News breaking of James Earl Jones’ passing yesterday hit hard. Although best known as the voice behind Darth Vader in Star Wars, my heart lands on a different iconic scene from a very different movie.
I’m suddenly at Eaton Centre, walking into the empty air conditioned theatre on a hot summer weekday afternoon with my brother, Dad and I, popcorn in hand. I remember walking out completely transformed and utterly mesmerized. Dad intuitively knew this one would be good for Scott and I to see in person, together. He always fed us the highest quality movies for to feed the soul. Oh, the many times Scott and I stepped into our small hobby garden’s row of corn afterward, just hoping…
Even to this day, faced with a field of corn, I will still try, the dream ignited within is still that tangible – just as I still occasionally close my eyes and reach toward the back of my closet (wardrobe), desperately hoping for my hand not to hit drywall…
Dad’s movie description: “1989. Field of Dreams, a gem about the American Dream as seen through baseball story; Costner at his best, Lancaster and Jones even stronger; fanciful scenes, remarkable moments; maybe the best-ever film about dreams and possibilities coming true”.
The scene that imprinted itself on my heart forever? It is likely not the obvious choice. It is the moment after the baseball game Ray and James Earl Jones’ character Terence Mann goes to. Terence does not let on he’s actually heard the voice at the game, urging the quest forth, and Ray drops him off at home. The van does a U turn – and the headlights suddenly fall on James Earl Jones standing in the middle of the road. Just thinking of the scene gives me chills. That spinning of the van… it’s fate in the balance… the dice are rolling… that hovering between belief and non belief. Choice and self actualization vs surrender. Following your heart vs being safe. Hope vs defeat. All the core concepts Dad ingrained within my being, as he showed me how to live my life.
This past winter, Dad passed along an unexpected treasure during a brief meeting – a familiar, well-worn, well-loved brown baseball glove. I’d learned to catch and throw with it with Dad. I had used it in my youth for baseball games in elementary school. It still smelled the same – like well aged-leather and sweat – and immediately invoked that anticipation you feel when the air is filled with potential and you’re ready for the next play. I always intuitively knew it was old, but I had no idea just how old. He received it in grade 3-4 and used first on grade 5-6 school teams, playing second base. After he handed this treasure over, he said that I could put it on whenever I needed to feel his hand holding mine.
