I haven’t been there in years, though I assume the bleachers and the fences and the dugouts are all still there. I can hear the crushed stone grind under the weight of my vehicle as I slowly round the corner of the driveway. Heads in the bleachers will turn to see whose kid is pulling in too fast. There are children everywhere, running, jumping, laughing and competing. A line of uniformed ten or eleven year olds wait impatiently for a fifty cent sno-cone, and someone’s dad burns beef patties before slapping them on a bun. It still smells the same. Not even nostalgia or a loss of innocence can strip a little league field of its adolescent magic.