My father died recently, I was homesick and found myself in Livingston, frequenting some of the old haunts of my youth: Becker's Farm; the National Little League baseball fields (we called it the sandpit); Northland Pool and the adjacent water basin with the large painted rock that jauntily headlines the end of the field. The reservoir is now a soccer field, where I saw several coaches making the young girls perform various kicking drills. A few balls bounced into the concrete culvert that runs through the center of the field and connects to a small drainage pipe, that pipe that runs under Bryant Drive and into a stream that runs past my childhood home on McClellan Avenue. The tube where I stood and watched the girls practice was the big tube, the tunnel, the cave entrance where after forty years I could still stand upright, the slow stream of murky water flowing between my feet and walk comfortably past its graffiti. covered walls rolling underground. Between kicks, the girls looked at me strangely, no doubt wondering why this middle-aged but...