Gordon Hirst gripped the steering wheel tightly, occasionally glancing across at Anna through his sunglasses. She was wearing a loose fitting cherry red blouse, tight jeans and brown leather sandals. All the windows were down on their green Jeep Cherokee. Anna leaned back with her eyes closed and let the wind toss her chestnut hair. She looked as beautiful as when they'd first met. Not a word had passed between them in almost an hour. Whenever Anna looked in Gordon's direction he quickly focused on the road ahead.
   "Couldn't we have just gone to a Blue Jay's game?" Anna said sharply, finally breaking the silence.
   "We're not going just to a baseball game Anna. It's the stadium we're going to see."
   "But almost a thousand kilometres to see a baseball stadium - isn't that a little weird Gordon?" 
   "Chicago's Wrigley Field is one of only two remaining original ballparks. It's more than a hundred years old. All the great Cub ballplayers played there. Banks, Santo, Billy Williams, Ryne Sandberg ... and this is the last season for Wrigley. They're moving the team to a new ballpark somewhere in the suburbs. You know that, Honey, we talked about it."
  Gordon had welcomed the opportunity for some rapid-fire chatter. It loosened him up a little. He felt certain that Anna wouldn't know Billy Williams from Esther Williams. And that she couldn't have cared less whether the Cubs built their new stadium in the suburbs or on Mars. 

  Gordon had been hiding his eyes from Anna since they'd left Toronto, almost five hours earlier. He didn't want her to see his baby-blue pits of deceit, so he kept them masked behind the darkened shades. In almost ten years of marriage he'd never lied to Anna, at least not beyond the smallest of tiny white lies. A third beer with the boys when he said he'd have two - or a twenty minute dog walk when he'd promised half an hour. But how could he be truthful when he himself had such little understanding of why they were on this strange journey.

   Gordon turned up the volume ever so slightly on the car stereo as Van Morrison crooned the words to Have I Told You Lately  "... that I love you ... ." Gordon picked up the verse looking Anna's way. She took his hand gently, and then looked off into the distance. 

  As they cruised along the Michigan freeway just outside Battle Creek Gordon's thoughts became dreamy. A gentle wave of euphoria swept over him. He could feel himself being taken. Scents common, sounds he'd heard before. The melodic piano cords faded to cheers. Gordon was sitting behind the Brooklyn Dodgers dugout at Ebbets Field. The Schaefer Beer scoreboard in right field showed the hometown Dodgers leading the Pittsburgh Pirates 2 - 0 in the bottom of the 9th inning. The grass in the outfield was emerald green. The garlicky scent of ballpark franks made Gordon hungry. Brown, black and grey fedoras sat on the heads of subdued men dressed in suits and ties - shoes spit polished. The few women that were there sat quietly in dresses. Gordon liked Ebbets Field. But beyond the cheers there was an odd melancholy.

  The bases were loaded with Pirates shortstop Gene Baker at the plate. The count was full at three balls and two strikes. Then a crack of the bat sent a screaming foul-ball Gordon's way. Instinctively he raised his hands and reached for it. The ball slapped off his left palm and fell harmlessly into his lap. His palm was stinging and his thumb immediately began to swell, but Gordon smiled like a ten-year old. Those close enough slapped him on the back or shoulders congratulating him at the luck of pocketing such a rare Dodgers' souvenir.
   "You're a lucky young man. That may be the last foul ball ever hit in this ballpark." said the old fellow dressed in a spiffy black suit sitting next to him. Gordon paid little attention. He was too busy being proud of himself.

  Gordon bore the surname of his hard working Protestant father. As a boy, he loved to go to the ballpark - to watch, to play or to sometimes just be by himself. Because of his strong-willed Irish mother, he had been raised Catholic. He had often sat in the stands feeling sorry for his many Protestant friends. He was taught in the Catholic school that there was no place in Heaven for these unfortunates. His mother once beat the woman next door half senseless for calling her young son Halflime. It wasn't until years later that he really understood the remark. Poor little b*****s, he'd heard the Protestant kids called. And being this Halflime what could he expect of the hereafter? At night he prayed for his Protestant friends ... and for himself.  

  One hot Sunday afternoon while playing left-field in a local Little League game, Gordon settled under a lazy fly-ball. The baseball was sailing towards his outstretched glove like a stitched balloon, when he felt a squish underfoot. He looked down and saw that he'd stepped in a huge pile of dog s***. The ball hit the heel of his glove and fell like a stone on the grass in front of him. A runner on third ran easily home to score the winning run.

  That night Gordon slept fitfully. His thoughts darted back and forth from the dropped fly ball, to his soiled baseball shoe, to Christianity versus Christianity. At 3:00 a.m. he was awakened by smoke and his shouting mother. She grabbed him by the arm and jostled him out onto the street. Everything Gordon held dear to him was charred by the flames that devoured their home that warm August night. A month later, the Saturday before Labour Day, his mother died of a heart attack after a shouting match with a neighbour - something about the coming school year. The next morning Gordon placed all his cherished burnt belongings and a photograph of his mother in a cardboard box. He walked into St. Martin's during the reading of the Gospel at Sunday Mass and proceeded straight to the pulpit. Father O'Malley stopped reading from his prayer book and looked at Gordon impassively. The parishioners stared at the boy in sympathetic silence. Gordon set the box down in front of the Priest and walked from the church.

  Anna heard a strange chuckle and turned her gaze from the passing cornfields. She was alarmed to see Gordon driving silently with an odd vacant smile on his face. Then suddenly, almost jumping from the driver's seat he looked towards her and bellowed, "Jesus Anna. I've just been to Ebbets Field ... in Brooklyn. Jackie Robinson was playing second base and damned if he didn't seem to keep looking right at me. It was so ... so weird and vivid." he laughed. "The vendors were all either young kids or old men. And they had those crazy damned Brooklyn accents - all yelling 'Hot dogs, peanuts, Cracker Jack'. I drank a beer and ate a box of Cracker Jack. Damn, Cracker Jack - do they even make Cracker Jack - whatever it is anymore? It was strange and wonderful. And the grass - the grass was so green. And the beer - here Anna smell the beer on my breath." 
   "No Gordon, please, watch the road. Why are you saying these things? You're driving the car. Don't talk like this, please. You're scaring me."
   "Grab that hardcover book on the backseat Anna - the thick one. It's called Green Cathedrals and look up the name Ford C. Frick."
  Anna picked up the book from the back seat, leafed through the pages and after a minute or so said, "Here it is. Ford C. Frick was the Commissioner of Major League Baseball from 1951 - 1965. So what?"
  Gordon reached into the pocket of his worn brown leather jacket and produced a baseball. He held it towards Anna and said. "I brought it back Anna - from Ebbets Field. Look at the writing on it."
  Puzzled, Anna took the baseball from Gordon and looked carefully at the fine print between its stitching. It read: Official National League. Ford C. Frick, Commissioner.
 
  Gordon's mind had been in a state of chaos for days. Before yesterday he'd never had the urge to see Wrigley Field or any part of Chicago for that matter. He had no idea how he could have sat through a baseball game 700 kilometers away in New York City all the while driving a car in the opposite direction towards Chicago. And he didn't know how he was able to bring a baseball back with him to the present. And worst of all, this wasn't the first time. It was but one in a recent series of ever so strange journeys. The night before, he had found himself behind home-plate at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh. The Pirates were trouncing the Chicago Cubs 10 -1. A wooded area just beyond the left-field fence gave the ballpark a forest-like feel. It was a beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon. Cubs' infielder, Ernie Banks, grounded into a game ending double play as the Pirates capped the day with a double-header sweep. In the same afternoon he had flushed the toilet at home in Toronto. As he watched the water whirlpool down the drain he felt as though he was going down the toilet too. Then he was standing by the rail down the left field line at Crosley Field in Cincinnati. The outfield at Crosley had a steep incline in left field. He'd watched and laughed along as the gleeful crowd raspberried San Francisco Giants utility outfielder Frank Johnson as he tripped while running up the hill-like incline trying to catch a fly-ball to deep left. Gordon suddenly remembered his own left-field embarrassment years earlier, when he'd stepped in the dog s***. The Cincinnati Reds won the game 5 - 4 on a ninth inning three-run homer. 
 
  Gordon's week had been hectic. On Thursday he was standing at the fish counter at Loblaws grocery store when a smoky haze appeared before his eyes. An intoxicating numbness overcame him and the next moment he was standing at a concession counter putting hot mustard on a knackwurst during a rain delayed baseball game at Sportsman's Park in St. Louis. After the game a helicopter landed on the field. A couple of fellows jumped out and removed the home-plate from its anchoring and then flew off with it. 'What the hell was that all about?' he wondered, as he finished his third sausage. Wednesday he'd made a no-less spectacular visit to the Polo Grounds in Manhattan. Similar forays from the present took him to other old ballparks. A 2 - 1 Philly squeaker over the Montreal Expos at Connie Mack Stadium in Philadelphia; a 3 - 1 hometown win for the Cleveland Indians over the New York Yankees at League Park II in Cleveland; and down in Beantown, the Boston Braves rookie Eddie Matthews had a three home-run day against a team that Gordon couldn't remember - it was all happening so fast. It suddenly occurred to Gordon that all of these preternatural adventures had one thing in common. There had been a marked sadness in the air - a sense of quiet despair.

  As they continued along the Interstate, Gordon mulled over this thought. At the first cut-off for Kalamazoo, he said, "We've got to stop here and find a Starbucks or a large bookstore - a Barnes and Noble, maybe. Somewhere where they have wireless connection."
   "You're not telling me you brought the laptop with you? C'mon Gordon."
   "It's a small computer Anna. It takes almost no space."
  About two kilometers off the freeway along the main street Anna spotted a Starbucks. They pulled in, ordered a couple of lattes, and then settled into a firm green leather sofa. Gordon fired up the laptop. He typed in the keywords "forbes field final game". In seconds the screen filled with website options. On the third try a chill came over him. June 28th, 1970, it read, in the final game ever to be played at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh, the Pirates swept the Chicago Cubs in a double-header. Nervously Gordon continued to type. He was no less shaken by the results:
Griffith Stadium, Washington D. C. final game, 21/09/1961 - Twins 4 - Senators 3
Connie Mack Stadium, Philadelphia, final game, 01/10/1970 - Phil's 2 - Expo's 1
Crosley Field, Cincinnati, final game, 24/06/1970 - Reds 5 - Giants 4.
  And sure enough Eddie Matthews had clubbed three home runs in the final game at Braves Field in Boston on September 27th, 1952. Gordon looked quickly away from the laptop to the table where his coffee cup sat, unsure of his own reaction. A hair-line crack on the lip of his cup, the ever steady movement of the second hand on Anna's wristwatch. "s***." he mumbled, suddenly feeling confused and alone. His sweaty hand reached out and tightly grasped Anna's hand. He needed desperately to touch and hold something that was real. Then he looked up, into Anna's eyes. "I've been to baseball games that were played before my parents were born." he said. "I watched a helicopter land on the infield at Sportsman's Park in St. Louis. Two men climbed out, dug up home plate and flew off with it. It was a publicity stunt. They were taking it to the Cardinals' new home, Busch Stadium. And there's more, so much more. It's all here on the Web."
  Anna gave Gordon a painful look as she tried to free her hand just a little from his grip.
"Gordon, you're hurting my hand."
   "I think I know what's happening to me Anna. I've been visiting the past - the very specific past. Somehow I've been time-traveling to the very last games in all of the old Major League ballparks before they were torn down."
   "Gordon --"
   "Anna, look at my thumb." he said, as Anna let out a gasp of relief at the release of her hand. "It's swollen - maybe broken. That was the line drive foul-ball with Ford C. Frick's name on it that I caught ... or almost caught. The ball is from a game that was played in 1957. I was there Anna."
   "Gordon, if this is some kind of a joke I'll have your balls for book --"
   "No joke. This is spooky. It's the Cubs final season at Wrigley Field and we just happen to be going to the last game." Gordon paused for a moment observing Anna's bewildered expression, and then continued. "I haven't been entirely honest with you Honey. I told you that I wanted to see Wrigley Field because it would be the last game played there. But there's more. I'm being drawn to this place for a reason. And now it's all coming together. We're not going to just a game. It's the last game Anna. Just like all the others."
  For the longest time Anna stared at Gordon, just stared, then said, "Guess we'd better not miss it then."

  Gordon and Anna parked the car in a lot on North Sheffield Avenue and took a slow stroll through the late 19th century neighbourhood towards the Wrigley Field gates. They walked past a sullen fireman in strap cover-alls and a blue t-shirt who sat perched on a wooden chair in front of a fire station. Gordon thought he saw a tear in the fireman's eye as the man watched fans walk by for the final time. A couple of old-time bars across the street from the main entrance were filled with fans and the otherwise curious, drinking that last beer before the last game. The only active members of the crowd were the ticket scalpers who saw the game as a chance to sell that potentially collectible souvenir ticket. Gordon and Anna walked in the main entrance at the corner of Clark and Addison, across the cobblestone foyer and up the ramp to their seats. They arrived about a half-hour before game-time. The crowd seemed the same at Wrigley as it had at Ebbets, Crosley and all the others - cheerless and forlorn.

  It was in the middle of the second inning, after journeyman slugger Korky Clemens of the San Juan Sol hit a solo home-run to deep right field to open the scoring, when Gordon heard the man next to him ask, "Peanut Halflime?"
  Gordon looked down, saw a bag of peanuts extended in front of him and replied, "No thanks ... I'm sorry. What did you say?"
   "Peanuts - I asked you if you wanted some peanuts. They're very good," said the lithe, black man seated next to him.
   "No, no, the other word you used - Halflime."
   "Do you prefer that I call you Gordon?"
   "Who the hell are you?" Gordon demanded.
   "Jackie Roosevelt Robinson is my name. That's Roosevelt as in Teddy not Franklin D."
   "I've seen you before somewhere. How the hell do you know my name?" Gordon asked, nervous now.
   "Well damn, I should look familiar. You spent a whole afternoon watchin' me in my graceful youth out there at 2nd base." replied the smiling black man.
  Suddenly Gordon's mouth dropped open. "This can't be. How? Anna, look who I'm talk--"
   "Save your breath son. She can't hear you. You're in a different place now." said the man.
   "What different place? What do you mean she can't hear me? How the hell do you know I was watching you play 2nd base? And how do you know about Halflime. One miserable old woman ... once ... one time only ... when I was a kid, called me that. My mother beat the s*** out of her. I never in my life heard that f***ing word again. I'm sorry I usually don't swear. ...Why can't Anna hear me?" Gordon said, choking back saliva and a tear.
"Relax Gordon, please be quiet for a moment and let me explain. Anna will be fine. We all come out for these games. Every time they close a ballpark. If we played in the park we come to pay tribute - to say goodbye," replied the man.
   "Who is we?" Gordon asked.
   "We are anyone and everyone who has ever laced up a pair of spikes and stepped out onto the baseball field that's being closed. It's kind of like a reunion - a get-together. There are almost 12,000 of us here for this game."
   "You mean there are dead and alive baseball players here, mingling among one another?" Gordon asked with unease.
   "No Gordon, of course not. We don't associate with the alive ones, as you call them."
   "Who ... I mean where are the 12,000?" Gordon asked even more unsure.
   "Look down, about three rows in front of us. Those two hillbillies nattering away - they're the Dean brothers, Paul and Dizzy. They didn't have much to do with one another when they were with the Cardinals back in the 30's, now you can't keep them apart. Paul's usually the quiet one," Jackie let out a laugh. "You can't help but love that silly old fart Dizzy. Look over there in the next aisle. It's Honus Wagner and Christy Mathewson. Hell, those two boys played way back before I was even born, Gordon. And just over there is Roy Campanella. We never thought much of one another. Roy was our tow the line black guy; I was the trouble maker. Did you know that by 1957 there were eight of us on the Dodgers roster?" Gordon didn't respond so Jackie looked him in the eye. "Black guys, Gordon, there were eight of us playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers back in 1957. Hell, there are lots of teams that don't have that many even now. It's you white fellas that taught us blacks to stick together. And speaking of black and white, look down there by the Cubs bullpen - sitting there all by his lonesome - it's that f***ing hayseed Ty Cobb. Let me tell you, he sure knew how to call a spade a spade - foul mouthed p**** One time he started beating a black groundskeeper because he didn't like the condition of the field. When the groundskeeper's wife jumped in to stop him Cobb grabbed her by the neck and started chokin' her ... Hmmf ... . But he was the great Ty Cobb, the Georgia Peach - pride of the Detroit Tigers. Pride - s***. Cobb never even played a game in this park. He was American League. He just shows up at these events to piss everyone off. I'm sorry Gordon, like you, I don't use that kind of language as a rule. I'm afraid that damned Cobb brings out the worst in me."
   "I understand." lied Gordon, now crazily aware that he was not only sitting beside, but was conversing with, the great Jackie Robinson - the man who broke the colour barrier in baseball. What the hell if Jackie had died somewhere around the time Gordon was born. "But why am I here Jackie, I mean Mr. Robinson."
   "Jackie's fine Gordon. Have you heard of Thomas Creemore, Lawrence Silverstein, or P.W. Woods?
   "They're all writers ... about baseball. They write wonderful stories about baseball." answered Gordon.
   "So do you Gordon. You've written some baseball lore that's hard to beat. That little story you wrote about Maple Leaf Stadium up in Toronto when it was torn down back in the 1960's - we've all read it." Jackie said with a smile. "And the piece about the team from the Vatican that won the World Series; the Catholics loved that one. Babe Ruth carries it around in his back pocket like a prayer book."
   "It isn't possible? I wrote those stories when I was fourteen years old. They were school essays. No one ever read them. They were all lost in a house fire when I was a boy. I never wrote anything after that."
   "Do you really think we just read published works Gordon? Hell, old Dizzy Dean can't even sign his own name let alone read, but he somehow loves your Maple Leaf Stadium story. And I've been told that the stadium story sometimes brings a tear to the eye of that old cracker, Cobb. If you can do that you've got to be good. But please Gordon, let me explain. We are a group of old players, friends really, that get together for special events, like this, the closing of a ballpark. We have a general meeting once a year at the Hall of Fame ceremonies down in Cooperstown where we elect a new executive staff ..."
   "Wait a minute. I'm sorry Jackie. You mean you get together with the current, or excuse the word living players and ..."
   "No, no we don't get together with them. They do their thing and we do ours. As I said before, they don't know anything about us. As far as they're concerned we're all dead ... ha, ha get it Gordon?" 
   "Yeah, that's pretty funny Jackie." Gordon felt his knees begin to shake.
   "Let me get to the point Gordon. Aside from these get togethers and the odd ballgame we get out to now and again we don't have a whole lot of outside interests. Most ballplayers didn't get much of an education and when they retired from the game it was only the lucky or smart ones that could adapt. Most wound up selling beer for one brewery or another or cars for one car dealer or another. Let me tell you Gordon, once you've stood in the batter's box, in front of 40,000 screaming fans, selling Schlitz and Chevys just doesn't cut it. The one thing we players do have in common is a love for the game. We all, or at least most of us, can read Gordon. And it's through men like you that we get the opportunity to read stories about the game we love. Now I know you haven't written a damn thing since you were fourteen, but we believe in you. The only live people that know about us are you and some other writers - baseball writers like the ones I've mentioned - Creemore, Silverstein, Woods and a few more - all still alive and still pumping out the stories. Some of us like to think that they do it just for us. We think you need motivation Gordon - a little push that's all. We want you to work right along-side the other writers. They'll get you on track. What do you say, Gordon? Are you willing to help out a bunch of old ... I do hate using the "D" word ... missing ballplayers?"
   "How do I join, this ... this club?"
   "One of the other writers will contact you - show you the ropes so-to-speak," Jackie said.
   "Okay, I'll do it. Of course I'll do it." Gordon responded as Jackie met his anxious stare with a smile. "One other thing Jackie - would you mind autographing this ball. It was the last foul-ball ever hit into the stands at Ebbets Field. I somehow managed to get it." Gordon said as he held the baseball in Jackie's direction.
"Sure Gordon, for you anything."
Gordon settled back in his seat, closed his eyes just for a moment and began to reflect.
   "Are you sleeping Gordon?"
   "No, no, Anna - just thinking. Am I glad to see you; I mean I'm glad to see you're. ...There's someone I want you to meet." Turning to the chair on his opposite side Gordon said, "This is Jackie ..." 
  An enormous woman with an ice cream bar in one hand and a beer in the other, wearing a grey Cubs t-shirt that must have been sewn by a tent maker said, "Keep your eyes on the game ass-hole."
  Suddenly Gordon realized he hadn't taken the baseball back from Jackie. A wave of anguish swept over him. Jackie was gone. Had it all been a dream? Instinctively he reached into his jacket pocket. Fumbling, he found the ball, took it from his pocket and held it in both hands. Just above the Commissioner's stamped signature were the freshly inked words 'Until we meet again Gordon. Jackie Robinson.'