magic happens in the least likely of places but sometimes it happens exactly where its supposed to happen. a friend and i have always been moved by the film, "Field of Dreams," moved to point of venturing to Dyersville, Iowa each summer just to spend a few hours on the field that film teamsters built. there is magic in that film: a film about baseball, about fathers and sons, second chances, healing, and passion. passion for love, passion for dreams, passion for baseball. we love that movie because its about people with baseball in their hearts. that's us. so this friend and i go west each year in search of renewal and magic. tonight i cried watching the film on tv because it reminded me of one of our visits there.

we had spent all day at the field, several hours of playing catch, shagging flies and hitting a few. we walked around the corn and tasted the shade of pine trees next to the grand white house and surrounding white picket fences. souveniers from both shops passed before our eyes, as did their prices. eventually we parked ourselves on a bench outside of the larger shop, the one with the air conditioning. always the more outgoing one, my friend started a few short conversations with various people around us. "where you from, how many times have you been here, its amazing here isn't it?" that sort of thing. it got later and later, more and more people left. we didn't get hungry because it was too damn hot to feel hungry. by the time the sun started setting only a few of us were left and we occupied the left field bleachers by ourselves. stars shone out above us like street lights, stretching for miles across the endless rows of corn. we talked the talk of good friends searching for their dreams in a place that seemed to reveal them with each glaring star and noisy cricket. we descended and made our way over to the right field bleachers where a few other people sat. we chatted, shared stories, i blared openly about cubrants. then the truly extraordinary happened. this guy ran over to his car, pulled up as close to field as the fence allowed, opened the doors and trunk. the noise of a million crickets was drowned out in a second by the slow, trans-like melodic music of the Field of Dreams soundtrack. you'd understand if you heard the music. there we sat, complete strangers sharing this intimate moment. dark night country sky, stars from unheard of places flickering, the fog settling in for the night under the corn, the music connecting us to the field, to the game. i love that moment. i love that memory and i'm so glad i have it. i cry because of what that moment represents, how silly and sappy of me. its pure, and it is true. i want to go back to that place, and what i mean is that place where all that mattered was that moment, not a future or a past. sometimes sex is like that, sometimes its a conversation. for me and my friend, it was a baseball field in the middle of nowhere iowa on a night that never really ended.