Dreaming big while held captive by grief is challenging but not, I’ve come to learn, impossible.
I was hollow for a long time after Max left, void of ideas, aspirations, even hope. I clung to the dreams I had for Max, for our family of five, and couldn’t fathom how to let them go, or, least of all, how I could ever dream again.
But dreams can take you by surprise. Like white, fluffy mushrooms on a freshly mowed lawn, dreams can appear out of nowhere, beckoning you to pluck them. That’s exactly how the idea for Max Janton’s Field of Dreams emerged, leaving me with nothing but yes.
My youngest son had his first all-star baseball tournament at the end of May. While schlepping a load of folding chairs, waters, snacks, and a smorgasbord of fans – a neck fan, a handheld fan, a table fan - to his field, I passed a crowd that caught my attention. I dropped off the baseball baggage, then backtracked to indulge my curiosity.
I saw a boy in a wheelchair at the plate, which was painted on a flat, synthetic turf – a handicapped-accessible field for special needs athletes. The boy swung his bat, made contact with the ball and off he went, racing down the line toward first base. The crowd of volunteers and parents cheered, and I joined them, grateful for my dark lensed sunglasses. I continued to watch for a while, then bounced around to my fellow spectators, asking question after question. From there I walked to the next field over which looked identical, except the athletes weren’t children, but adults with special needs. There were men and women of all ages (the man in the outfield with wrinkles and gray hair made me melt) and they were having so much fun.
I shouldered up to a woman who cheered on each player by name, clearly a lady in the know. She told me about their group and how long they’d been together, then she proudly pointed out her son, the centerfielder with the red baseball cap.
“I think I need to do this,” I told my new friend as our conversation wore on. “I need to build an adapted field in my community.”
I told her about Max and how my husband and I always dreamed he’d play baseball in the Miracle League one day. We had to let go of that dream, I told her. She asked if she could hug me, we hugged, and as I walked away, I wondered, do I have the capacity to dream this big?
As I tried to focus on my son’s game (which was nearly over, but he had another right after), ideas shot off in my brain like fireworks. I text a friend who knows everything about everything and ran the idea by her, then cornered another someone at the game who is a leader in youth athletics in our community. By the time my son and husband, the coach, stepped off the field, the idea had solidified, and I was the Micro Machine Man, excitedly spewing out everything, finally landing the plane with: “So, we’re going to build Max Janton’s Field of Dreams!”
A lot of work lies ahead to make this dream a reality. I’ve been researching other fields and am working on a proposal to present to my community and city manager. My goal is to have the exact location selected and budget finalized by late September.
What community wouldn’t benefit from a handicapped accessible field? How wonderful to create a field where people of all abilities can play, where volunteer opportunities are ripe, and inclusivity is embraced. We’re going to make it happen and we hope you’ll join our mission.
In most cases, I’d have all the details finalized before I presented a venture like this, but it’s too big a secret to keep and, truthfully, I wanted to have something to look forward to today, Max’s 13th birthday.
Max’s brothers often ask if we think he’d enjoy playing baseball. We always say yes, because Max loved anything to do with being outdoors and being with people, and as I watched all those athletes play on the adapted fields, I saw Max. I could perfectly picture my boy, all of his shiny white teeth on display, his hands in the air as he rounded each base and high-fived his friends. It’s a dream that was taken from us, but what a gift if we can make it a reality for other families. What a way to honor our boy.
I will grieve Max all the days of my life. I will look for him wherever I go, I’ll imagine him in every family photo, and I’ll close my eyes to hear him say “Mama,” the word that became my favorite from the very first time he said it. And one day not too far away, there will be a ceremony, a ribbon-cutting for Max Janton’s Field of Dreams. I close my eyes and I can see it all, the special needs families, members of our community. And I know in my heart Max will be there, too.