Perfect Field

“There was a field there once.” I told my girlfriend as we drove past the three houses now encompassing my range of motion. “It went from Jim’s house to that house. We used to play wiffleball with the kids that live there.”

“Really,” she replied with feigning interest.

“Perfect Field we used to call it.” I left it at that.

Perfect Field was hardly perfect at all. The family that lived in the house to the right barely said hello to any of the neighbors. They always seemed so prissy and uptight. We never heard the son speak, so we just imagined he couldn’t until he was at least five. All the kids in the neighborhood played with us except for their two kids. They never came out. It was probably for the better, as we would’ve likely ran them off with insults. The white truck and white Volvo; they still have those cars nearly fifteen years later. The boy is in high school, and I’m sure he speaks now. The Perfects we called them.

I remember hitting a ball in-between the trees and hit the side of their house. The wife was out throwing the trash away and complained that we hit their siding. It’s a fucking wiffle ball lady! Mr. Rappleyea apologized vehemently anyway before commenting aside.

Mr. Rappleyea would usually pitch unless he was off working. He still is an editor for a Chicago paper I believe. We played wiffleball so much that the bases and home plate were worn to dirt. We used to have the bush as third, until it was worn in. If you hit it into the road it was a home run. Perfect for lefties but those trees dead center were a more likely spot for a homer for a righty like me.

The backstop was a line of trees. If you hit it into there you’d have to trek in and find it, eventually. We had enough wiffle balls to last us a week or two before having to hack into the wilderness and recover them.

The trees and brush were thick during the spring and summer. So thick that it made the lot seem that much bigger or maybe just because we were simply barely in our teens. We used to try sleigh riding in the winter down the slope from the Perfects’ backyard. They needless to say weren’t pleased with us running through their backyard.

I used to run through the trees for fun. The “forest” as we used to call it stretched upwards toward the fenced in backyards of the houses behind. It was a pretty good drop off running about 20 feet down from the fences into the field. Mr. Rappleyea used to mow it for us, since the owner rarely had someone come to mow it. When someone did show up though, for some reason we were sheepish to even approach the field, for fear that there might be retaliation in the form of “No Trespassing signs“ or fences. Fortunately though, there never were.

Then the first house was built next to Jim’s. The field was shortened but it still worked. We had to shift to accommodate it. They fenced in the backyard, so every foul ball lofted over the fence. We had to keep an arsenal of wiffle balls on hand due to the shear annoyance of walking around into the backyard and retrieving the balls. That family was weird too.

They had triplet girls and an older boy, Matthew. Matthew would play with us occasionally but he was a bit socially awkward. After about two or three years the parents divorced and they moved away. About seven years later we’d find out that Matthew passed away from a heart problem.

In that seven year span, we began to play less and less. Perfect Field began to deteriorate back to its natural appearance. The dirt patch bases became covered again with grass and the brush grew out wildly into the field of play. Then, shortly after they began building another house. Perfect Field was no more.

Out of shock mostly, we moved up the street and began to attempt to play wiffleball at another. Bif Park. Aptly named after the box truck’s insignia “B.I.F” that sat untouched in the outfield. It wasn’t the same. It was rocky, there was little grass and the infield was littered with broken glass from the older kids drinking there. Plus it was a longer walk for everyone and was substantially smaller compared to even the second iteration of Perfect Field. We were a bit older now and we routinely hit the ball over the truck and into the street and neighboring yard. It became a hassle to play.

Bif Park still remains, out of spite I believe. A field still so shitty not even today’s neighborhood youth will play there. Instead they ride their bikes and talk about how they scratched up the black car in the street with their handle bars, giggling away before shortly retreating into the house to play video games.

I walk out to my car before heading to work. I need gas, my headlights out and it needs a wash. I sigh and run my hand over the scratch on the quarter panel of my car. Now I need to find the touch up paint to get this scratch out too.