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