My relationship with politics has evolved and shifted and changed through the years. But my relationship with one staple of the American experience is as much a part of me today as it was when it first began.
Year after year, baseball is what keeps me tuned in. Here's why.
[A diary on personal experience]
There's a reason I love baseball. When I was very young, and wanted to pretend I was San Francisco Giants' ace John Burkett or legendary closer Rod Beck, and wanted an excuse to spend half an hour with my dad, I'd come into the den where he'd be hard at work grading papers and ask, with a pitch in my voice that begged him to say yes, "Hey dad, wanna play catch?"
I don't recall him ever saying no.
My dad and I would head into the backyard, well-worn mitts in tow, and throw a baseball together. I was not a particularly athletic child, but I loved to throw the ball with my dad. From age four or five until I left for college, my dad and I would arc the ball back and forth to each other across the grass, talking together as we did. He would listen to me as I would ramble on about my latest theories on why this or that was the way it was, aptly fielding my errant throws and pitching them easily back to me while I imagined that I was our favorite Giants short stop, Jose Uribe, or star second baseman Robby Thompson. These easy spring afternoons, the bright Northern California sun gently shaded by the tall redwoods that towered high above our yard, were our time - a time for a father and a son to cobble together, throw by throw, a passion and a bond that would last a lifetime.
Later, when school had let out for summer, my father would take me to Candlestick Park to watch the Giants play. Parking his car near the gates of the expansive lot (so we could beat the exit traffic after the game), we would walk together into the majestic stadium that defined my childhood - me carrying my glove, and my father carrying his backpack with a bag of peanuts and a few drinks for us to share. Will Clark, the Giants' star first baseman, was my favorite baseball player in those days, and one afternoon we arrived early enough to watch batting practice before the game. My dad let me go down near the first base line where the players were warming up, while he looked on. As you might imagine, I was a very small child - and at age seven, amongst the dozens of older kids who had lined up to get a glimpse of their favorite players, I was barely visible standing at the edge of the field hoping the coach might say, "You there! You're just who we need to win this one- get down here and suit up!" But despite my small stature, my favorite first baseman walked straight over from where he had been loosening up, reached out his hand and dropped a ball right into my outstretched glove. "Here you go kid," he said as he smiled that famously crooked smile and turned back toward the field.
I raced back to my dad, who was watching from just a few rows back, yelling "Look! Look what Will Clark gave me!" For the rest of that game I sat next to my father, listening intently as he explained each play on the field, echoing him as he cheered for our favorite players, cracking peanut shells in half into the ever-growing pile below our seats, all the while proudly clutching my prize inside the glove my father had bought me.
As I grew older, and my life became more complicated and wrought with personal struggle, my once intensely close relationship with the man I idolized grew strained. I was a difficult teenager, attempting to cope with my sexuality in the violent and intolerant world of a high schooler, and I brought my angst home with me each day. Unconditionally loving and unbelievably patient, my father nurtured me from the edge of the boundary I established, eagerly capitalizing on every opportunity I provided him to, once again, be father and son. And in those moments we would climb into his car, gloves and backpacks tossed into the rear seat, and head out to the stadium to sit, and crack peanut shells, and cheer for our favorite team.
Years have passed since those sunny afternoons in our backyard. My father has since retired, relocating with my beautiful mother (his wife of 42 years) to New York City to be close to my sisters and their three young grandchildren. Because of the great distance between our two new homes, and the complications of life, particularly over the past few years, I don't get to see my father as often as I would like to. He has made surprise trips out to Los Angeles a number of times, and there are those camping trips in Pismo Beach we go on each year with our family, and of course the occasional holiday when I am able to fly to New York. But there is also baseball season. And when the San Francisco Giants recently won the World Series for the first time in either of our lifetimes, I could not dial my father's number fast enough.
"GO GIANTS!!" He exclaimed as he answered the phone, with that familiar, gentle pitch in his voice.
"Are you watching!? Did you see!? Can you believe this?!" I replied.
For thirty minutes, as I paced up and down Santa Monica Boulevard, my father and I talked baseball. And as the conversation turned to life and larger topics, my father listened to me as I rambled on about my latest theories on why this or that was the way it was, aptly fielding my errant thoughts and pitching them easily back to me while I imagined that I was back in my childhood yard, tossing a ball with my hero.