Homeplate Farm

By Cassie Hamilton Sweet Owen Copy Editor/Contributor

“If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own

backyard. Because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with.” – L. Frank Baum

In the summer of 2005, Jim Hamilton turned a dream into reality.

As a boy, he played on old Crosley Field, which had been moved to his childhood friend Larry “Chip” Luebbers’ family farm. The infield portion, the stands surrounding it, and the scoreboard had been brought across the river. During practices, Reds players sometimes showed up to play ball with the Little Leaguers. Growing up with his championship youth team on a field like that, Jim wanted to build one of his own someday.

“We’re building a ballfield,” he said, pointing to the side yard, which had about 10 feet before it hit an incline—and a tree line.

I was 11, and even my imagination had to stretch a bit. At that point, building a ballfield meant tossing down anything—paper plates, cardboard—as bases. Maybe a woven wire fence if we were lucky enough to hold a home run derby.

Our cousin, Joe Hamilton, fired up his equipment to turn the acreage next to our house into a ballfield. Not just any field—but one with true dimensions. Outfield fences stretching to more than 300 feet, a real backstop, stakes set for the bases, and home plate stamped into the earth.

This was quite possibly the greatest day of my 11-year-old life.

Over the summer, the field began to take shape. It was cleared of rocks, seeded and polishedwith heavy attention to detail. Stakes were driven, even with help from our 1-year-old little Joe.

What did we have?

A giant desert.

The biggest sandbox ever.

Piles of dirt—some 10 feet tall—everywhere.

It was mesmerizing work.

After the land was leveled and crested just right, we filled seed spreaders to the brim. Dad had one that strapped over his shoulder. Mine pushed like a lawn mower. Back and forth we

went—across the outfield: 370 feet to left field, 375 to center and 350 to right. Bags and bags of grass seed, all mixed for the softest outfield possible.

Sprinklers were strategically placed to hydrate the seeds and bury them deeper.

Dad ordered real bases. No cardboard anymore.

We were professionals.

I imagined myself as part of a professional grounds crew, like the ones we watched at Reds

games.

We spent hours—days, weeks—picking up rocks.

And rocks.

And more rocks.

Finally, after a few more rounds with the grater, it was declared smooth enough.

We measured the base paths with precision—down to the centimeter. First, second and third

were pegged in their places. Just as twilight descended on the field, our light chatter faded with the sun.

It was time to put in home plate.

A dusky evening in September. Sarah Seiber and Anna Kemper joined us. Something simple,

yet sacred.

It was calm. We pulled the truck up to shine its lights as the sun disappeared behind left field.

Dad dug the hole, and my brothers and I packed the plate in with soft little thuds.

Crickets chirped. Trees rustled. The truck hummed. The wind tousled my hair. The stars began to shine—and it felt right that they were there, too.

In my head, I heard a crowd cheering. And all was calm.

Over the years, the infield has been both dirt and grass. I dragged it smooth, still picking up

those pesky rocks. My brother Cole’s summer team practiced there the next year until sundown.

Joe spent years picking up batting practice balls on the Ranger before he started playing

himself.

Sometimes we’d find golf balls in the outfield. Mom never stopped gathering them—baseballs, softballs, golf balls—so we could take rep after rep after rep.

People have asked over the years: What do you all have on the farm? A ballfield (and cattle,

vegetables and some tobacco once). It is the best story.

On Thanksgiving morning, you’ll find the Hamiltons in the outfield after a huge breakfast, playing the Turkey Bowl. The football lines are spray-painted from left to center field, always routed through a puddle of rain or snow slush that someone’s bound to fall in.

If you watch long enough, you’ll witness a game that toes the line between holiday tradition and outright warfare. "Flag football" in name only—clotheslines, bruises, broken bones. We stay until someone calls, “Last score wins.”

On Christmas Day 2020, the three of us sprinted through snow from center field to home plate, trash-talking each other, laughing so hard our breath made clouds.

Each spring, when the field comes back to life with the first mow, I circle the outfield, over and over. It’s 2025 now, and as I made the first cut this year, I realized we’re approaching 20 years.

Our neighbors pulled into the drive with horses and buggies to celebrate the end of their school year this May, and I handed them wooden ball bats we’ve collected over the years.

There’s something special about seeing other families enjoy the game. Something special about the crack of a wooden bat and the whoop of celebration.

We’ll celebrate this summer—with some batting practice, a game of catch, probably too much banter and, of course, good food like cheese coneys. We’ll celebrate what this field built. Most importantly, what it built in us.

It taught me that anything worth doing is worth doing fully—with precision, with dedication, with passion and with love.

I can travel anywhere in the world. I can find any ballfield—and I do, to feel the nostalgia. I can instantly love the character of any stadium and feel the church of baseball.

At night in the summer—always around the same time we first placed home plate—it’s perfect out there. A bucket of balls, a tee, and the sky about to burst with stars.

When I’m done, I go sit at home plate. A drop of sweat drips slowly off the tip of my nose.

The memories begin to play.

Some are vivid. Others, blurred. I can almost see the dust rising again.

I sit. I listen. The breeze stirs.

And in my heart, a crowd still cheers.

I’m safe at home.