I was walking across the Myrtle Street bridge over the Powder River when I heard, above the soft rumble of snowmelt, the musical plink of aluminum colliding with cowhide.

Both are essential sounds of spring.

But the inimitable timbre of a bat striking a baseball is for me the more redolent, the genuine article.

As I turned onto the Leo Adler Memorial Parkway, which runs between the river and Wade Williams Park, I looked to my left and took in the classic scene.

Boys in uniform, warming up with a game of catch.

This is Little League, and the ritual differs a bit from what you see on a high school field.

The arms aren’t fully developed and the balls take a higher, slower arc as they fly toward the waiting mitt.

It was a sunny day and the balls were bright white against the blue backdrop.

Lacking the velocity that the big boys can muster, the balls come to rest, ensconced by leather, with a sort of thud rather than the sharp crack of a throw that has some mustard on it.

But it was perfect just the same.

The contrast between the brown of the infield and the basepaths, freshly smoothed, and the green grass, recently mowed, was just as it is supposed to be.

The burgers weren’t yet sizzling on the grill — I couldn’t detect their savory scent on the soft April wind, anyway — but I knew they soon would be.

Just as I knew little brother and sisters would wander about, inspecting the space under the bleachers, ice cream smeared on their faces.

And that sometimes they would scamper, in clusters, going after a foul ball that got past the backstop.

I suppose a baseball purist would quibble with at least one of my conclusions.

The true sound of the game, some might say, is the distinctive whack of a wooden bat making good contact.

I was born in 1970 and started playing baseball five or six years later. But even then, beyond a span of time that feels to me almost archaeological, we were fully into the aluminum bat era.

Anyone whose experience with baseball is dominated by Little League and high school and college is apt to associate the game with that unique metallic clink.

No sport is so immersed in history and tradition, yet it seems to me a trifle silly to bemoan the substitution of aluminum bats over wood.

Both materials are natural, after all.

It seems to me there is no great difference between mining bauxite, the rock that is processed into aluminum, and felling ash trees to fashion into Louisville Sluggers.

The game is what matters anyway.

And that kids are fortunate enough to have places such as Wade Williams to learn how to hit a rudimentary curveball, to hone their pitching motion, to feel for the first time the unique thrill of snaring a line drive an instant before the ball touches grass.

As I strolled along the Adler Parkway and looked back across the field I thought of Kenny Keister, who grew up playing here and spearheaded a volunteer campaign to renovate the field, which is owned by the Baker Elks Lodge.

Keister started the nonprofit Wade Williams Foundation, which has been hosting fundraisers since 2021.

Dozens of people have contributed to the effort.

(You can learn more, or donate, at wadewilliamsfoundation.com. The foundation also has a Facebook page.)

The park, which includes three fields, had deteriorated over the years.

But today it’s a gem. The setting, beside the river with its towering cottonwoods, and with a view of the Elkhorns, is ideal.

Wade Williams is quite a lot more picturesque, and better groomed, than most of the ballfields I played on growing up in Stayton.

But as I walked past it seemed to me that the passage of time had had no more effect on the essence of this experience than a trickle of water has on stone in 50 years, or 150.

The boys throwing and catching and swinging away were not different, in any meaningful way, than the boy I was.

I wished in that moment only for James Earl Jones, to step down from the bleachers and make a speech that would leave my throat feeling hot and full, my eyes damp.

Jayson Jacoby is the editor of the Baker City Herald. Contact him at 541-518-2088 or jayson.jacoby @bakercityherald.com.