Baseball is a great way to communicate.

Field of Dreams may be a fantasy, but it illustrates my point. The movie, based on a series of serendipitous events, carries an element of truth: people use sports as a means of expression.

The film's underlying premise is the communication, or lack thereof, between Kevin Costner's character, Ray Kinsella, and his late father, John. When Ray Kinsella reminisces about his father, he tells Terence Mann, a writer played by James Earl Jones, that baseball was the only thing they had in common. Since Kinsella and his father rarely spoke, the simple act of playing catch served as their means of speech. In their world, the purity of throwing and catching replaced the give and take, point and counterpoint of verbal communication.

That movie came to mind while I sat in the press box at Oakland's Network Associates Coliseum last week. As I watched the A's beat the Angels 4-2, I recalled a recent conversation I had with an editor. He brought it to my attention that this column serves as my means of communication. "People get to know you through the words you write," he said.

Until recently, my conversations have mostly been about football. But you see, that's the problem. These "conversations" are often one-sided, because I don't see football like most people in this business. Having spent five years in the NFL, my take is a field view. As a result, sport is more often job than adventure, more reality than fantasy.

That's the best thing about Field of Dreams. The line between fantasy and reality is cleverly blurred. Take the final scene, when Terence Mann disappears into the corn field, leaving Ray Kinsella behind -- Kinsella is clearly disturbed, because he knows the rest of his life will be spent wondering about what Mann is about to experience.

I was thinking about this when I left the stadium in Oakland last Thursday. And when I got back to my hotel and turned on the TV, there it was. No lie. Field of Dreams.

As serendipity would have it, I tuned in right before that final scene. Just as he's about to disappear into that corn field, which serves as a portal to some fantastic dimension, Terence Mann says something that struck a chord in me.

"I'm going to write about it one day," he says.

Kinsella, disturbed by the fact he can't follow him into this hidden dimension, says, "You're going to write about it?"

"Yes, it's what I do," says Mann.

For Mann, the world that lies beyond that field will no longer be a fantasy. It will become something real that he will get to tell people about. Why else would he chuckle like a little boy as he disappears into the magic stalks?

Tuesday night, I was sitting at a bar, wondering how I could share my experiences beyond the field in a way that could convey my reality without ruining the fantasy for everyone else.

Then the bartender turned on a baseball game.

It was the Angels again, but this time they were playing the Mariners. In the first inning, just as Seattle left fielder Mark McLemore was approaching the plate, I came to the conclusion that what I love most about sports can't be found in the win-loss column, and isn't hidden in a stat sheet. What I love about football, basketball, or any other sport, is pure, simple athleticism.

As if on cue, McLemore hit one deep to the gap and took off. He rounded the bases with a powerful stride and a forward lean that I'm fairly certain would serve him well on a kickoff team or a fast break. As he slid headlong into third, the throw got by Angels third baseman Troy Glaus, and McLemore took off again. After another headfirst slide across the plate, it was 1-0.

A man hit the ball hard, ran like hell, and I drank my beer. And I enjoyed watching him do it, because I know what it's like to hit hard and run fast.

That's why I love sports. You hear me?

Alan Grant, a former NFL defensive back, writes football for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at alan.grant@espnmag.com.