The Joneses, Mickey and Sue, lived like most of the people in the suburbs of New York, devoting much of their time and energy into making a better life for their son, Paul. Sue went to PTA meetings at Purcell Elementary to advocate for his inclusion into science fair contests and spelling bees, spent most of her spare money on designer jackets and shoes for him, and bought him the latest computer games and laptops to make sure he was not falling behind the others in his class. Mickey got him onto one of the local little league teams, and pushed and prodded the coaches into playing him in dramatic situations that would get him noticed by the high school scouts. You could never underestimate the value of a scholarship to a major university, even if it was early in the boy's career. And then there was the possibility, remote as it was, that he might make it to the big leagues and become a star. One of those stars that sell soft drinks or sneakers on TV, or get their picture taken with the mayor of the city when they bring home the championship.

Mickey was descended from a line that had long claimed fame from association with major league baseball stars in New York; his father, Lou, had been named after the great Lou Gehrig, and he in turn had named Mickey after the incomparable Mantle. The old man did not speak of it anymore, but he had once harbored a dream that his son would follow his namesake out onto the sacred ground of Yankee Stadium. He had often sat up there in the upper deck with Mickey, munching on hot dogs and French fries, contemplating the day when he would be there alone as his son walked out onto that field and he could point him out to the fans around him. It hadn't quite worked out that way and for a time, the old man could hardly conceal his disappointment, but in the end, he had gotten over it. He attended Mickey's graduation, his wedding, and his grandson's christening. Still, whenever there was a ball game on, if you watched carefully, you'd see him pour himself a drink and walk out onto the patio.

Mickey had been a star on his little league team, a star right fielder who hit a game winning home run and threw someone out at home once in a Pee Wee championship game. The team did not even make it to Williamsport for the World Series, but their picture was in the local newspaper, on the back page, and Mickey had it cut out, framed, and put under glass. It still hung in the Joneses living room wall, above the TV set, where everyone who came over could see it. Family who were long familiar with it would duck into the den or out onto the deck to avoid it, but Mickey saw to it to invite enough of the neighbors or friends from work over to have a chance to explain to them his moment in the sun when they asked about it. It was an important part of how he saw himself in the world, in some ways, and when his son came into the room, he began to see it as an idea, an inspiration for Paul, who had been named, incidentally, after the great Yankee star of the late nineties, Paul O'Neill.

Over time, as he got older, the sport had been less kind to Mickey. In high school, even though he made the team, he often found himself relegated to the bench, watching his team mates hit game winning home runs and throw people out at the plate. It was hard for him, and both he and his father blamed the coach at the time, although it must be said in the coach's defense that he had to have the team's best interests at heart. Mickey was distracted by girls, hot rods, beer and marijuana cigarettes by this time and he committed too many errors on the field, he fouled out too many times, and he had a bit of a tempter that he could not control. Once, during a game in which he had been thrown out trying to steal second base, he punched the kid who tagged him out in the nose and was ejected from the game.

After that, Mickey had to settle for the relatively unglamorous position of plumber, specializing in the installation of natural gas boilers. He had met Sue, one of the high school cheerleaders, at a game and one thing led to another and they ended up getting married and having Paul. After Paul was born, they bought a house in Levittown, where, oddly enough, there were five little league teams. Was Mickey thinking of Paul's impending stardom already? Did he have an eye on one of the coaching spots? He never admitted it in an interview. Or at one of the birthday parties they threw for their son. But there could be no denying the mit and the cap and the bat Paul received as gifts, from his grandfather and his dad. The neighbors began to see them together playing pepper games out by the garage, or tossing the ball back and forth in the backyard.

"I think Paul's got talent," Mickey told his wife one day, leaning up against the refrigerator with his arms folded, like one of the managers from the old days. "I think he could go places, with that arm. And he sure can run. If I work on his hitting, his swing, he'll be the whole package. I bet if I went down there, one of those little league teams would love to have him."

"Mickey," Sue replied while picking the glasses up off of the table, "You sound like a talent scout. Be realistic. It's only little league."

"Yeah, but you got to start somewhere. If someone on a high school team notices him in little league, that could get him a spot where a college scout could see him. And once you're in the NCAA, then the pro scouts see you."

Sue rolled her eyes at him. "Mickey. The pros? Aren't you getting ahead of yourself?"

"Well, what about a scholarship? He might get a scholarship at least."

She couldn't argue with that. She sighed. "As long as he's having fun, I don't care. I just want him to enjoy himself. But a scholarship would be something." She looked at her son, sitting on the sofa, watching the ballgame in his Yankee cap. "As long as he's happy."

"Sure, sure," Mickey said, straightening up and unfolding his arms. He leaned into the living room. "What do you say, Paul? You ready to be a star in Little League?"

"Sure dad," Paul replied, looking up at his father.

It was hard to say what Paul really thought about all of this. He seemed to follow his father around enthusiastically enough, but if you watched him closely, from the bleachers, you would see that the boy was distracted by planes flying overhead, cars driving by fast, or girls climbing on the monkey bars in the playground behind the field. At such times Mickey would yell at him to pay attention to the ball. With his bat slung over one shoulder, one couldn't help thinking that Mickey was striking the pose of one of those old managers, the ones that used to be players, and not very good players at that, reliving their careers through their proteges.

That summer, Mickey enrolled Paul in little league, and he had to give up the innocence of the playground and his bicycle for the boot camp of baseball practice and the pressure of the big games. All this pressure was compounded by the fact that Mickey did indeed join the coaching staff of the team. Most of the other little league fathers and neighbors shook their heads at his antics. He would make suggestions on where to play Paul to the manager, he would complain when Paul did not play. At games, you would see Mickey standing in the dug out with his arms folded, scowling at the action on the field, barking out orders to the confused kids on the field. Or if Paul did play, he would clap and whistle so enthusiastically every time Paul came to bat that the spectators couldn't hear the announcer calling the plays. There were plenty of times when the umpire had to turn around and tell him to cool it, or the manger asked him to sit at the end of the bench and take a breather.

Sue attended the games as well, of course, and when she did, it was hard to see her cringe when Mickey carried on like that. She shook her head at him as he argued calls with umpires, or shouted beratements at the opposing players. Once, she climbed down from the bleachers, went into the dugout and asked him frankly if he could take it easy.

"People are staring at you," she hissed at him, "They're talking about you."

Mickey shrugged. "I just want them to win the game," he said.

"But Mickey, it's just a kids game. It's only little league. Look at the kids sitting there. They look miserable. You're putting too much pressure on them."

"Well, if you don't win games, you don't go to tournaments. And if you don't go to tournaments, the scouts don't see you."

"I think half the time he would rather be out riding his bike."

"If he gets a big hit in one of those big games, if he throws someone out at home, someone might notice him."

"You should listen to yourself. What is this, a tryout for the Yankees?"

Mickey turned back to the action on the field. At that moment, there was a flurry of activity. One of Paul's teammates was sliding into second base and the ball came flying over the pitcher's head at the same time, and both were lost in a cloud of dust.

"Out!" yelled the ump.

All of the kids on the field seemed to look around in bewilderment, along with the kids in the dugout. Only Mickey's excited voice rose above the hum of the traffic.

"He was safe! He was safe by a mile! You need to get your eyes checked, ump!"

Sue heard the man sitting to her say to his wife, "Who the hell is that guy?"

The ride back home in the car that day was a little tense. Paul climbed into the back seat, fiddled with his glove, and looked out of the window at the passing traffic. Mickey, still wearing his baseball cap, gripped the wheel and frowned as he stared ahead at the road and the traffic in front of him. It did not seem to be moving fast enough for him. Sue fidgeted with her purse and looked like she couldn't wait to get out of the car. Finally, Mickey looked over at his wife and said: "What's eating you? What I said at the game?"

"Why do you have to carry on like that?" Sue blurted out. "Why do you have to make such an embarrassing scene at a little league game?"

"Oh come on now." Mickey said.

"You were ranting and raving like a lunatic about some kid getting thrown out at second."

"It cost us the game."

"It's a kid's game, Mickey. The kids are supposed to be having fun."

"They are having fun. Aren't you having fun?" Mickey looked back in the rear view mirror at his son in the back seat.

"Baloney," Sue said. She also turned around and looked at Paul. Her son shrugged and looked like he did not know what he was supposed to say.

"This is really about you, isn't it?" she asked him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mickey said.

"Mickey, I think you should cool it with this coaching stuff and just let the kid play ball with his friends. I think you should quit the team."

"What?" Mickey said. "I love coaching those kids."

Sue shook her head. "Do whatever you want," she said, "But in my opinion, you're taking this way too seriously."

When they got home, Sue got out, slammed the door of the car and trudged into the house. Paul jumped out, went to the garage, got his bike and pedaled out of the driveway. Mickey watched him go. Then he got out, walked into the backyard, and slumped into a chaise lounge chair. He folded his arms behind his head and looked out over the uncut grass and the garden that needed weeding, the deck he had promised to stain. It made him wince. He closed his eyes and imagined the lawn a baseball diamond, the deck a stadium grandstand, the picket fence in the back, the edge of the outfield. If only the neighbors could hear the crack of his bat, or Paul's, they would leap to the picket fence and cheer. If only he could turn on the TV and see his son with that reporter in that interview...

Of course, he could not really give up that coaching job. And he could not give up pushing Paul. He continued to drag Paul off to the diamond to work on his swing, to follow through, to slide into home. Over time, through sheer perseverance, Paul made progress. He had his first base hits. He scored some runs. He even threw someone out at second.

The team started winning games and rose in the standings, as the season drew to a close. Mickey was ecstatic. He talked so much about baseball around the kitchen table with his son that Sue would take her dinner into the living room to watch Jeapardy and Last Man Standing. Then she would go out and work in the garden, until they came out to play catch. Mickey tacked up a copy of the team's schedule and the standings and circled the team with red ink on it. They were going to make the playoffs. Paul had a chance to be a hero, after all. Mickey was already talking to the neighbors about a scholarship, playing in the NCAA. Maybe a pro tryout.

But there was one muddy patch on this field of dreams. The first place team, the team Paul's team had to play, had this pitcher, Kevin King, who struck Paul out every time he faced him. Mickey had tried everything. He had coached Paul to take pitches, make the kid throw strikes. He had yelled distractions from the sidelines. He gave Paul batting practice till it got too dark to see. Sitting in the yard one afternoon, with the big game coming up, Mickey sipped a beer and began to think that he had to take drastic action. All he really wanted was for his son to succeed where he hadn't, to be in that picture on the back page of the newspaper, and then to get that scholarship, that major league tryout. It was true that it was only a little league game. But there was more to it than that.

The night before the big game, Mickey was pacing back and forth in the kitchen. "I wish you would stop doing that," Sue told him, "You're making everyone nervous. You're making Paul nervous. Do you want him to be nervous tomorrow?"

Mickey looked up at her. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe I'll go watch the Yankee game down at the bar." He put on his jacket and went out.

When he came back later, he seemed in a hurry to get his clothes off and jump into bed. "Where have you been?" Sue mumbled from the bed.

"Nowhere," Mickey said quickly, "Watching the game."

"Did the Yankees win?"

"Yeah, yeah, they won," he said offhandedly. "I just want to get some sleep now. It's a big day tomorrow."

The next day was a bright, sunny, late summer's day, the perfect day for a championship ballgame. Sue had washed Paul's uniform, and she took a picture of him in it before they headed for the park. At the field, the other kids were gathering to get in a little extra batting practice, and Mickey sent Paul over to them. Instead of keeping an eye on Paul, as he usually did, Mickey kept glancing over at the parking lot, where the other team was arriving in their van. When the manager got out, with a scowl, and strode over to the umpire with a piece of paper, looking very upset, Mickey breathed a sigh of relief.

"What's that all about?" Sue asked him, looking at him suspiciously.

"Nothing," Mickey said, heading for his dug out.

When the umpire announced the starting lineups, there was a surprise that drew a moan from the other team's fans. King would not be pitching. He had not made the game. Suttcliffe would substitute. That was great news for Paul's team.

For Mickey, the game was a dream come true. Suttcliffe had problems with his control, as he sometimes did, and Paul walked once and had a base hit that drove in two runs. They were winning. Mickey saw the reporter from the newspaper get his camera ready, and take out his notepad and pen for the interview of the big star. Mickey sat next to his son and dusted off his uniform. This was going to be his moment in the sun.

Until the cops came. They went into the dug out and asked for Mickey Jones, and slapped their handcuffs on him, right in front of his wide eyed kid. Seems a neighbor of the King's had seen Mickey in their driveway the night before, slashing their car's tires and doing up the brakes. They had a picture of Mickey's car with the license plate and everything, across the street, and a picture of Mickey getting into it.

Later, when she was arranging his bail, Sue asked him, "What the hell did you have to go and do something like that for? What's wrong with you Mickey?"

"I don't know," he said.