When I describe the intersection where I turned my car off the road the first thing you’re going to do is ask where I was coming from and where I was headed when I made this decision.

I understand this and yet I don’t feel it’s as important as you might. I guess you’ll have to finish it and then look back and evaluate if I was coming from my parents or an ex-girlfriend and headed towards an amusement park or my parole officer would have skewed your opinion of the story.

I will tell you it started in New Jersey. I say that somewhat hesitantly as New Jersey will skew a story like no other state. Except maybe Iowa.

What was, and is, remarkable about this particular intersection is how much it looks like another intersection that I grew up driving by on a regular basis. A small road coming down a hill and ending in at the larger road in a T. I’m sure that given the number of roads in the country and the number of times they intersect each other, there are probably hundreds if not thousands of intersections that could make this claim. What makes it strikingly similar is the abandoned building that sits at the bottom of the hill.

It is identical to the one from my childhood.

Or as identical in every way as my memory is capable of remembering.

It looks like at one time it was a general story or café of some sort. The kind of place that would be haunted if it could get a ghost interested enough in taking up residence there, which it can't. I have driven past this particular intersection a hundred times or more and at least a third of the time I take note of it and feel an odd pang. As someone unfamiliar with pangs, both their root cause and meaning, I usually spend the next few miles both reminiscing and wrestling with the nature of pangs. Both their root cause and… well, you know.

Today, deeply in the unmistakable grasp of a pang, I decided to turn down the road. One minute I’m singing along to the car radio and the next I’m taking a right and proceeding up a small hill. Shortly after I’m looking at the house of a childhood friend; David Mickelwright.

Which is impossible as that house currently sits in Iowa. I’m certain that at this point in the story you were not expecting so much skewing and panging. I’m not proud of this but neither am I ashamed.

It was at this point that I realized that after a quick blast of static the radio station was playing a 38 Special song I hadn’t heard for years. A song I would hear all the time as I was being shuttled back and forth to David’s house by my parents.

In Iowa.

I want to make that part crystal clear. One minute I’m driving in New Jersey and the next I’m driving in Iowa.

I turned up Hold on Loosely and put aside how absurd it was that I was driving past my childhood friend’s house and just allowed my mind wander back to a simpler time.

A time of innocence. A time that I was safe.

Clearly safe.

The road took a wide and familiar bend and then, impossibly, the baseball field came into view. The place that my mind was wandering towards. The field where I played ball as a kid.

As I drove closer I could see a game was underway. Little kids. The stands were packed with proud parents and I could make out the grey uniforms that we always wore. Grey being the color of my small town’s team.

And I could see the red uniforms of our biggest rivals from Blue Grass.

I slowed down and then realized that playing first base was me. Me as a kid anway. Lanky as the day was long. I pulled in.

Who wouldn’t?

I remembered the game. A play-off game. The big game.

In the seventh inning I got up and moved directly behind home plate. I knew what was coming. We’d won the game. In the bottom of the 7th I had scored the winning run. Winning on a play at the plate.

A result that had been disputed for years afterwards. The opposing catcher and coach and every damn parent on the opposing team claiming I had clearly been out. “His foot never touched the plate” they would claim.

Game was tied, 2 outs. I was on first when the play started, courtesy of a line drive between the shortstop and third baseman. Batter hits a deep drive to right field, bobbled by the outfielder. I was off and running.

A weak throw to second, the second baseman unable to field it cleanly. The third base coach, my dad, waving me in like a crazy man. His right arm making huge circles. His eyes dancing.

My lungs burning. The crowd on its feet. The throw. The slide. A cloud of dust.

It was Iowa in August after all. The story could have been about knitting and the exciting conclusion would have somehow involved a cloud of dust.

“Safe” screams the umpire and chaos ensues.

Jubilation and heartbreak expressed as only kids can express it. Adults doing their part with pride and outrage.

All I was focused on was my foot. Laser-focused let me tell you. For a few seconds it was all there was.

It did touch the plate before the tag was applied.

I had been safe.

I felt validated.

I watched my mom and dad celebrate. I watched myself celebrate. I celebrated.

Hell of a way to spend an afternoon, I’ll tell you that much. I headed back to my car before anyone in the crowd saw me and I disturbed the space-time continuum or whatever nonsense physicists and science fiction fill our heads with.

I drove back until I came to a stop in Iowa, where I’d been safe, and took a right into New Jersey. Back to the here and now.

And yeah, there was some residual panging going on