Shawnna Schultz
ENG 100-5665
31 January 1996
FD1
Cartwright's Dream
Nearly every Friday night, I find myself at Cartwright Field
watching my boyfriend play yet another game of softball. As I perch in
my usual spot on a giant tree trunk waiting for the game to begin, I look
around in wonder at all the small things that add to the beauty of the
park. When I first arrive at the field, it's usually just in time to watch the
sunset. The scope of colors in the sky is mesmerizing, and I find that I
can't look away. As I look high in the sky, the deep blue of night can
already be seen sprinkled with bright clusters of stars. White clouds are
visible, resembling floating tufts of cotton. I look down towards the
horizon and am blinded by brilliant shades of red and yellow as if the
mountains are ablaze.
I'm jarred out of my thoughts by the horn of a car, angrily
blaring at someone and I'm reminded that behind me sits the freeway.
Walking towards the fence, I see that cars are moving at a snail's pace,
their occupants no doubt anticipating the weekend ahead. The
headlights of all the cars are on, resembling eyes staring vacantly ahead.
After a while, watching the cars in their journey home gets somewhat
monotonous so I slowly turn and walk away.
As I near the field once again, I look to my right where there is
a wall near the tiny parking lot. It's by this wall that I'll always find a
team that has already played, sitting in a circle on their beach chairs
with a couple of open coolers in the center brimming with chunks of ice
and cold beer. Off to one side sits a hibachi, crackling as the chicken
cooks atop it. And no matter where I am in Cartwright Field tonight,
I'll be able to smell that food and fantasize about what's for dinner.
These aromas will take me across the street to the Korean mini-mart to
buy snacks to get my hunger through the game.
Back in the park, I sit on the bleachers and continue to observe
what's around me. Scattered all across the bleachers are other wives and
girlfriends waiting to cheer on their teams. I talk to a woman named
Stacey who comes directly from work to watch her husband play. She
confides in me that she hates this and most softball fields. Stacey thinks
they're dirty, full of mosquitoes, termites, and flies, as well as the fact
that softball bores her. She claims to dread coming here on Friday
nights, but since they are a one-car family, she has no choice. To the left
of the bleachers is the giant tree I sat on when I first arrived. It's now
infested with children of all sizes. They run around it, play hide-and-
seek in its crevices and try to jump out of it to see how far they can make
it. Inevitably, someone always falls a little too hard, bringing parents
running and kisses to stop the hurt. As soon as the tears stop and
mommy walks away, the child is back up in the tree seeing how far he
can jump this time.
Out on the field, the teams are throwing balls, warming up for
their game. To get a feel for the field, some guys will rub their hands in
the dirt as if checking the consistency while others walk the grass
memorizing the indentations in the earth. Suddenly, the umpires signal
for the game to begin, and the field comes to life. All the pre-game
tension dissipates into the night air, and the players look as natural as if
they spent their days in the field instead of the offices in which most of
them work.
For the next hour, sounds of softballs cracking against bats fills
the night. At one point, the batter hits the ball so hard that it screams
past center field and over the fence into the basketball court where a
bunch of kids are shooting hoops. One of the boys throws the ball over
the fence so the softball game can continue, but the basketball game
does not. Instead, the boys just lean against the fence and stare longingly
at the softball game as though envisioning themselves out on the field.
Looking to my right to the busy Keeaumoku Street Bridge, I see
more than a few faces stopped to watch the game. Many are still dressed
in aloha shirts and mu'umu'us, resting their briefcases on the railings of
the bridge, having obviously been sidetracked from their walks home
from work. Their faces are filled with such delight that you'd think they
were in Yankee Stadium watching a major-league baseball game rather
than amateur softball. This was the aim of Alexander Joy Cartwright,
after whom the field is named. Cartwright, who was responsible for the
popularity of baseball throughout much of the country, moved to Hawai'i
in the 1840's (_Colliers_ 507). He brought the spirit of baseball here,
and it remains alive in Cartwright Field.
Before I know it, the game has come to an end. Both teams
shake hands and move off the field, which is now empty except for the
umpires removing the bases. As everyone packs up their belongings, I
walk over to the fence behind home plate. As the cool breeze brushes
against my skin, I close my eyes and envision the field. From the noisy
sounds of cars speeding past to the warm friendship that the guys show
each other as though long-lost friends, I always find that I leave with a
good feeling whether my team has won or lost. Maybe it's because
there's never a dull moment while I'm there. But I do know that
whenever someone asks me about the most beautiful place I can think
of, my answer will always be Cartwright Field. They may not agree with
me, but they asked!
Works Cited
Uchizumi, Stacey Y. Personal interview. 19 Jan. 1996.
_Colliers Encyclopedia_. Macmillan Educational Company. 1990.
Beauty