Some people don't get the mystical beauty and cinematic perfection of "Field of Dreams."  These people lack soul.  They cross party lines - Guiliani and Clinton sycophants dismiss the movie as "hokey" (while Huckabee and Obama supporters weep over the closing credits).  And those people don't read Petralia.com because they don't believe in the search for epiphanies - they think they already know it all. 

But on an October drive from Cleveland to L.A. I was determined to visit the little farm where the movie was shot.  I fled 'The Cleve' in the a.m., hustled across northern Ohio (skirting Sandusky and Toledo) then Indiana (through South Bend and Gary) and into Illinois, where my Magellan GPS navigated me through Chicago and my momentum went all to crap in thick traffic.  It was nightfall by the time I crawled across the river into Dubuque, Iowa, a city that bills itself as " The Masterpiece on the Mississippi."  I checked into a brand new Hampton Inn and enjoyed their patented "Cloud Nine" sleeping experience.

The next morning, under icy gray skies, I drove the final 27 miles to Dyersville.  I popped in the Grateful Dead's '71 self-titled CD for the drive.  It fit my mood and struck me as something Ray Kinsella must have enjoyed in his days  at Cal.  "Me & Bobby McGee" was playing as I made that last left turn onto the driveway and down to the field ("nothin' aint worth nothin' but it's free").

Having seen the movie enough times, I was prepared to hand over twenty dollars without even thinking about it, for it is money that I have and peace that I lack.  But there is no charge to look around.  

The field is hauntingly familiar and I had it to myself.  I strolled out and peered into the center field corn.  I walked the basepaths then stepped into the batter's box and winked towards the pitcher's mound ("make the pitcher think I know something he doesn't").  I went behind the first base bleachers but found no trace of the hot dog weenie that little Karin choked on. 

The souvenir stand down the left field line had some tattered "Going out of Business" signs tacked up.  But it was boarded closed and appeared to have already gone out of business.  I hustled into the first base souvenir stand, happy to get out of the cold wind.  A middle-aged Japanese man was there with his elderly parents.  He had been to the field once before and now brought his folks all the way from Japan.  He was translating for his father, who had a lot of questions for the clerk about the various t-shirts.  Most of his concerns were about percentage of cotton and possible shrinkage.  It intrigued me because I couldn't imagine the crafty veteran ever actually wearing one of the goofy t-shirts - unless it was as a pajama top.

After they finished I got my own memorabilia.  The clerk was really chatty and she had me sign the guest book.  I wrote down Rocky Petralia then added, as an afterthought, HelloRocky.com.  Let's see how that drives traffic.  She said they get about 50,000 visitors a year, even though today's total was four. 

Back outside I found the Japanese goofing around on the field.  The son was on the mound throwing an imaginary ball to his father behind the plate.  Mom stood off to the side, looking a little too self-conscious to play the umpire.  How about that, I thought, a boy "having a catch" with his dad.  I almost teared up but I caught myself.  The biting wind made it just too cold to bother.

They departed and again I was alone on the Field of Dreams.  I took these pictures of myself to pacify the skeptics who suspect I invent these journeys into the belly of the American Dream:




Epiphany: Conventional wisdom would say that a baseball movie set in The Corn Belt might fare well domestically but not overseas.  Conventional wisdom is a boob.  The heart of a good movie is relationships and relationships are universal.  "Field of Dreams" is so perfectly constructed that it inspired a Japanese man to bring his parents to a tiny patch of Iowa in search of a moment.   Dyersville is hard to get to.  Once you reach the Field of Dreams you're surprised that you made it and surprised that you're welcome there, which, at the risk of sounding hokey, sounds a lot like Heaven.