Mayfield

It was a long drive for an eight year old, the hum of the motor nearly always put me to sleep, but when we turned on that road an alarm clock seemed to leap inside of me. We were here. It was always silent when we first arrived, you could hear the crunch of the gravel under the tires. The sound of the wind ruffling through the flag and the smell of the dust greeted me as I leapt out of the van. It was time for baseball and softball to commence; it was time for summer to begin.

The images of Mayfield are as vivid to me now as they were ten years ago, much has changed since then but much has remained the same. The town is hidden at first by the baseball field that serves as its main entrance; it is comprised of several winding gravel roads, the Store, and an old boarded up school house that offers a glimpse of the towns' golden days. There aren't a lot of people, mainly farmers and the Metzen family. It's silent. Almost like a ghost town, with well tended dirt lawns. The only thing that leads passer bye's to believe other wise is the lush green outfield, its shining fence, and the perfect white chalk lines that connect to the withered bases.

Gene Metzen was the grandfather of Mayfield. He had been a farmer; the rays of the sun had turned his skin into leather over the years and his face hung with wrinkles, but when he smiled or laughed all of that disappeared. He was the keeper of the field. He mowed the outfield, chalked the lines, hassled the players, and was the boss of the concession stand. I remember the day we finally got new tile in the concession stand, he was so proud. He and I talked about tile for an entire game and I cried, not because of the tile but because the entire time he was talking he was also chopping onions! Gene had a heart that touched all, his sly comments made every one laugh, and when ever he smiled some one smiled back. He passed away the summer of Ð''06 and at his funeral the walls were lined with all those he touched. Soon after the field was named Ð''Gene