By noon, we had dug out the head and shoulders of the statue, and the sun was a burning eye in the middle of an azure sky.

"It's ugly," Shirley said, wrinkling her nose with distaste at the statue's harsh features, its sloping nose, its pointed ears.

"It's some kind of totem," Mark said. He was the bookworm of the group, and the leader of this little expedition. The week before, we'd been playing stickball in the sandlot when I had tripped over a rock between third base and home. We had tried to dig the rock out to prevent someone else from being tagged out in a similar manner, and we had quickly realized that this was more than just a lump of rock.

There was now more than three feet of it sticking out of the dirt, and it looked as though we hadn't even unearthed a third of it.

"There were a lot of different native tribes in this area thousands of years ago," Mark said. "They worshipped all sorts of strange gods."

"It's a statue of Gruzankh," Phil said suddenly. He was standing over on the side, watching us dig with his hands in his pockets, sweat pouring down his fat face. "It's Gruzankh, one of the dung gods. It's an evil thing. Leave it be. Put it back under the dirt."

"What are you talking about?" I said, laughing. My shovel bit deep and I let the dirt fly. "Did you just make that up?"

"Actually, no he didn't," Mark said, looking impressed. Phil wasn't exactly the smartest one in the group. In fact, he had been left behind twice in school. "I remember seeing the name Gruzankh in one of my dad's old history books about the area. They sacrificed a lot of horses to it. And some people, too, if I recall correctly. Phil, did you read that same book?"

"What book?" Phil said, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping down his brow. We had now cleared the statue's head, shoulders, and chest from the sand.

"The book about Gruzankh," Mark said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Phil said. "Gru-what? Listen, can we take a break? It's really hot out here. Let's go get some sodas."

"Take a break?" Shirley said, throwing another shovelful of sand behind her. "Phil, you're the only one who isn't digging! You should go and get us some sodas."

"Gruzankh has not seen daylight in many centuries," Phil replied conversationally. "It demands an offering of blood."

"Whatever you say, weirdo," I replied. "Come on, Shirley's right. Go down to Skogland's and get us some Dr. Peppers, whad'ya say?"

"Yeah," Mark said, and I suddenly noticed that he looked uneasy. "Yeah, Phil, why don't you go get us some sodas, and maybe get out of the heat?"

"Not yet," Phil said. "Shirley, give me that shovel. I want to help."

Shirley shrugged, and gave him the shovel. When Phil took it, I saw something in his eyes that I didn't like. There was a strange expression on his face ... an oddly familiar expression. When he picked the shovel up, I realized his expression looked eerily like the face of the statue.

"Wait, don't --" I said.

Phil took the shovel, raised it up high, and brought it down hard on Mark's head.

Shirley screamed, a high, shrieky sound.

"Gruzakh demands an offering of blood," Phil said, and he brought the shovel down again.

It was all Mike's idea. He prodded us, yelled at us, twisted our arms--sometimes literally--until we bought it, but it was his idea to start with.

Freddy Rollins was the little kid on the street. He was the youngest, and being small for his age didn't help much, either. But every day after school, he would gamely go out with us and play football in the vacant lot down the street.

Freddy was always the center. His job was to hike the ball, and stay out of the way. He'd be given some ridiculous pass route to run.

"Take two steps and buttonhook."

"Run to the maple tree and look for a pass"

But we almost never threw him the ball, and when we did, he usually dropped it. Second graders don't make great offensive linemen, even in sandlot games.

On October 12, we gathered in the vacant lot, and chose sides. Mike was the quarterback, as usual and Freddy was the last to be picked, as usual. He ended up on Mike's team, as planned.

After we kicked off to Mike's team, he took a long time in the huddle, explaining a new secret play to his team. He knelt on the ground, diagraming the routes in the dirt. Finally, they came out of the huddle to run the play.

Freddie was the center. Alan was on the left; my brother Jack was on the right. Jon was behind Mike, playing halfback.

I was the rusher on our team. Everyone else was supposed to cover somebody.

"Practice hike: Hike!" Mike called.

Freddy hiked it over his head.

"Hey, Freddy, try to get the ball to me, next time, OK?" Mike said, teasing, but with a smile on his face.

"Remember the play, everyone? OK then. Remember," he said to me, "Three second rush. Count out loud."

"Just run the play," I said.

"Down! Set! Blue! Twenty-Three! Hike!"

Freddy hiked the ball to Mike.

"ONE MISSISSIPPI!" I yelled.

Mike handed the ball to Jon, and went out for a pass.

"TWO MISSISSIPPI!"

Jon looked for Alan, downfield.

"Three MISSISSIPPI!" I said, and started running at Jon.

Jon threw the ball underhand to Freddy, and I pretended to trip. The toss was only about five feet, and Freddy managed to hang on. I got up and started chasing him, but the kid was way quicker than I expected.

I yelled at my teammates to catch him, but they were in on the game, too. Freddy dodged one, jumped over another, and ran all the way past the maple tree to the end zone, where he danced a little jig and spiked the ball.

"I did it!" he said, as his team hoisted him on their shoulders.

"And it's my birthday, too!" he added.

"Happy Birthday, Freddy!" Mike said, and his team carried Freddy off the field on their shoulders.

Freddy Jones plays quarterback for Michigan now, and will probably end up with the Patriots.

The sound of kids’ laughter and cheers pulled her like a magnet. She was new to the neighborhood and was planning on checking out the local stores. She wasn’t ready to deal with children.

But she couldn’t resist the sounds of life. It had been a long time.

Coming around the corner, she saw the source of all the excitement. An old sandlot had been turned into a makeshift baseball field. First base was an old Frisbee, second base a broken two-by-four, and third base looked suspiciously like a Spiderman lunch box. A handful of adults were standing at the sides cheering the kids on.

“Go! Run! Run! Stop! Back!” One of the men standing at the fence had assumed the role of third base coach, much to the chagrin of the player on second. The kid started, hesitated, started again, stopped, then ran back to the broken board. Unfortunately, the girl that had been on first base was already occupying that space. Spinning, he ran for third, sliding face-first into Spiderman.

“Safe! Way to go, Justin!” The coach was jumping in the air as if Justin had just scored the winning run of the World Series.

“Let me guess – he’s your son, right?” She asked him. He turned around, a huge grin on his face.

“Nope, he’s Lisa Wilson’s boy. But did you see that speed? And that slider? How awesome was that?” he asked.

Her confusion must have shown, because he stuck out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. Name’s Bob, I live across the street.”

She automatically shook it. “Nadia. I just moved in around the corner. I didn’t realize that the neighborhood had a little league team.”

Bob smiled and, for the first time, she noticed how handsome he was. “We don’t. It’s a pickup game; anybody around can play. Usually starts out with me and one of the boys playing catch. Next thing you know...” He gestured to the field and shrugged. “It keeps them out of trouble.”

A wave of sadness swept over her. Maybe if somebody had cared like this for Jimmy, things could have been different.

Bob caught her expression. “Everything OK?” he asked.

“Your wife is a lucky woman,” she said. “And the kids are lucky to have somebody like you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “But there isn’t a lucky woman in my life. My last girlfriend didn’t appreciate the time I spent with the boys. She didn’t understand…”

“That you might be their only hope?” Nadia finished.

Bob smiled. “Yep. You free for dinner tonight?”

Nadia smiled back. “With you, I think I could find the time.”

Jimmy lifted himself up on his arms and peered over the tall wooden fence at the dirt that seemed to stretch forever. The dust drifted through the air as the vacancy of the lot continued it’s steady erosion from the wind and hard-baking sunlight. The Vegas air and low humidity didn’t allow for the dirt to ever really settle, then fence kept all trash from blowing into it and the hard ground did not allow for any vegetation to grow. It was a beautifully desolate lot that was untouched by human hand since a time unimaginable to Jimmy. His first thought was that dinosaurs themselves had probably roamed through the lot.

His arms started to shake as he kept his weight bearing down on them to keep himself propped up as he continued to watch the barren land. His mind raced with the possibilities of buried treasure, or pretending to set out on the Orgeon Trail and marching across the vast desserts or even being on a Martian landscape on the dreaded red planet and watching for alien attackers at every turn. The possibilities continued to grow and sprout in his mind. He had found the ultimate playground and only he knew about it.

Finally it felt like his arms were about to crack under the strain and it was getting harder to see as his shakiness obscured his vision and the blurriness caused by the dryness made it hard to see at all, but it really helped to improve his imagination as the “crystallized” patterns in his vision continued to bring new sights into his mind and new stories to explore.

Rocking back and forth he began to swing his leg up, trying to catch it on the top of the fence. After a few tries, he hooked his heal on the point of a fence post and then hauled himself up until he was perched on top. He hesitated. Looking down at the dirt below, he despaired at destroying the fragile ecosystem of such pristine landscape. Once his shoe prints hit that dirt, the imprints would forever change the delicate balance of dunes that pockmarked the entire lot. His mind continued to churn and he wondered if Neil Armstrong’s footprint still dotted the lunar landscape. He could be making the same kind of impression of this ground.

He turned and clumsily wiggled around until his hands were clenched tightly against the ops of the fence points and his feet were pressed onto the surface of the inner wall with his backside sticking out into the air. He still regretted destroying the scenic beauty with his footfalls, but it was time to start exploring. He let go with his hands and pushed off with his feet.

He did not realize that there was a quick downward slope just inside the fence and his drop was a few inches further than what he thought and he felt a twinge of his ankle and heard a small but sharp crack. He winced but after testing it, discovered it was not too bad. While looking around and testing the strength of his ankle, he realized that the inside of the fence did not have the same cross bars that he had supported himself on earlier. He was not sure what kinds of handholds he would have to pull himself back out again but there was time to figure that out later.

He decided at once that the Martian landscape was his best idea and he drew his “blaster” and began dodging through the “dust clouds of Mars” and looking for “green antennae” to stick out.

The barren landscape kept he entertained for a brief time and his mind off of reality.

For years, Susan thought something was wrong with her. She'd spent hours staring at images that were supposed to move, but never did. She would stare until her eyes crossed at three-dimensional images that would not “pop”. Her head would cock first one way, and then the next, at pictures that were supposed to contain some hidden mystery or another, without success.
Sandlotscience.com and its expansive collection of optical illusions was her arch-nemesis, and yet, she could not tear herself away from it.
Her husband was quite amused by this quandary. “It’s not that big a deal if you can’t see the hidden faces,” he tried telling her. And yet, Susan would not give up. She would order every book Sandlot offered. She spent hours watching the live demonstrations. It became an obsession.
Finally, Rob had had enough. “Suse, you need to go see an eye doctor if you really think your vision is that bad,” he ordered. Susan tried to argue, but finally had to admit the truth: there had to be something fundamentally wrong with her vision if she could not make a Magic Eye poster work.
The day of the appointment, Susan waited nervously in the waiting room, anxiously thumbing through one of her favorite (and more aggravating) Sandlot books. When her name was called, she shoved the battered tome into an Escher print bag that made no sense to her, and shuffled back to the exam room.
“Tell me what brings you here today,” the doctor said, glancing down at his clipboard.
“Um…” Susan wringed her hands together nervously, before reaching into her bag and pulling out the book she’d been studying in the waiting room. “This.”
The doctor studied the cover with a baffled expression. “What about it?”
“Well… they don’t work,” Susan explained hesitantly. “I can’t see any of the 3D stuff, and none of the hidden things that you stare at until they pop ever come into focus for me.”
Dr. West hesitated before making a note on his clipboard. “Do you have any other problems seeing?”
“No… I mean, I don’t think so. I’ve never worn glasses.”
Dr. West nodded, and pointed at a chair in front of a large optical device. “Why don’t you sit right there and we’ll take a look at your eyes, shall we?”
Susan obeyed, resting her head against the paper that was designed to protect her forehead from someone else’s forehead sweat, and peered into the large machine, which reminded her of those binoculars that you had to pay to use on top of landmark buildings. There were several clicks, and then, a series of letters came into focus.
“Read these,” Dr. West ordered.
Susan read off the first five rows with confidence. Dr. West made another note on the ever-present clipboard, and then said, “Okay, let’s test one eye at a time now. We’ll start with the left.”
“Oh, no, you can’t do that!” Susan exclaimed.
“Why not?” Dr. West asked, with a baffled look on his face.
“Oh, because I’m blind in my left eye. I always have been, since birth.”
Dr. West lowered his clipboard.
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” He said, with a stern look on his face.
“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Susan stammered, and to her shock, the doctor began to laugh.
“Susan, you do realize, it takes both eyes to see in three dimensions?”
Susan’s mouth opened and closed a few times. Then she flushed bright red. “Actually, no, I didn’t.”
Dr. West laid the clipboard down. “May I suggest, instead of learning the fine art of optical illusions, you look into card tricks?”
A very embarrassed Susan nodded, and before the doctor could embarrass her further, gathered up her Escher bag, her Sandlot book, and her purse, and rushed from the room.

Sandlot. 11th of June. 15:00 hours. Still no sign.

I have been waiting here for my mission objectives for eight hours now. No word on who is meant to go down. Or how. All I know is that if it does not happen, then my mission is a failure. I am here, surrounded by high quality bricklayers sand, not knowing why my contact has called me here. I wait.

Sandlot. 11th of June 2008. 20:00 hours. Still no sign

I fear that the worst has happened. My contact still has not shown up. Plan B must go into effect. I hear a noise. It is underground. A small hatch opens in front of me.

Sandlot. 11th of June 2008. 20:03 hours.

I enter the underground bunker. There is no assassination mission. I look up and see the real purpose: Jimmy Hoffa wants out.

The former union heavyweight has secrets. Secrets that could turn the whole Government upside down. Secrets that would be revealed upon his death, by people who have been given Hoffa's proof of life over the last thirty years, a weekly brief coded phone call. In return for keeping the secrets, he is allowed to live in comfort.

But this was to be no more. We had to find a way to... oh no. Hoffa speaks. It is my voice. I realise why they wanted me.

Bunker. 28th July 2023.

I make my weekly secret coded phone call. I go back to playing Backgammon with my guards. My imprisonment is actually not that uncomfortable. One could get used to it.

The sandlot stood alone on the deserted playground, with only the dust devils swept by the constant winds to keep it company. Once upon a time children played here. It vaugely remembered the laughter and the cheers from each sunny summer day. It remembered feeling dressed when the old beaten-up sacks came out that served as bases were slowly and ceremoniously pulled out from their hiding places under the bleachers. The sandlot loved those children, whether it was just two playing a quick game of catch, or half the town celebrating the 4th of July with an all-ages game.

But then the rains came.

At first it wasn't so bad. The sandlot knew something was wrong, it had felt the rumblings of the earth and wondered what was happening so far away. At first the children still came... until the sandlot noticed that every time it rained, the grass at its edges shriveled and died. The children would start to play, even with the constant cloud cover, but they would run screaming for the sparse security of the bleachers when it started to drizzle. Instead of cheers and laughter, there were shrieks of pain and tears. Soon the rains ate away the bleachers. Fewer and fewer children came, and for all the sandlot tried to do, they didn't run as quickly or as happily anymore. They limped, and the ones who couldn't get out of the rain quickly enough had scars over their faces and had lost their hair.

The sandlot gave its version of a sigh as the ground settled. Maybe someday the children would come back. Maybe someday there would be laughter again. Maybe someday the grass would grow and the sun would shine. The sandlot could wait.