"Field of Dreams" Meets "Sweetheart, Get Me Rewrite"

A lot of boys have the same dream, but most of us keep it to ourselves.

The dream is to play Major League baseball in New York, and to hit a home run with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning in the seventh game of the World Series to win the whole shebang.

(Hey, if you're going to dream, dream big.)

But as you get older, a Catholic boy like me comes to realize three depressing things, in this order, as he drags his bat back to the dugout after yet another strikeout:

1) God does not distribute hitting abilities evenly among his people.

2) God probably doesn't care about baseball.

3) Maybe there isn't a God.

Well, your faith can die, but a dream never really does. It just gets crowded out by new dreams.

Like this dream I had about becoming a writer. Got a job at the New York Post as a general assignment reporter, which meant every day was different.

Monday, a crime scene in Brooklyn. A chalk outline on the street where the bullet-ridden body fell in broad daylight, and nobody saw nothin.'

Tuesday, a lottery winner in Manhattan. A tongue-tied sudden millionaire who doesn't know what to do with all that money. Poor guy.

Wednesday....was it a Wednesday morning in October, 1986? Game One of the World Series between the New York Mets and the Boston Red Sox was just a day or two away when City Editor Dick Belsky called me over.

"Head out to Shea," he said casually, "and give us a color story about the teams getting ready for the series."

I think I actually gasped. "I'm getting PAID for this?"

Belsky laughed, and off I went to the ballpark.

Even now, I tingle when I think about it - walking right onto the diamond, courtesy of my press pass. Strolling in the outfield grass - the greenest lawn in the world! - with Ron Swoboda, to the very spot where this former Met made a miraculous diving catch off Brooks Robinson in the '69 series.

And then leaning against the backstop, elbow to elbow with Lee Mazzilli to watch Darryl Strawberry take batting practice.

"Gonna get me some home runs," Strawberry said as he settled in at home plate. He was good to his word, blasting one moon shot after another.

Then it happened.

A baseball rolled to my feet. I looked up, and saw Red Sox slugger Tony Armas holding up his glove.

"Over here!" he yelled.

I picked up the ball, my blood pounding. Armas was waiting. I reared back and threw it to him.

It was a slightly wild throw, but Armas was able to reach out and catch it.

Just like that, my lifelong dream had come true! I'd walked on a Major League baseball field at World Series time, in New York, and thrown a ball to a big-league player!

Okay, so it's not EXACTLY the dream I started out with when I was a kid.

But see, that's the good thing about being a writer. You can rewrite anything, even a dream.

And for anybody who has a problem with that, I have just three words:

Let's go Mets.

Charlie Carillo is a novelist and a TV producer. His website is www.charliecarillo.co