In my younger days, I loved the song, "Centerfield" by John Fogerty. I still have a warm spot in my heart for the song, especially on a bright summer day at a ballpark, but my heart has migrated towards "Glory Days" by Bruce Springsteen. I'm past the point where I'll be running out to center field (or, in my case, left field) with untouched youthful exuberance.

To me, "Centerfield" is a vicarious song now.

Time marches on, as the cliché goes, and it seems that march is often under a veil of darkness and progresses with alarming speed. Sometimes, though, a shaft of light stabs through the dark and we get a clear glimpse of where we've been and where we are. Right now, for me, is one of those times.

I volunteer some time with my alma mater's baseball team at Cony High School. This year, like Richmond and Gardiner, Cony is in the state championship game. Eighteen years ago, I played in a state baseball title game. It is only natural that reflection is in order. What's unexpected, though, is that what strikes me is not the memory of that game or other games, but a moment last summer cutting firewood.

Last August, I drove my pickup up to the "back field" at the old farm my grandparents passed on to my mother. I had previously dropped a number of trees in a stand bordering this former potato field worked by my grandfather and others before him. A light wind through the open truck window was welcomed amidst the thick, humid air. However, it had little cooling effect once I started bucking trees with a chainsaw and splitting logs with my dad's heavy, time-worn maul.

Once I finished the chainsaw work, I turned on the truck radio to catch the Red Sox game while I split wide ash logs. The radio crackled out play-by-play and shared the general Fenway Park din as I raised the maul up near my right shoulder. I'd rotate my hips and in rapid succession throw my hands down and forward, letting the maul's heavy head follow. It really wasn't too far removed from swinging a bat.

The ash I was splitting looked strong, with straight grain -- it probably would make good bats, though it was destined for winter fires. On the radio, a guy I played against in college came up to bat, another former opponent waited for his turn on the bench. Crows cawed and flew by as the poplar leaves began to mutter in the growing breeze. Dark clouds quickly gathered and distant thunder rolled. I gathered up my gear and threw as much split wood as I could in the pickup bed.

Lightning flashed and fat rain pummeled my truck. I drove slowly past the fields where I used to stalk woodchucks and the woods where my grandmother showed me nearly hidden ladyslippers. The Red Sox game played on, down in sunny Boston. I thought of how I used to, as a kid, dream of and work toward playing there.

As I nearly reached the old barn in need of repair, I recalled another childhood memory. I didn't really want to play for the Red Sox. In my back yard, I'd pretend to play for what I guess would be considered an expansion team. I wanted to play for a Maine Major League team. Even then, I wasn't too keen on the idea of living in Boston or New York or other cities. They weren't home.

At that moment, I didn't really have an epiphany, but more of a clear view to the past and a peaceful if somewhat melancholy realization that you don't exactly get to choose your future, but you've got a say. It's impossible to know, but I think a 10-, 14- or 18-year-old version of me would be OK with a future involving watching eagles pull fish out of the Kennebec River, resting on ledges along the Appalachian Trail, casting a fly on the Rapid River and cutting firewood where I learned what the woods offers heart and mind. I also think a younger me would be satisfied just hanging around baseball fields. After all, that's how I spent an awful lot of time as kid -- with my dad watching my brothers and others play baseball.

State championship games, graduations, weddings and a host of other events take place this time of year. Perhaps because of these events -- or perhaps because of the long, warm days -- memories tend to bubble up about now. So, I suggest we revel in the good memories and appreciate the unforeseen when we can, even if our glory days are long gone and we're far from center field.

Rex Turner lives in Augusta and works in the conservation field. He can be reached at rexpturner@gmail.com