Page 27 - North Haven Magazine Issue 28 Spring 2023

The most feared player during my three years I spent in the majors became a reality. Heaton Field was torn down, and the collective
was a kid named Steve Kesses. When I was 11 years old and he was hearts of the thousands of children who had the opportunity to
12, he had a season that most people only dream of having. On play there over the years were forever broken.
opening day his team, Fisher Plumbing, played Candid Cleaners.
His first three times up he hit three home runs. That is amazing My father always told me that time heals all wounds, but this is
in and of itself, but what made the feat even more unbelievable one wound that has never quite healed. In the close to fifty years
was how far the balls went. All three hits travelled well over the that have passed since I played there, the memories have never
police station which was located way beyond the left field wall and faded. The dream of building another Heaton Field has never left
at least three stories high. As much as he was feared as a hitter it my mind. It is a dream that I still hope to one day fulfill. Heaton
did not compare to the trepidation that players felt when they had Field was more than just a field. It was a place where thousands
to face him as a pitcher. In one game he actually struck out all 18 of little boys chased their dreams of playing Major League base-
hitters he faced in the game. Playing against Steve Kesses was like ball. It was a place where young adolescents learned lessons that
competing against a 12-year boy in a man’s body. would serve them well as they reached adulthood. It was a place
that brought the community together. It was a place where fathers
While the games we played there were legendary, Heaton Field and sons created unbreakable bonds and where families healed.
was more than just a place where Little League games were played. Heaton Field hugged us and enveloped our souls as a loving par-
Beginning when I was 10 year’s old, I would spend the entire sum- ent would embrace their own child. The town may have made the
mer riding my bike down there every day where my friends and I decision to tear down our beloved field, but it can never take it
would play sandlot baseball all day long. Heaton Field was about from the deepest recesses of my heart where it has remained all
a mile from my house so I would get up early and meet anywhere these years and will remain forever more.
between 10 and 20 of my friends at our own field of dreams by
9:00 in the morning. We would choose sides and the games would
begin. Although we kept score and it mattered very much who
won and who lost, I couldn’t tell you about any one particular
game. We were just a bunch of kids enjoying life. I will forever
remember the leathery smell of the baseball and the gloves. Nor
will I forget the sound of the crack of the bat when a batter hits
the ball on its sweet part. I can still feel the sting on my hands
when I hit a ball off the end of the bat or off the handle. In those
days, we only used wooden bats. And there is nothing like hitting
a baseball with a wooden bat. At noon, the games would stop, and
we would proceed to a huge Mulberry tree that was located along
the left field line. It is here where we would pick the berries and
enjoy their luscious sweetness. We would often ride our bikes to
my friend, Tommy Jermine’s, house and have peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches and flush them down with a big glass of milk.
Those lunches were some of the best ones I have ever had. We
would then return to Heaton Field by 1:30 and play for another
hour and a half. Then, at 3:00, we would begin to prep the field
for the game that was to be played at 6:00. We would get out the
rakes and smooth out the infield. We would put down the batter’s
box and the foul lines. When this had been completed, we watered
down the field. The end result was a field that was a masterpiece
to behold. At various times during the day, we would raid the
concession stand for soda, potato chips, and ice cream. That food
tasted heavenly. Never mind that we were technically breaking the
law. The scenario that I have just described would be repeated day
after day all summer long and the joy I experienced has a perma-
nent place in my collection of memories.
During my final year of playing in the majors when I was 12 years
old, rumors began circulating that the town officials were contem-
plating tearing down Heaton Field. The thought that this might
happen sent shivers up my spine. How could they do such a thing?
Didn’t they know what this field meant to us all? Why, why, why,
would they do such a thing? Sadly, about a year after I had grad-
uated to the big diamond to play Babe Ruth baseball, the rumors

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