Every spring, fields — dissected by four bases and bordered by a fence advertising local businesses — come to life across America.

Standing like figures on a chess board are young men who entreat themselves to crowds by showcasing their talents because there’s nothing like watching a batter swing or listening to a ball whistle over a shortstop’s outstretched mitt for a single.

This magical setting is where the smells of spring fill our minds with thoughts of younger days and the sky is so blue we get lost in it.

It is where hope and mettle oil dreams of making The Bigs.

For a $10 ticket, minor league ball guarantees hours of cheering for teams with unique names — Crushers, Thunderbolts, Slammers, River Hawks , Missions, Green Jackets, Sand Gnats — and Cracker Jacks and peanuts litter the ground around children’s feet while holding tight to gloves in hopes of catching a fly ball.

These places are where underdogs strive against long odds while subsisting on hard work and a scout’s notes. Americans love underdogs.

Dreams aren’t limited to the dugout alone; fans dream too, and on one particular patch of grass, on a hill behind the outfield fence, a moment happened that forever changed a little boy’s summer during a time when his father was in Afghanistan.

But this isn’t a war story.

I never met Eddie Tisdale but know he hails from South Carolina, hit .393 in college and, like my son, Jack, loves baseball.

When I deployed, Jack was having difficulties coping with the separation so my wife decided to take him to a Lake Erie Crushers baseball game.

I do not know the details of the game, except that Eddie Tisdale hit a home run and the Crushers won. That is where the story begins.

A simple ball, bound in cowhide and secured with 108 stitches, can propel dreams and open up the world to possibilities, of home runs and homecomings.

After the game, Mr. Tisdale walked out to shake hands with fans and there stood my Jack, holding a ball and maybe wishing his dad was there to help him overcome his shyness.

The first baseman came up to him, took a ball from Jack’s hand and scribbled on it! A signed baseball! From Eddie Tisdale!

And then the lanky Eddie turned and walked away, disappearing from our lives.

I’m not sure how much that act meant to Mr. Tisdale, but it became Jack’s proudest moment.

For a moment, he forgot about a dad far away and relished the moment of a baseball player smiling while autographing a ball just for him.

It was a small gesture that meant a lifetime to my son. That ball now occupies a place of prominence in Jack’s room.

When Jack, the one who occupied my dreams half a world away, told me what happened, I almost cried.

We grow up fast, and reality sometimes extinguishes dreams where they are but faint memories. In life, we don’t always hit a homerun or catch the game winning fly ball. Often, we take that long walk to the dugout, bat dragging behind us in the dirt, after striking out with two outs in the ninth.

Those are rough patches that sculpt us but without them we learn little about ourselves. And sometimes, sometimes we get on base (even through an error).

The hopes of dreamers are contagious and remind us to savor moments of victory when they do happen.

I never met Eddie Tisdale. I heard he is no longer playing, but he will always hold a special place in my heart for the gift he once gave a little boy. He is an All-Star in our minds. Eddie, in the game of life, you bat 1,000.