Jeff Parker and his son at the MLB's 2026 "Field of Dreams" game
Two decades ago, my 25 closest friends and I wanted to play a weekend baseball series at the Field of Dreams movie site. We each wrote up one-page bios declaring our love for baseball, our favorite player’s jersey we would wear, and how much we were willing to pay. It added up to several thousand dollars between the 26 of us.
When we turned in our packet, we were graciously told by the Dyersville, Iowa family that we could all come and play catch on their field for free. It would have made for an incredible story (and weekend). Oh well.
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Childhood was a bit chaotic for me. My parents fought often. I never quite knew what the emotional temperature would be at any given moment on any given day. It could be unsettling.
On the other hand, baseball was a steadying force for me (I didn’t meet Jesus until my teenage years). I fell asleep peacefully each night listening to my hometown Texas Rangers. All seemed right in the world when I played catch with my dad. It seemed even the game had a way of easing our household tension. That was life for me, calm summers and tense winters.
I grew up in the 80s and early 90s, not watching animated Disney movies but rather wearing out VHS tapes of The Natural, Bull Durham, Eight Men Out, A League of Their Own, The Sandlot, Major League, and my favorite, Field of Dreams.
Field of Dreams captured all that was bound up in my restless heart: love of baseball, hope for my family, playing catch with dad, longing for peace, and a bit of heaven magically sprinkled over it all.
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As I have grown older, baseball has still held a sacred spot in my family’s heart. A few years ago, my wife and I got a framed picture that says “Our home runs on faith, family, and baseball.” Seems apropos.
Every summer, the TV is tuned into baseball even when we are bustling around with our kids and no one is watching. We died a little bit in 2011 when our Rangers were just one strike away (Texas fans, don’t click here). We experienced baseball redemption in 2023, though (click here instead).
Still, baseball had room to grow in our hearts. Many years ago, my wife and I fell in love with a new favorite baseball player. For 13 years, we rode the roller coaster of his highs and lows on the field, remembering just about every game. Our son played his last game on April 26, 2025 (our 22nd wedding anniversary, appropriately), losing a high school playoff heartbreaker.
And with that loss, our all-time favorite baseball player retired.
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It seems with great loves, the way we enjoy them will evolve, but the love remains, ever deepening through all the years. Baseball has been one of those great constants for me, marking the seasons of my life.
Now, my son and I are committed to visiting every MLB ballpark. We’ve taken trips to Fenway, Arizona, San Diego, Pittsburgh, and Baltimore.
Sure, I love the ballparks, but more than anything, I value the time spent with my teenage son. He’s not the most talkative, but given enough time and space, our conversations will eventually turn to matters of deeper importance, often spiritual.
Sitting side-by-side at a baseball game often affords us such time and space, yet another reason I appreciate the game.
This year, we couldn’t figure out a good road trip for the Rangers. We were going to punt this season until, for reasons we couldn’t even fathom, we hopped in a car and went to Iowa for the third-ever installment of the Field of Dreams game between the Phillies and the Twins. Throw in a Friday afternoon game at Wrigley, and we had ourselves a 55-hour baseball marathon featuring 30 hours of drive time and some beautiful ballparks.
As for the Field of Dreams game, it couldn’t have been more incredible. MLB does such a great job capturing the magic of baseball. When you arrive, you’re encouraged to run the bases. Fans will find photo ops all over with people dressed up in old-time jerseys. You can even emerge from the cornfields like Shoeless Joe Jackson.
It was a perfect afternoon. When it was time for the game, MLB had us all walk through the cornfields to a newly built stadium, where we had reserved seats along the baselines and cheered as recent Hall of Fame heroes themselves emerged from the cornfield.
After the Phillies won, we went back out to the same cornfields where I got to play bare-handed catch with my teenager, re-enacting the memorable father-son moment from the Field of Dreams movie (how did we forget our gloves?!?).
I love my son. And I’m grateful for the way baseball brings us together. The best part of the trip wasn’t Iowa, though. Or even Wrigley the next day. Not even close.
It was the car ride home when my son was ready to talk about life. Shoulder to shoulder, we sat as we drove somewhere in middle America, talking openly and vulnerably about our faith, the questions we still carry, the struggles we’re facing, our hope for the Church, our love of God’s Word, and why we still sometimes fall short in our pursuit of Christ.
It was the good stuff. I mean the really good stuff. Like we’d been dipped in magic waters for just a bit. Even now, the memories of that conversation remain thick.
It’s funny, I spent most of the trip thinking how baseball is just a silly game. But somehow, I think God delighted in giving us this gift. It’s okay to enjoy this life, I could hear the Preacher of Ecclesiastes say (Ecclesiastes 2:14, 3:12-13, 5:18-20). Receive the good gifts God puts in front of you while they’re there to be received.
So thank you, God, for baseball and for the way it has been a great constant through all the years for me. Maybe it is just a game. That is, until it becomes a vehicle for something much greater. And isn’t that true for so many of the beautiful gifts God gives us to enjoy?
If baseball is one of those gifts for you, get to the Field of Dreams. Maybe grab 25 of your closest friends and try to drum up a weekend series. Maybe you’ll have better luck than me.
Or, more realistically, go to the 2027 MLB installment, bring your favorite baseball player, and have a catch.
Just don’t forget your glove.
(ps – thank you to Terance Mann for some of the language woven throughout this piece).
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