Sandlot
Sandlot a vacant lot especially used for unorganized sports. It was a place during my childhood years where I could go and not have a worry on my mind, except being with my best friends and playing some sandlot ball. A place where the memories of endless fun and games took place, between my friends and I. I still hear the voices of neighbors yelling at us to go home because of the tennis balls we hit against their walls and windows. The sandlot was better than Turner Field to us. Nothing could compare to all the times we had there. It was a small field in between two apartment complexes. The spray painted lines we drew, the worn out rug squares we used as bases, the home plate we made out of wood and painted white were all the things we could do to make this old field our baseball park. But during our endless games we sure felt like we were playing on a real field.
And every time a foot stomped on home plate, it was a reminder that the sandlot was ours. By the time we all met up, we were all ready to play. As dusk starts to roll in we still played until one of us was nailed by a screaming line drive in the head because it was too dark to see. Our games could be played with just four people and sometimes we had games that were nine on nine, just like the pros. With not a single worry on our little minds except what new toys to buy, the sandlot my home away from home as a kid. After a nice long rest there we were back on the lot continuing our games as if we had nowhere to go. That was the cue the game was over for the day. They too, had done a nice job taking care of the field, as I go back to take another look at what my friends and I had originally started. By the time lunch time came around we would be covered in sweat and ready to jump in the pool to cool off. The rules aren't exactly like baseball, although things were very similar. The lot after a couple of years was moved down the road to a new location, by a new group of children in my old neighborhood. Usually our game-ending announcement was my friend's mom, when I could hear her screaming his name to come home. Taking slides into the run-down grass around the bases, even getting cuts from the pebbles we missed picking up were all part of the lot. Day after day we never chose a winner.
Common topics in this essay:
Turner Field,
Soon Tommy,
Sandlot Sandlot,
home plate,
team team,
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Acceptance Essays
