Kevin Costner is a huge deal in Durham, NC. Unlike larger metropolitan areas whose residents remain cooly unaffected by movies made in their neighborhoods, Durham and its citizenry are fiercely proud of Bull Durham, and Costner enjoys the status of folk hero. This year marks the 20th anniversary of that film's release, as posters all around town remind. Capping the regional pride was a 4th-of-July concert by Kevin Costner and his band, Modern West (yes, he has a band and does a bit of touring), in the Durham Bulls Athletic Park (DBAP), the beautiful downtown home field of the triple-A Bulls.

Though not a sell-out, I would say four-fifths of the 10,000-seat park was filled, and 8,000 raving fans is not a bad audience. This was not a game night; the Bulls were playing elsewhere. That fact dawned late on the folks sitting behind us, who, at about 7:30pm, with not a uniformed player in sight, erupted in confused laughter at their folly. Costner was there to give a concert, not a pre-game wave of the cap.

A bigger folly: I decided to leave my camera at home. So this remarkable evening can be described only, not illustrated.

The bandstand was set up at second base, and few hundred people owned field passes. The infield was roped off from the grass and that crowd gathered before the elevated stage. My wife and I had seats at field level, next to the Bulls dugout. There is not a bad seat in DBAP, as in many minor league venues, but down there on the field the view is spectacularly intimate. When Costner emerged and walked toward the infield, he passed within feet of us, smiling and waving. I am not starstruck, but I mean, c'mon -- the man swings a bat better than any movie star in history. Credit is due.

Before that, though, the scoreboard screen (the Bulls have a traditional hand-operated scoreboard below it) showed clip after clip from Bull Durham and many other Costner films. A couple of brave fans played "Name the movie" and "What's the next line" games over the public address system. Perfect scores in both cases diminished credibility but enhanced the good feelings.

When Costner stepped onto the field, the entire crowd stood and cheered, an outpouring of love and gratitude that lasted for minutes as he walked slowly along the grass in foul territory. Even from a distance, the guy has good eye contact, and a gift for acknowledging an ovation with apparent sincerity. Woman screamed, "We love you Kevin!" and men, though not as amorous, called out manly salutations. Costner entered the infield territory and milled slowly toward his perch, slapping hands and signing shirts.

As the sun declined and the air cooled, the Modern West drummer counted off the first tune and a strong backbeat (which would hardly change in tempo through the entire set) kicked in. As a singer, Costner would not make the final 20 on American Idol, but refinement was hardly the point on this occasion. He belts and growls it out. The six-piece band (with fiddle) pumps out acoustic-flavored, country-tinged rock and roll -- all originals with simple evocative names like "Long Hot Night." Children danced in the infield. Grown-ups tapped their feet in the stands. Whole sections of people coordinated arms-up to elicit a wave from Costner as he played. He kept an acoustic guitar slung around his shoulders, strummed it without a pick fairly often, but Costner does not contribute a rhythmic force to the music. He is sole singer and celebrity presence.

Clouds increasingly glowered in the twilight sky as the set proceeded. Costner optimistically predicted that the incoming storm would wend around the stadium without touching it, and the crowd cheered while glancing upward. Fireworks were the scheduled icing on the evening's cake. Within seconds of the band's final flourish, the first heavy drops splattered down. We left our seats and headed for the terrace section beneath the overhang. As we reached the protected area, there was no lingering hope of a gracious weather system sparing the center of downtown Durham. The wind whipped in as thick curtains of water lashed the net behind home plate. Under a suddenly dark sky, the tower lights illuminated a cosmos of rain drops pouring into the brilliantly lit bowl. On the field, roadies scrambled to cover the band equipment as everyone from field level seats jostled for the ramps. Thick shards of blue-white lightning lanced crackling from the clouds, followed instantly by bone-shaking smashes of thunder. It was upon us, exactly and ferociously.

We got down the ramp and inside the stadium, embedded in a mass of slow-moving humanity. Baseball parks don't have true insides, of course, with their open walls. We were under a roof, but the sideways-powered rain drove through in splattering sheets of water. Leaving the building was inconceivable and inadvisable. The cacophony of the maelstrom was amplified by the tightly packed concrete shell. The emotional atmosphere mixed hilarity and nervousness.

Then the lights went out. One of the five towers held onto its power; the other towers -- and all the inside lights -- blacked out. Everyone flipped open their cell phones and now it really felt like a rock concert. We waited a while, but abatement was not forthcoming and my wife and I began feeling oppressed. Pushing our way back up the ramp into the open stadium, we found two seats among the faithful crowd sitting it out in the shelter of the overhang. There, with the half light of the remaining tower shining reflections off the soaked field, we waited.

No fireworks, needless to say, and they probably couldn't have matched the glories of the storm anyway.