 The seams that send routinely hit ground balls veering at tortuous angles are vivid, gray as scars. I remember the ball fields of my childhood, the outfields full of soft hummocks, brown-eyed gopher holes. I stride down from the stand and walk out to the middle of the field. I touch the stubble that is called grass, take off my shoes, but find it is like walking on a row of toothbrushes.