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 arent a lot of people, mainly farmers and the Metzen family. Its silent. Almost like a ghost town, with well tended dirt lawns. The only thing that leads passer byes to believe other wise is the lush green outfield, its shining fence, and the perfect white chalk lines that connect to the