, all anyone else could see out there in front of me was a
tattered lawn of mostly dandelions and quack grass that petered out at
the edge of a cornfield perhaps fifty yards from the house.
Anyone else was my wife Annie, my daughter Karin, a corn-colored collie
named Carmeletia Pope, and a cinnamon and white guinea pig named Junior
who ate spaghetti and sang each time the fridge door opened. Karin and
the dog were not quite two years old.
"If you build it, he will come," the announcer repeated in scratchy
Middle American, as if his voice had been recorded on an old 78-r.p.m.
record.
A three-hour lecture or a 500-page guide book could not have given me
clearer directions: Dimensions of ballparks jumped over and around me
like fleas, cost figures for light standards and floodlights whirled
around my head like the moths that dusted against the porch light above
me.
That was all the instruction I ever received: two announcements and a
vision of a baseball field. I sat on the verandah until the satiny dark
was complete. A few curdly clouds striped the moon, and it became so
silent I could hear my eyes blink.
Our house is one of those massive old farm homes, square as a biscuit
box with a sagging verandah on three sides. The floor of the verandah
slopes so that marbles, baseballs, tennis balls, and ball bearings all
accumulate in a corner like a herd of cattle clustered with their backs
to a storm. On the north verandah is a wooden porch swing where Annie
and I sit on humid August nights, sip lemonade from teary glasses, and
dream.
When I finally went to bed, and after Annie inched into my arms in that
way she has, like a cat that you suddenly find sound asleep in your lap,
I told her about the voice and I told her that I knew what it wanted me
to do.
"Oh love," she said, "if it makes you happy you should do it," and she
found my lips with hers. I shivered involuntarily as her tongue touched
mine.
Annie: She has never once called me crazy. Just before I started the
first landscape work, as I stood looking out at the lawn and the
cornfield, wondering how it could look so different in daylight,
considering the notion of accepting it all as a dream and abandoning it,
Annie appeared at my side and her arm circled my waist. She leaned
against me and looked up, cocking her head like one of the red squirrels
that scamper along the power lines from the highway to the house.