It was getting late that evening near the end of August. The sun hung lazily on the western skyline pulling the shadows into carnival-mirror proportions. Eighteen spider-like images danced as marionettes upon the dusty brown field known as Winchester Park. It was here that the last game of the summer season would be played; a grand tradition that was now in its eighth year. It would also be its last year.

A playful breeze teased the air with the scents of late-summer storms and a feeling of impending turmoil masked in the pleasantness of cool relief. Far across the ocean, halfway around the world, the clouds darkened and spread like a terrible virus. Thunder rained death and lighting leveled cities as it crept closer with every breath. But to the people of Green River, life was still the ice-cream-sweetness and beer-and-barbeque dinners of late summer.

            Tommy stood tall atop the weed encroached mound as if it were center stage in a school play. There were two outs and his team was ahead, but Dean Baker was at the plate. There was no batter the young pitcher feared more than big Dean. At nineteen years, Dean was the oldest of the bunch. With arms like the tree trunks from the deepest jungles of Africa, and a face which closely resembled the apes which lived within, he was truly and intimidating figure both on and off the field.

There was no one no where that Dean wouldn’t fight. Many a long evening and lonely weekend had been spent writing verse on the schoolhouse chalkboard because of it. Not that Dean was particularly cruel and violent at random, and he definitely wasn’t the stereotypical pug-nosed bully. But his values he held close and he would stand up for his beliefs no matter what. He was the guy who once said he would fistfight god himself, if it came down to it. In less than a year, on a frenzied shore thousands of miles from here, this attitude would get him killed. But as he marched his way up to bat, he carried the respect and admiration of a whole town.

Tommy squinted over the plate, carefully avoided eye contact with Dean, and calculated his next pitch. Dean was too good to be outdone by a simple fastball. Besides, it was late in the game and Tommy knew he couldn’t get much speed on one anyway. But if a breaking ball fell over the plate, the game would be as good as over. Tommy glanced at the catcher hoping for a suggestion, but Michael was too busy looking back and forth between the ground and the giant standing at the plate.

Michael wasn’t your typical catcher. He was a scrawny, nervous, four-eyed dweeb who didn’t so much as blow his nose without first asking for his mother’s permission. He was the same age as the others, but he was five years younger in size. Despite these less-than-flattering qualities, he could catch like a dynamo and had the quickest arm this side of Foster County. Besides, with guys like Dean charging the plate, no one else was senseless enough to take the spot. But it didn’t matter how good his glove and arm was, crouched shakily in the behemoth’s shadow little Mike looked more like a bug-eyed kitten than an eighteen year old man.

A few months later, when the storm sank the eastern world into the very bowels of hell, Michael escaped without even a scratch. His life would not end in fields or ruins, in the trenches or on the beaches of some far-off land. He would meet his end deemed a deserter and executed. Slaughtered like the scared little kitten thrown to a pack of American wolves. It was never fair to subject such a frail man to the torments of war and expect him to emerge a warrior. But the storm was a sickness which infected all it consumed, and there was no sympathy left in the world for those too weak to survive. And Michael was one of those casualties.

Finding no help in his catcher, Tommy decided to try a sliding pitch that he had been perfecting. It should have enough left-to-right on it to move just inside the plate. If Dean happened to fall for it and swing, he would make contact low on the bat. Maybe he’d get a base hit, maybe not. But he definitely would not wallop a deep shot out of the park. At least, Tommy hoped not.

Slowly and deliberately, Tommy wound up and fired. The pitch sailed towards Dean with little or no sliding motion, instead hanging over the inner third of the plate. Tommy’s heart stopped in his chest and his stomach churned as the scene played out in slow motion. Dean’s massive muscles fired all at once as the bat started to arch towards the pitch. With a mighty slice the lumber crashed through the air. Yet the dreaded crack of the bat never came. Dean had been too eager for such an easy pitch, and he had swung too hard. The ball settled into the catcher’s mitt safely. Strike One!

*           *           *

The great storm had already made its way across the ocean to the shores of the United States. Political banter and war talk had been loosed upon the nation for some time now. The shock of Pearl Harbor was not forgotten, but well passed. The draft was an everyday scare, but to the town of Green River the war was still some far off nightmare. There had been a handful of townsmen to pack bags and head overseas, maybe a dozen or so. Most were the kind of men running away from their roots, or running away from their unplanned and unwanted families. A few just wanted out of small-town life. But Green River as a whole seemed to have been overlooked by Uncle Sam and his deadly lottery; its population of able-bodied men was still intact.

And so the town gathered to watch what had turned out to be an electric game. It was the bottom of the ninth, two outs, and now the biggest slugger in town had a strike. The game was nearing an end, the summer was nearing an end, and life as it was known in the scenic town of Green River was nearing an end.

Tommy’s last pitch had not gone so well. He knew that Dean could have easily slugged that ball to the moon. By the pale color of Michael’s skin, Tommy knew his catcher had seen the same thing. But the excited cheers of the fans told Tommy his mistake was a secret kept between himself, his catcher, and big Dean Baker. His next pitch would have to be something really special. He needed to buy himself time.

Slowly, with exaggerated carefulness, Tommy turned and threw the ball to Johnny at third base. He wasn’t really trying to catch the runner off guard. In fact, the runner had never even left the bag. But he could have been halfway to home and made it back before the throw. Tommy had taken his time; careful not to make a bad throw and let the tying run come home. Johnny caught the ball with a slight flourish and a wide grin.

Johnny had always loved to show off, but he had the talent to back it up. His dreams for the future had been bright, but none of them had included his unexpected trip to Europe. Everyone thought he would play pro ball someday.

            “Ya damned fool!” he’d shout, “That mouth of yours ‘gunna getcha killed someday!” He said it often, but he said it with a smile. It wasn’t his bragging or boasting that got him killed. It was the German MG34 that ambushed Johnny as he snuck off to take a leak. Shot in the back, he was never even given a chance. It just wasn’t fair.

            Johnny lightly tagged whoever was on third, and then jogged the ball back to Tommy at the mound. Given a chance to breathe, Tommy thought he knew what his next move would be. He waited for Johnny to reclaim his position at third, and then he set in motion. His arm moved in one fluid arc shooting low along his midriff. It was the first time in years that he had thrown side-armed, but it felt as natural and smooth as anything ever had been.

For a split second, Dean’s eyes grew wide and frenzied. Quickly regaining his senses, he two set in motion. It was another mighty swing. For the second time in as many minutes, Tommy’s heart ground to a halt. It was all over, it had to be. His ruse didn’t work. With a crack the ball rocketed into the air. Higher and higher it went, but it left the bat at an awkward angle. It ricocheted well behind the plate instead of soaring out over his fielders’ heads.

            Behind the plate, Michael was already on his feet racing towards the ball. Tommy felt his heart kick-start and return to life. He could see that Michael would easily reach the errant foul before it could land. Tommy had won the game! It would be a great evening filled with swooning young women and loud music, with enough food to feed the entire U.S. army! Not to mention the….

…Like a rock through a stained-glass window, his daydream was shattered into a thousand confused pieces. Michael had tripped over his own feet (something that was not uncommon, but unexpected none the less). With a grunt of mixed pain and embarrassment, Mike landed on his face. The ball landed inches from his head. Secretly, deep down, Tommy wished it had hit him. Strike Two!

In the early months of 1944, President Roosevelt and Mr. Eisenhower knew the storm had grown much too terrible for an easy resolve. They, along with the leaders of their allies, began formulating a spectacular plan to reclaim the beaches of France and begin the push towards a Nazi demise. The plan was risky and bold. For Green River, it was a plan that would forever change the town. By the time of the invasion, nearly every young male had been drafted, crash-trained, and shipped oversea. By the end of the war, not one would return.

They would be part of perhaps the single greatest act of courage ever undertaken by mankind. The multi-national task force faced almost certain defeat and staggeringly miserable odds for survival. In the face of this unimaginable terror, something as simple as a town baseball game no longer carried importance. Lover’s lost or let go. Mother’s who laid awake at night to weep. Fathers too old to fight drank and worked and buried themselves in the local papers to hide their own tears. Wives and children stripped of their spouses and fathers, who were left to fend for themselves. These were the things that mattered over there.

But on that day in August, in the little town of Green River, the war was still long off. There were two outs, two strikes, and it was the bottom of the ninth. Tommy stood trembling on the mound; his stomach tumbling, his mouth dry. Dean stared angrily from the plate. Michael trembled and Johnny smiled wide. Joey, Bobby, Steven, Will—hell everyone, stood firm. The crowed cheered and chanted and shouted words of encouragement and clapped. Wives and sweet-hearts sat motionless, bound by the invisible chains of anticipation. Children craned their necks to catch glimpses of the older boys, the heroes, the baseball players! It was time.

In twelve months, the townspeople would be grieving from a loss so unimaginable that a writer’s mere words cannot attempt to describe it. The outcome of this game would forever be forgotten. Widows and orphans and fathers whose name would no longer live on—they had no thoughts of baseball. Radios would lie forever muted. The town paper quit printing stories about sports, or social events, or the weather. None of it seemed to matter. But tonight, all eyes were on the field. All eyes were on Tommy.

His arm felt like it belonged to someone else as it started in motion. All he could do was watch as it glided through the air, rocketing down an invisible line toward home plate. As the ball left his fingers, Tommy closed his eyes and waited.  

*           *           *

            It’s been said that time heals all wounds. But some wounds need better sutures than time before they can begin to heal, even then leaving permanent scars to remind us of their pain. To the town of Green River, the suture is the knowledge that the lives of they boys who once played ball in the summer and snuck out to meet girls late winter nights were not given up in vein. Green River may never have another end of summer game, but somewhere in this glorious country many other towns will. Because of their sacrifice, and the sacrifice of soldiers from around the world who united to fight oppression and tyranny, we still have that freedom.

Dean will never slug another ball far into the deep-blue sky. Johnny will never tiptoe flamboyantly to the bag to pickoff another daydreaming base runner. Michael will never again participate in the pitch-and-catch routine of a ninth inning pitching duel. And Tommy, my brother, can never throw another fastball, curveball, or “what-cha-call-‘er”. But because we’re free, I can.

So for every Tommy and big Dean and Michael and Johnny, for all the unnamed but unforgotten, for all their widows and orphans and weeping parents, for all the siblings left without their older protectors, for all the dreams that were ended before they begun, for all the lovers left unloved, for the love of country, for the love of the game, for the love of god, play ball.