"Seven other dads and I arrived on an early summer morning at the Field of Dreams, the mystical place made famous by the 1989 movie starring Kevin Costner. We had driven over six hours the day before to make it there. As part of our yearly Dad’s Trip, the Field of Dreams in Dyersville, Iowa, was our anchor stop. It was the whole reason we got on the road in the first place. We use this trip to make memories before the kids have the nerve to grow up on us. Along the way, we saw part of the castle and spent the night in a barn, and although those were great experiences, the Field of Dreams movie site is something entirely different. It was magical.
When we arrived, 20 kids aged 1 to 11 opened the doors of our minivans and burst out like a soda that had been shaken too much. As the kids ran, all the dads stood for just a moment to realize where we were and what it meant to us. It looked exactly like we hoped it would. A dirt infield with clear and crisp white lines outlined the base paths. Small stands stood to the side for intimate crowds and a chain link fence backstop that could be found on playgrounds of our youth. The outfield had carpet thick grass, and the corn field marked the border.
Untouched by commercialism you expect to see places like this, the Field of Dreams movie site appeared in real life exactly as it had on screen. On the top of a hill, a quarter mile away, the white farmhouse stood, and from that porch, you could watch whatever game was played. There were no sponsorships for the latest soft drink and no ticket sales to capitalize on the oddity located in the middle of nowhere Iowa. It was simply about the game of baseball and the connection that can be made between a father and his kid.
And now that eight dads and a cult of their children were here, it was time to play ball.
“If you build it, he will come.”
We had traveled for days to come to the Field of Dreams site because how could we not? The movie is a father/son story told through our national pastime. Of course, we wanted a piece of this. And when we arrived, everything lived up to the hype.
We had come prepared as well. This wasn’t just a summer road trip to see a few oddities. We meant to play on the actual field. Half of us were coaching some sort of baseball at the time—from T-ball to Little League, so we had all the gear. One dad pulled out a 10-gallon bucket of balls as another one grabbed a T. I had catcher equipment, and others had the bats. The only thing we were missing was Terence Mann keeping box score in the stands.
It didn’t take us long to step on the field and start a game. With so many kids, it was easy to field two complete teams or to hold batting practice. My 1-year-old son sat on second base while I shagged balls hit our way. He was an excellent second baseman who had great skills at eating dirt. He’s going to be a major leaguer one day. My 6-year-old bounced from shortstop to the outfield, depending on where the most bugs were. My 8-year-old daughter was the first up to bat as one of the dads grabbed the bucket of balls and pitched.
As we played, I knew that this was one of those core memories that would stay with me forever. But the memory was not complete just yet.
“Wanna have a catch?”
Soon, other families began to show up with cargo carriers strapped to their trucks, vans, and cars. They arrived and sat in the bleachers and watched us play, and hardly anyone talked as if that would ruin the moment. But for me, as I watched a young boy no older than my daughter point at the outfield, the moment wasn’t complete. No one comes to the Field of Dreams movie site and doesn’t play. That just isn’t right.
“Hey, you guys want to take batting practice?” I said to the bleachers.
“And we’ve got a lot of extra gloves,” said another one of the dads.
Soon, our baseball game of 20 became a game of over 40. Kids ran down pop-flys in the outfield as toddlers ran the bases in no particular order. First to third, home to second, it didn’t matter to them or us. What mattered was that the magic was still here on the ‘Field.’
We had all left the hustle and bustle of our lives behind. Politics stopped once you crossed into the infield. Where you were from or where you were going didn’t matter. The game replaced it all—and all of us were welcome.
Early morning gave way to the beginning of the afternoon, and we still played. I bounced from outfield to infield with my kids. We played catch or just chased each other around. A game of tag burst out in right field in between line drives.
“Is this heaven?”
I then looked back to the bleachers and saw two older women enjoying the game but not participating. I guessed that they were in their 60s, but that shouldn’t be a reason why they shouldn’t play. Did they feel left out? Had they come all this way only to watch? No, this I couldn’t have, so I approached them.
“Howdy,” I said in my best Southern drawl. I don’t use the accent much anymore except when I want to appear disarming and charming.
“Hello,” they said. They wore jeans and light jackets even in the summer.
“So, what brings you two out here?” I asked trying to let the small talk warm everyone up.
“Had to stop and see the field,” said the one closest to me. Her gray hair was cut short, and she wore no makeup. She was as natural as the field and had a smile that looked how I felt. Joyous.
“Family trip?” I asked.
“No, we’re sisters,” she said.
I was confused because I had just asked them if they were on a family trip. This answer made no sense to me.
“Oh, so sisters that aren’t family?” I asked trying to make a joke. They laughed.
“No, I mean we’re nuns.”
Sweet mother of everything that is holy.
“Please, please, please come play baseball with us,” I said because this was the last of the magic that I was waiting for. I wanted this story so bad. What did the kids and I do over the summer? Well, we played on the Field of Dreams with nuns.
“Oh, I don’t know,” one said.
“Yes, you do. Come take some batting practice. It’s the field, everyone gets a chance to play.”
And so they did, with the first nun cracking a decent double right over my daughter’s head. The next up at bat drove her home, but it may be because my 1-year-old ran up and grabbed the ball and then started licking it. I didn’t have the heart to take it away from him.
We spent hours at the Field of Dreams movie site making those core memories with our kids. And, of course, because you have to, we all each took turns disappearing into the corn stalks that marked the border of centerfield. The nuns left, but other people took their place. No one sat on the benches anymore. Kids ran into line to take batting practice or picked up one of the extra gloves that we had brought as soon as they arrived.
At the end of it, I sat in the outfield and just watched my kids and knew that this was a story that I would tell for decades. This was a memory that would become the core of who I am—a father who loves his kids. And on this day, I got to have a catch with them.
Shannon Carpenter, Contributing Writer
Shannon Carpenter has been a stay-at-home dad since 2008. He is also a humor writer trained through the famous Second City and author of The Ultimate Stay-at-Home Dad. Shannon’s writing has appeared on CNN, The Atlantic, NPR, Fatherly, and he has shared his experiences with Forbes, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, CNBC, Slate Magazine, and The New York Times, as well as his local NBC and FOX stations. Whether writing social satire or parenting essays, he is always able to find your funny bone and leave you with a lasting impression.