I sat in that field, now a tourist trap, waiting.
My dad was a big, I mean a big baseball fan. I remember watching Field of Dreams with him for about the first thirty minutes before some urgent household repair drew him away. We never hung out much after that, or before that actually.
But here I was, sitting, waiting. Wouldn’t it be fun if Ray Liotta walked out of that corn. We could hop into his car and rob some people and I could see what mafia life was really like. Or if Burt Lancaster suddenly started laying into Kevin Costner on how to be a tough guy and quit acting like such a nancy boy when he was supposed to be portraying a guy fighting and loving Indians, or living on a post apocalyptic aqua-Earth.
But mostly, I hoped James Earl Jones would come out. He’d have the complete Darth Vader suit on, save the mask, and we’d have a game of catch. Later he’d tell me how to treat a lady or drive a landspeeder. Then I suppose he’d cut off my hand for missing the game winning catch.
Either way, who doesn’t want Darth Vader to show up with a gangster and two other old actors no one quite remembers how to remember?