CHEVIOT HILLS, Calif. — The Palisades Charter High School J.V. baseball team huddled on the all-dirt infield of their temporary home, a makeshift venue for a displaced team. The playing surface and outfield grass were patchy and uneven. With no mound, its primary use was for softball.

But it was what they had to work with. And the tragic circumstances — a fire that ravaged their school and city — that led them to this spot mattered little in that moment. What was important? The varsity captain, Ryan Hirschberg, was displeased with the junior varsity group’s effort and focus during their joint practice.

“The only reason, J.V., that you had to run today, is that you weren’t paying attention,” Hirschberg told the team after practice had ended.

“It’s not because we want to make you guys run. If we mess up, we’ll run too.”

Hirschberg is running players-only practices until coaches are allowed to join in early February, and so he did his job. Scolded them for it, then watched as they all ran mandatory sprints past the outfield and onto an adjacent field.

At that moment, this practice felt very serious. The consequences of failure felt legitimate. And there would be real punishments for not locking in on the purpose of their presence at Cheviot Hills Recreation Center, a public park the city had permitted the team to use to prepare for their season.

But in many ways, baseball didn’t matter. How could it for Ian Sullivan? A lefty pitcher whose home burned down, the fire taking with it all of his tangible childhood memories. How could it for Jett Teegardin? A junior infielder who visited his burned-down neighborhood a day later, before returning to the hotel that’s become a temporary home.

Yet in this moment, baseball mattered more than anything because they wanted it to matter. The Palisades fire upended life for all 38 baseball players who populate the J.V. and varsity rosters. They’ve come together to support one another through a traumatic experience. They don’t know where they’ll play this year, or with what uniforms or equipment, but they are determined to field a team, have their season, and now, with added meaning, compete for a championship. Baseball, for them, is a brief escape from tragedy. But it is also a chance to do something for a community that desperately needs something to rally around.

“Situations like this build character, and they show people who you are,” said Hirschberg, who has donated clothes, organized practice, started a GoFundMe that’s raised $13,000 and simply been a friend to teammates who need one.

“People don’t get to see the best of you in the best of times. It’s the worst of times where you have to show people who you are.”

On Tuesday, Jan. 7, a now infamous fire overtook the Palisades and other neighborhoods in Los Angeles. It killed dozens and destroyed thousands of homes, charring the lives and worldly possessions of everyone in its wake.

The high school — which has been used as a set for films like “Freaky Friday” and shows like “Modern Family” — was significantly damaged. And while much of the baseball field remains intact, the surrounding area was heavily impacted. The facility is inaccessible. The uniforms and equipment within it are likely unusable.

Head coach Mike Voelkel doesn’t know where they’ll play home games this season — the hope is a mix of Loyola Marymount University, UCLA and other local colleges — but it doesn’t matter. His team will play every game on the road, if it comes to that.

“I told the kids, I said, ‘We’re playing. I don’t care how,” Voelkel recalled. “We’ll go get T-shirts if we have to. For recovery, for wellness. For the promotion of a young kid’s development. It’s important that you get back out there.

“Some people have a tendency to dwell on it, or play the victim. Those are the kind of people that stay there, sometimes the rest of their lives. I was going to do everything I could to get our kids back on the field.”

Voelkel, who lives south of the Palisades, remembers waking from a nap on the afternoon the fires began. He’d already received an email that morning instructing staff to not come ito work.

His TV was tuned to Spectrum News, where he saw California governor Gavin Newsom in the Palisades on his screen. It was then he realized just how concerning the situation could become.

He began contacting players and their families, many of whom were evacuating. A coach of 18 years, Voelkel had put so much emotional and physical labor into that team and facility. He spent that day not knowing if it would all be over.

Classes at Pali High, as it’s known colloquially, have since shifted to being completely online. But the physical separation didn’t stop his team from immediately jumping into action to help each other. Voelkel’s wife, Norma, who works in real estate, started working to make sure everyone had a place to stay.

Players were delivering supplies to their teammates. One player drove to the home of another who was out of town to collect essentials, in case the fire eventually got to them too. Major prominent companies and people started reaching out to offer supplies. Los Angeles Dodgers manager Dave Roberts said he and some players are planning to attend a practice in the near future. The team also donated baseballs. Cincinnati Reds pitcher and L.A. native Hunter Greene donated cleats. The Pali High basketball team received tickets to Los Angeles Lakers-Golden State Warriors from Steve Kerr, who is an alum.

The support is appreciated; it doesn’t erase the trauma of having their season and lives turned upside down, the tragedy still playing out as this baseball team immediately works to rebuild. When they do take the field again, their new jerseys will have a “Pali Strong” patch stitched on them.

Voelkel was asked what this season will mean, but cut off the question before it could be completed.

“A victory,” he said flatly, so assured in the answer.

“To take all of this stuff. To piece it together. To get our families taken care of. There’s so many things. I’d like to win games, I’m very competitive. But in this situation, you have to look at the whole. There are other things that far, far outweigh the winning.”

The practice uniform on Jett Teegardin’s back was delivered to him days prior by Hirschberg. It’s one of the only sets of clothes he has.

He packed to leave for two days max, believing he and his mom would have a home to return to soon. That night, they looked at their Ring doorbell camera and saw embers flying around the neighborhood.

The next day, he returned to a home that no longer existed. Even the contents of their fireproof safe were destroyed. The neighbors he grew to love are now displaced with their community gone.

“It’s very hard. You picture yourself in your house, your room, everything that’s gone,” Teegardin said. “I was a sperm donor baby. So I didn’t really have a father figure. I’m just trying to be there for my mom, mainly. Throughout every situation, I’ve always tried to be there for her.

“Me talking to her to make sure she’s OK, makes me OK. Knowing she’s OK makes me 10 times better.”

When Ian Sullivan thinks about what he’s lost, his mind goes to his game balls. The one he earned when he was 8 years old. The yearbooks, trophies, pins from his trip to Cooperstown, N.Y. — all the relics of his childhood.

On the day he was ordered to evacuate, Sullivan thought the winds would blow the fire in the opposite direction. His parents were working, so he packed family photos, their cat and dog, then left, thinking it would be a short departure.

Instead, a week after the fire, Sullivan and 12 of his friends from fifth grade met up at a friend’s house in Calabasas. Nearly all of their homes had been destroyed. The meet-up served as a chance to be together.

“It’s a dark time right now, but light will always shine through the dark.,” he said. “The Palisades is going to be back. I feel like I’m not just playing for myself and my teammates, but I’m playing for my town, and my home.”

After the fire, Sullivan and Teegardin sent a group text message to everyone on the team. They knew that teammates might be cautious around them, given their circumstances. Sending the text, they hoped, would break down that wall.

“If this fire isn’t something to light your ass, to get you motivated to win this year, then I don’t know what is,” they wrote.

The responses started flooding in. “Hell yeah,” one sent. People that never contributed before were co-signing the messages with encouragements of their own.

“I think everyone’s more motivated than ever,” Teegardin said. “That was everyone’s spark to try their best. … We have to win now. We have to do this for us, and for our coach.

“This fire, it’s brought us a lot closer.”

It was a picturesque Wednesday afternoon, the sun just beginning to set over the practice, as a parkgoer approached the practice, curious about what was happening.

This was a regular occurrence, according to the players. People were curious for more information about what they were dealing with.

This man, with his dog, approached the gate separating the field and the sidewalk. He asked Sullivan, who was there rehabbing his injured arm, what team they were with. A conversation ensued — talk of the fire, lost homes and the upcoming season. The chit-chat was so relaxed and friendly, almost non-reflective of its subject matter.

“Good luck,” he said to Sullivan. “It’s so horrible.”

A father, Joe Stanley, had driven three of the players to practice. He sat, watching intently from the top row of the bleachers, donning a cap from the team.

“I think it’s resilience and pride, definitely. These kids are like a family,” Stanley said. “They spend a lot of time together and are a tight-knit group. This is great. They need this.”

There’s a feeling of normalcy to it all. But even amid that lull, these kids are keenly aware of their reality. Jude De Pastino, a junior, said that everyone on his team is experiencing trauma, even if they don’t feel it yet. Practice, he said, brings some normalcy.

In the first four days after the fire, he was “in a state of shock.” He traveled into the Palisades with a group of friends who’d all lost their homes. Logan Bailey, a senior captain who did the same, said he saw live wires zapping in the street, with telephone poles burning down. He said it appeared almost surreally cinematic.

“It’s beyond what you can imagine, pictures really don’t do it justice,” De Pastino said. “Our whole lives as we know it have quite literally been flattened.”

The group huddled again, just before the sun fully set, after nearly three hours of practice. Parents’ cars started filling the parking lot, waiting to pick up their sons. This reprieve was special. It was needed, and it will continue almost daily until the season starts in late February.

But for now, that reprieve was ending. And real life, scarier and more uncertain now than it’s ever been, was once again awaiting them.

“This is one of those stories you tell on your deathbed,” Bailey said. “You can be as old as it gets, and it still never leaves your mind. It’s going to stick with everyone here, for the rest of their lives.”

(Illustration: Demetrius Robinson, The Athletic; Photos: Josh Edelson / AF via Getty Images, Sam Blum)