McEuen Field part of what makes Cd'A special

Over the past several months in this very paper, readers have had the opportunity to witness the debate over McEuen Field. We have read the pros; we've read the cons. We have read passionate pleas from those wishing to preserve the natural environment, from those who worry about the cost, from those who see progress as a benefit to the city and our quality of life.

During the past 10 years, especially during the summer months, I spend as much time as most anyone at McEuen Field, specifically the baseball field. You see, I, along with the city workers and a handful of others, maintain the field. I coach the summer American Legion baseball team.I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the field. Over the years, we've widened the base paths to smooth out a high spot in the grass, rebuilt the mound numerous times; put in new walkways; re-bricked the batter's boxes; rounded the circle around home plate so that it is actually a circle; replaced home plate; spread grass seed, lots of grass seed; taken down dugout fences; put up dugout fences; put up foul poles; and worried the dirt.

We've put tons and tons and tons of conditioner on the infield, we've put more dirt on the dirt, and we've leveled the dirt, and we've leveled and leveled and leveled. We've pumped water off the dirt, we've cussed the dirt, weeded the dirt, and played hundreds and hundreds of games on the dirt.McEuen Field, she doesn't tame easily - much like her namesake. By July, she develops a low spot just off first base that threatens to swallow base runners whole if not manicured daily.

There is a gentle rise in the infield directly behind second base; it helps to create our mini Lake Coeur d'Alene after a summer thunderstorm, so then we bale and bale and bale. A shortstop has his own challenges: a harder surface toward the six-hole and a softer one to his right. The infamous "lip" at third has laid many a third baseman out and caused others to double-check his 'cup' between pitches. He gets the double whammy just before the sun sets beneath the parking garage at The Coeur d'Alene Resort. He is virtually blinded.

One industrious player from years past contemplated wearing a welder's helmet so that he would be protected high and low. He went on to college and became an engineer - go figure.In right-center there is 'the slope,' an unexpected rise in the playing field just feet from the home run fence, just to the right of the scoreboard; it's tripped up many a galloping fielder, and has been the cause of many an extra-base hit.

I would have to say that I'm somewhat ambivalent about talk of a new field. Who wouldn't want a new stadium? But I am just as leery about "progress." With the word comes images of new, clean and bright, but it also implies sterility and sameness: Banality. While Coeur d'Alene gains a picturesque park, it loses its identity, a symbol of small-town, rural America. And I'm not sure that I can celebrate billboards or tourists.

And lost in progress is a history, an idea of our collective youth, and the stories that accompany our "coming of age" - stories that, like the game of baseball, tend to grow larger over time: For instance, remember a somewhat distant history of young men in 1968 who won a state championship, or players like Terry Gittel, Rich Kellogg, Cory Bridges, Dana Vucinich, Dave Church, Kendon Perry, Monroe Greenfield, Tom Siebert, Steve Krier and Tim and Tom Turrell in the mid 70s who won their share of trophies? Or Jim Winger, Larry Price, Jeff and Kelly Moffat, Nick Verdoia, Darren Taylor, Todd Banducci and Tracy Turrell in the 80s? Their stories - and hundreds of others - float around the field on a summer's evening waiting to be retold, relived.Of course, stories grow - as all good baseball stories should - to the realm of the allegorical and the fantastic. Embellished? A little: Stories of fantastic wins and epic losses. Stories like Jesse Hoorelbeke, refusing to be intentionally walked with the bases loaded and two out - the opposing team actually willing to give up a run instead of giving Jesse the chance to hit one of his towering home runs.

Stepping across the plate with a one-arm swing, he drove a screaming line-drive to the right-field gap only to be caught by a well-positioned outfielder as he fell against the fence.Or like Ben Johnson's 11 swings and 11 home runs, each one farther than the one before, one swing actually tearing the seams off the ball as it left his bat; like Jesse's younger brother, Casey, throwing a 99-mile-an-hour fastball straight as an arrow; like Shelby Hawkins throwing his "nasty" curve; like Mark Scates intimidating the batter with his sneer before striking him out.

Or like Andy Potter hitting home runs on cool summer nights, home runs above the lights disappearing into the ether and our imaginations - possibly to orbit the field for eternity.Or like Chad Keefer stealing home in a head-first dive between the legs of the batter in the district championship game; like Blake Whiteman hitting an opposite-field home run that hit the transformer three-quarters up the light pole in the left-center gap, causing a brief power outage to half the city; like Tim Gittel playing third base, taking a screaming line drive off his cheek, the impact so deafening that a stunned crowd could only watch as Tim collapsed to his knees; then, miraculously picking up the ball, he threw the runner out by a step, spit a mouthful of blood on the dry dirt, slapped his glove and took his position once again.

Like Dan Lau sliding head-first into second and swallowing a mouthful of dirt; like Max Lyons throwing his "slurve" to a weak-kneed batter. Or Davey Holland's courage.Or Trent Bridges, Cory Kreighbaum and Travis Georgius's back-to-back-to-back home runs twice in one game. Or the Capaul clan, pitching, catching, fielding - seemingly everywhere on the field at once.

Or Zach Clanton's near-perfect game against the team that would become Washington's state American Legion champions, a team that made it all the way to the Legion World Series.Or Kyle Johnson covering the entire outfield by himself, gliding like a gazelle, diving for a line drive in the left-center gap, catching it with a glove up to show the umpires, ending a rally, ending the game. Or Kyle going from first to third after a teammate's routine base hit to right field, rounding second and bounding to third in three strides.

Or umpires like Frank, Torbin, Bob, Brad, Ted, Mal, Dom, and Dick calling a third strike to an incredulous batter - "YOU'RE OUT!"Or the greatest game ever played on McEuen: Coeur d'Alene beating Lewiston, 24-23, or was it 30-29 - it doesn't matter. What matters is that the game ended on a walk-off home run, a shot heard around the world - well, at least around Coeur d'Alene - when Mike Estrada hit a ball that went up, up, up, and we watched as it rose up, up beyond the lights, up, up into the summer night beyond the fence, up, up, possibly beyond Tubbs Hill, up, possibly landing in the gray sands of Sanders Beach off Eleventh Street. Many of us thought we had literally stepped into the movie The Natural.

Or the hot summer afternoons when pre-game batting practice gave way to a quick run over to the rocks and a 10-minute swim in the lake.Or the late night practices under the lights, ending with a game of "Yankee-dodger."

Yes, I guess a new stadium would be nice. But before that happens, those of you who have played down at McEuen, or those of you who have watched a game over McEuen's 30-plus-year history, or those of you who have never witnessed a game might want to come down to McEuen Field one last time and take in one last game. Sit in the stands, or lounge on the grass, buy a hot dog and a cool drink.But I warn you that the memories get pretty thick in on a summer's evening as the dew begins to settle on the outfield grass. Under the lights you might see time past in time present. And you, too, might wonder ... about history ... about progress ... about our community.

Lloyd Duman is in his sixth season as head coach of the Lumbermen, Coeur d'Alene's class AA American Legion baseball team.