Hunter at the bat

Before Hunter was born I remember everyone heckling me - or rather, being as mean as they possibly could for no reason, as if I had kicked their dog or something- by saying things like: what if Hunter doesn't grow up to like sports?

Ah, yes. What if?

The first real glimpse I got of his possible indoctrination, er, introduction, to team sports was during the dark period of my life I like to call, "the last time I coached soccer for Stuart Hall High School". Because of the amount of hours I would be gone from the house, on occasion Heather would bring Hunter to my soccer games. The first time I remember this happening was at the Polo Fields in San Francisco. It is difficult to convey the spaciousness of this ancient "coliseum" but there is enough room for 8 regulation soccer fields, with room to spare.

So at one point during a game I look up and see Heather pushing Hunter in his red BOB stroller at the field nearest mine. Next thing, I look up and I see Hunter pushing the stroller in some far away land, a little red dot on the green horizon, like the back of an airplane flying through the sky. He was maybe 10 months old but I could already see him in that high school game.

My memory is that the next day, for the first time, he was dribbling the soccer ball "better than players on my team" according to Rayne Droplet. Sadly, I agreed. He was running and dribbling the ball, perfectly. And kicking. Kicking. Always kicking. Still kicking. It had to be just from watching the players on that field that day.

Now I am coaching baseball. Much closer to home. Much better environment. And Hunter is at many more games. I have told this story now so many times, and it gets better every time.

The day after he came to his first game, we were in Target, as usual. And we went down the aisle where they have to toy baseball sets, so I could see what might be in Hunter's future. Someday.

Well no sooner are we on the aisle when I hear Hunter saying, well excitedly screaming really, BALLBALL! I followed his index finger pointing straight at the real hard ball. So I manage to find a safe ball and bat for him and turn to set off down the aisle, when I hear it again. BALLBALL!! Following his direction again, I see he has identified a box with a kid on the front hitting the ball off a tee. And I see, ages 4 and up. Hunter is 16 months at the time. Maybe 15. I try to tell him he is too young and we'll get him one later but he plays on my pride and forces me to get him out of his cart so he can try. I still don't want to buy this thing if he won't/can't use it so I fashion a small box on the ground and set a ball on top to show him how to use it. Before I can lean over- WHACK!!

<- (Please note in the picture, while he is not hitting the ball per se, that is a real bat and real tee.)

The ball went sailing down the into the baby food section. It was not so much a turn but more of a whiplash motion as I go to see from how far the ball went to where it came from.

And there was Hunter, bat on his shoulder. Pointing. Ball Ball, he said calmly pointing into the Gerber food section off into the distance. I darted my head around to see who or what had seen the hit or what would happen to us. So I grabbed a tee set and headed home.

On the way I called Heather to tell her what happened and at first it was her normal reaction to my excitement. Calm down you are way over exaggerating, what REALLY happened? All I had to do was to set up the tee to show her.

There he was, butt down, legs spread, bat on the shoulder, hands in perfect position on the bat. WHACK. I was already in Little League when I learned all that, and had to be shown. Not Hunter. WHACK. And he goes to get the ball, like the little red dot he was on the soccer field, off in the distance. It was Heather who said, I think this was what Tiger Woods' dad must have felt like!

<-(This picture, taken at Pac Bell when Hunter was maybe 11 months, should have been an indication. Perfect form already!)

It is both sad and incredibly wonderful that he is already a better athlete than I ever was. Varsity sports, and running medals be-damned.

I wonder, then, what if he doesn't like sports? He is a little mimic.

So will he enjoy reading, working on the computer, gardening, cooking? He sees us doing these things all day.

And I see him, bat on the the shoulder, little butt down. Whack! Ballball Daddy, Ballball.

Below is the link to the first video of Hunter at the bat:

Items in Memorabiliam

Since this past summer Hunter and I have really been on quest for awesome memorabilia...and by "Hunter and I", I mean I. And "we" have been very successful.

The newest addition to our collection has to be our most prized yet. We do have the Lance Armstrong signed hat and the Barry Bonds Bobble-head, but getting to meet Tim Lincecum and having him sign my jersey was really cool. Looking at him, he resembles any other barely twenty-something year old one might see on the street in North Beach- jeans, Sambas, beenie pulled low; he just has an air about him that lacks airs with all the cool. Meeting him was a breeze too, all you needed was some money and time to go to a card shop.

All of this got me to thinking about the hopes and dreams for Hunter and wondering what great things he will accomplish. Will he be an athlete or will he have an Olympic sense of clean like his mom? I was going to ask him what he thought about Lincecum --since this is about Hunter--but he was not able to be out late enough to meet the pitcher, so we will have to try and catch him before a game this year.

We did recently go the Giants Fanfest this year in what has become an annual event. Again, this is about Hunter. I mean why would I want to brave the crowds and get pushed against stage rails like a Who concert in Ohio? Only a devoted father would do that... Some of the allure and intimacy of the event has been lost by moving the event from a small warehouse to the ballpark -- frankly it smacks of overt commercialism and greed-- but it is still cool to get a "free" look at the park and to be able to run on the field. The highlight of the day was how friendly all the fans were. Hunter dragged me along so I could push his stroller and strangely a major league clubhouse does not have to be wheel chair accessible despite the median age of recent Giant rosters (one half expected that the AARP would have demanded ramps so the players would not have to walk up all those stairs). Anyway, many people were happy to help heft the stroller without our even asking. Giants' fans rock.

Once on the field, we did get a good look at many of the players and we got a few signatures for the baseballs we had, including Matt Cain and Aaron Rowand. All Hunter wanted to do was run around the outfield and he was in his glory. Random people were stopping to take his picture because he had on his Giant's beenie and jersey while he frolicked. For a second I dared to dream of him running into the alley to bring home a ball in a real game on that field. The sun was shining brightly by then.

Earlier in the winter we also procured a signed water bottle from Olympic medalist and local cycling hero Levi Leipheimer, the second piece of memorbilia personallized specifically for Hunter. That evening Rayne Droplet and I went out to a wonderful benefit overlooking the bay in Strawberry. Spectacular evening.

I wonder through all the chasing of the souvenirs if I will even care ten years down the line, or twenty, or in memoriam because the memories and traditions being carved are certainly more cherished than any piece of memorbilia.

Upside Down Cake

Ok, it has been awhile... Just enough time to reflect about how much Hunter has grown since his first birthday. It seems like only a few short months ago. Oh wait, it was...


For Hunter's first birthday, I was expecting something momentous. I remember that his cousin starting walking on her first birthday, for instance, and since he had been walking for some time by then, I thought maybe he and I would go toss around a football, or something, like I used to do on my birthday.

So many of my memories of my birthdays when I was a kid revolve around football, as the Super Bowl used to be played on my birthday. Every seven years the Niners would beat Cincinnati. I remember one epic birthday where people were invited based on whether or not I wanted them on my team. Or if I thought you would make a nice patsy for the birthday drubbing, you also might get a coveted invite. Like the Niners, I always won the big game on my birthday.

Later, we continued the drubbings by engaging in the age old UCSB tradition of mud-slosh-football (don't believe me, listen to Jack Johnson...). During one of those friendly games, I separated my shoulder abruptly tearing a thirteen, fourteen year tradition at its joint. Trying to tackle Raf was like shooting myself naked out of hot cannon at point blank range into a sharp, brick wall. I remember the last time I tried, laying there as he was dancing in the end zone after stomping on me, the unwanted bug on the kitchen floor, and upon seeing my arm spool behind me as if it were extra yarn on a knitting needle, I began asking everyone, how do you know if your shoulder is separated? The best part was walking myself to the hospital because no one wanted to end the game. Next time I invite Raf to my party, he'll be put on my team.

So anyway, I thought Hunter and I might play catch. Rayne Droplet still doesn't even really think I know how to throw a football, as she was almost in shock that Thanksgiving in South Dakota when I threw a perfect spiral. At least when I played "quarterback" I actually quarterbacked, and THREW the ball to someone. As opposed to handing it off to the one real player on the team like she did to win her powder puff chicklet league when she was in at Davis. The entire opposing team ran after the one good girl she faked it to, leaving her alone to carry the ball into the end zone to win the game and now she thinks she's John Elway.

Something momentous did happen on the birthday; it was quite fun. We had many people show up to my parent's house and we were able to enjoy two of Hunter's favorites: pizza and beer. The white sun was shining brightly on Mount Tam in the background and just about everyone came baring gifts for our little man. We sat on the deck and laughed and imbibed and genuinely soaked up a perfect summer day. Heather and Gina decorated festively with sporty attire while the food and music were perfect. The highlight came when Hunter ate cake. Or rather, the floor ate cake.

The poor little guy was propped up in a chair in front of everyone and given his own little cake to eat. He usually is a great little show-pony, performing tricks and offering a friendly smile to anyone. But here, he sat confused for a second. Since he has never had cake before he did not know what to do, so he stared at it for a while. After some urging, he poked at it for minute, getting some frosting on his finger. Eventually a bit made into his palm. Heather had the wherewithal to get some paper placed on the floor beneath him while he was staring at the white frosting on the yellow plastic tabletop in front of him.

Luckily, too, because he suddenly reached up, grabbed the cake in the middle, squashing it into two large mushy pieces. Then he heaved both halves onto the floor to his left. The side opposite the carefully placed blue napkins. Upside down cake indeed.

Seeing him now, he has grown so much. Today he would eat that cake. Or fling many pieces around the house, showing off his great arm. On that day, he gently toppled over the cake barely reaching the side next to him. Today he would splatter the roof.

And at least once a day he stares at the door where the dog balls are kept and looks at me and says "ball, ball" hoping I will go play catch with him.

Rocky Mountains? Hi!

The first trip I took to Colorado, I remember as being a fun trip to Reno. And a miracle.

I think I had been to Colorado with my parents when I was little, but who can recall that? However, I did drive through Colorado when I was just out of college near the closing of a cross-country trip to visit a friend of mine who was graduating from Brown University. So my buddy Raf and I crammed into my junkie car (yeah, it sounded like a good idea at the time, I mean he is only like 6 foot 4 and really picky about everything...) and we drove three thousand miles to Rhode Island, via Florida. And I returned home, alone, via the Rockies.

Now this has nothing to do with Raf, though he is a notoriously awful travel companion - think Pig Pen who has to mooch everything - I just simply wanted to see different parts of the country and so he returned with another group of people. I, however, almost did not return, which brings me back to my story.

Nearly at the end of my trip, feeling the haze one might when on a "trip" from the hundreds of miles of oceanic nothingness that is space between Utah and Reno, my car died. Now I had previously broken down in Wyoming, something about a fan belt, but I grabbed a bucket of water, not wanting to wait the week it would take to get the part, and headed west. Like the great pioneers of yore, off I wandered towards the sunset, nothing but open sky and a dirty windshield in front of me. I made all the way to Elco (Elk? oh?) Nevada and plop, plop fizz fizz went the fan belt thing.

So there I was stuck on the side of the road. In Elco, a one exit town and I had just passed the exit. I could hear the tumble weeds and carrion birds. With no prospects, I was stuck, until a miracle pulled up. By "miracle" I mean a convict with a trailer who towed me to Reno. Some dude who was on his way to jail swung by with a trailer he needed because he had to tow his car out of impound before they locked him up. This guy was as you imagine, tatoos, tight jeans, big boots, rolled up arm sleeves and a dog named "Stoli". As is the vodka. Into his car I went. The same car he used to ram into people during a fight. Dents still in the hood. He was on his way to jail and if I had died 10 minutes later I never would have met him. And he was the nicest guy I ever met. Thus,... miracle. A little like the miracle at the end of the Mel Brooks' "History of the World" minus the cute girl and white horse...but a miracle none-the-less.

The ultimate spin on the Wheel of Fortune it turns out. He dropped me off at the Hyatt after dropping my car off at the dealership. He even bought me dinner and refused any payment I offered him. I gambled and won I guess.

But now my memory will be of a different miracle. Hunter, Heather and I enjoyed a wonderful trip to Colorado visiting his god-mommy and her family. They graciously put us up in their beautiful home and let Hunter play with all of their toys. We went to Casa Bonita of South Park fame - who knew it was a real place?- and we even went to a Rockies game where we marveled at the spot Bonds hit a legendary home-run above the purple mile high line.

My highlight, of course, will not be our visitation of the Moots factory, (where Heather let me by something fun) though I did bow and kneel before the appropriate places upon entrance, nor will it be our trip to Steamboat Springs in general, where we thoroughly enjoyed the outdoors and the beautiful little mountain town. Fun, but not quite the fun of learning about Rayne Droplet's early life in Colorado... the pizza places, the snooping, all of it.

No, of course the highlight is that now Heather and I have our own miracle to share together on our first family trip to Colorado.

Hunter/Destroyer

My grandfather passed down his fix-it gene to my brother, but I have Heather Jean. Well when I say "fix" it, especially in my brother's case, it is probably more accurate to think of a mix between McGuyver and the professor on Gilligan's Island, you know the one who could rig a bike to a coconut and make a power generator to electrify the whole island, but could not fix the tiny hole in the boat. Or perhaps Doc Brown, before the Flux Capacitor. Of course, as I said, I am not one to talk, because any handy-me-downs to Hunter will have to come from his mom.

That is not to say I was not shown how to fix things, I can fix a mean Martini with olive-- shaken correctly-- for instance, but I am not really into fixing broken things.

Oh, now don't get me wrong, I can fix a flat on my bike, say, but I would rather have my brother do it. And in our house, in preparation for Hunter's arrival, Heather and I worked to make his room nice and all, but she has put in all the baby-safe locks around the house and fashioned the Baby Gate at the top of stairs that required a wood fastener when we had only metal on which to fasten.

My brother, though, he can fix anything. Especially if you don't care if it ever functions the way it was supposed to function before. Yeah, I fixed the toaster! And now you have that automatic espresso maker you always wanted! And really especially if you don't mind a little duct tape and fishing string. Actually he has saved me countless times, always there with his Leatherman or bike tools. He lives by the Boy Scout credo, to be sure, prepared for anything. My grandfather was an inventor, and electrical engineer and fitterer, always fittering around somewhere trying to fix something and I saw my brother paying attention.

Since I got none of that Rube Goldberg ingenuity, I wonder how Hunter will be with that stuff. I see him now, teetering over to his book shelf to pull down his books, turn the pages and explore. So I know, at least, he will be curious, hopefully his mom can pass down the fix it skills. I can pass him the football, or fantasy sports advice, but don't ask me how to put his newest climbing toy together.

It is all very clear to me now, when I see him destroying things, where he gets certain skills. He is never faster than when he tears after the dog's bowl so he can topple it over and watch the water spill out. And, we have a new coffee table because he etched his autograph in the old one. Or, sometimes when I am in his room playing with him, I will frequently build a tower from his blocks, secretly growing more proud of my accomplishment with every new level, when, like a shot, he flies over and knocks over the tower and laughs.

I think his Tasmanian skills are most represented by his meals, when all that is left is a flourish of dust and shrapnel and shards of flesh and bread. Babies try to eat everything, so we give him everything to eat. Rice, beans and blueberries are good. So too are yogurt, chicken, Gold Fish and Cheerios. What a wonderful rainbow is left in his high chair for the dog to clean after we pick him up. If only the dog could come with us to restaurants as well. Recently we went out to dinner and I stayed late and tipped big, cleaning the floor under our table was like trying to clean spilled oatmeal with a fork. While eating that meal, though, we were so proud because he was able to color with crayons, understanding how to hold them correctly and everything.

So, when he gouges a hole inside my nose making me bleed or knocks a potted plant to the ground, I don't run for the Crazy Glue, look for some twine and duct tape, or even scold him for carelessness. Even though his mother might have nurtured this particular plant for years, I don't think to repair the damage. I get the camera and proudly take pictures of the Handy-work of my beautiful baby boy.


Below is the latest video of Hunter/Destroyer:

Signing Bonus

One of the bummers of working this summer has been missing a number of activities that had become, if not traditional, then certainly, part of our routine. With less time comes more prioritizing, so while some of these habits have been altered with the arrival of Hunter some things have taken on greater meaning as they are helping form his background. One of the things we have started doing the last few years is create a memorabilia collection and because of that Hunter has been experiencing new variations of stalking. He is like a mini paparazzo already.

I am not sure where I caught the bug for collecting autographs and collectible souvenirs but I know much of it had to do with chasing Lance Armstrong around the world. The first time I saw him, I safely admired from afar, as he raced in the colorful Postal kit in the streets of France. A huge part of the cycling fan experience is chasing all the free mementos and roadside treats. It is the closeness of the athletes to the fan that is the main attraction. And I picked up all the candy and certainly drank the Cool-Aid, Jim Jones style, feeling more than a little entitled to encroach personal space while chasing a souvenir.

On that first trip we met some savory characters who had slept in their tiny Euro car in the hotel parking lot where the US Postal Service Cycling Team was staying and managed to have their pictures taken with the icon himself the next morning. I thought that was cool, to the point where we some how found ourselves on a couch in the tiny lobby of the new hotel in which the team was staying. Truthfully the whole thing felt awkward, poor Heather would have crawled into the couch cushions for shame if she could, but I was set on meeting the man.

We sat in that little hotel, in a remote non-toursity part of France, as long as we could, knowing we were not allowed. We tried to blend in, but something about the four of us gave away our intentions. I am not sure exactly what it was. It could have been the stench of replica Postal Team jersey the guy Heather and I dubbed "Mike Myers" was wearing. This thing had practically melded with the original skin of the man, forming a new smelly exo-dermis primed for stalking. (Of course this being France, the stench, oh never mind, too cliche.) Because of his quirkiness and odd resemblance to the "Wayne's World"/"Shrek" guru, I listened intently to his stories of sleeping in the back of the car filled with road signs and other schwag that he was going to bring home to add to the decor of his home which had been built into a mini Tour de France shrine, complete, somehow, with multi-stage venues.

Still, it did not seem weird to us (me?). Sitting in a foreign hotel, stepping deftly past the HUGE sign strictly forbidding anyone who was not a registered guest (written in perfect English), next to Mike Myers and his companion, a small, loud talking, one-legged cancer survivor wearing a giant, bright Yellow US Postal t-shirt that had not been washed for weeks, was just part of the Fan Experience I told myself. So I was angered when they came to remove us. I wondered what gave us away. I guessed it was because Heather was carrying two huge bags emblazoned with the Tour de France logo or that maybe she had been spotted in the lobby after hours of loitering. As they were removing us, of course, Lance walked by. I saw him, looked him dead in the eye. And froze. And then we were kicked out.

From that point I have taken on a new mission when meeting my heroes. I was going to get what I came for. So, I was so cool when I finally came close to Armstrong again, all the way in the foreign streets of San Francisco, where I shook his hand and took some pictures. Never-mind that I had no means for an autograph.

If that is the rationale for this new irrational hobby, my penchant for collecting clearly came from my baseball card collecting days. Kids in the 80's had to entertain themselves so, for me, baseball cards were the video games of our times until Video Game Arcades and Atari were invented anyway. During that time I could be found in the dark light of my room shuffling through cards and organizing them in a new way every night. So I guess this new form of collecting taps into that part of my childhood. And, that, perhaps is why I am dragging poor Hunter all around collecting autographs of local athletes.

This summer, besides the Hunter ball we secured, we have already been out to Candlestick Park getting signatures from coach Mike Nolan, Joe Staley and Justin Smith, three very important 49ers. And we met Matt Cain, the venerable Giant in the Downtown Macy's basement, where Hunter also met Lou Seal.

Though he is too small to appreciate any of this, I know he knows. I know he is picking up on the vibe, the tradition, the atmosphere so that someday he will not be intimidated by greatness, nor even chasing greatness, but rather achieving greatness in part because of learning good habits of family bonding and being raised correctly.


And for those who are tired of my Athlete Worship and worry for my son, I have made a new movie of Hunter incorporating months 5-8 (he just turned 9 months), where not only has he started his own memorabilia collection but he will be walking soon because he has crawled and climbed over everything in the house. Enjoy. (There is faint music in the background).

Caution - High Tide

There was once a period of time when I did not much like to swim, a time as far back as even two days ago, for instance. I grew up with a dad who was attracted to bodies of water like Norm to Cheers. Because of his affinity for most things maritime we often vacationed in places like Mexico and frequented the Post-Card Pretty like Santa Barbara or Tahoe. Still, while I always appreciated the water, I never really liked to swim so it is weird that I have enjoyed the pool so much lately.

Many of my early memories of swimming involved narrow defeats of death, like the time I was at the local pool across the street from my uncle's house with a pool and I went to take a nice refreshing sip of Coke and got lanced by a bee which had wandered under the lid only to sting me in the lip when trying to flee. My brother must be reading this because I can still hear his stinging laughter.

And then there was the time the family went rafting with friends and the kids were told not get out of the boat because there was a "bottomless pit" underneath. So there I was, singeing to side of the metal boat, searing in the 100 degree heat but refusing to get out of the boat even as everyone else swam around. (On a related note, this reminds me of the time my sister-in-law skinned her chin and knees clanking off the side of the boat when Maggie fell in the "water", but I won't tell that again.)

And of course, there was the time when I was much older and went to visit El Salvador after my grandma died and got in a fight with a rock and rip-tide, and almost got tapped out. That is not a story to retell now, because it would take way too long... but let's just say I was warned before I went into the water and almost never came out. It was one of those moments everyone must go through to prove their mortality, I guess. I mean everyone stands on a shore in an unfamiliar country, with family they have only met moments before, spends exactly two seconds pondering the current only to jump in immediately after being warned of the legendary danger brought by that break, right? Gabriel Garcia Marquez could not have written a more sublime, ridiculous moment. But he would just say I was stupid.

But none of these moments are the exact reason why I don't like swimming. Really, I can't say what is. Maybe it was the mandatory swim class we all had to take in high school where the girls were allowed to wear whatever suits they wanted. I mean, who could learn to swim in those circumstances? During high school I also spent a ton of time skipping class at the beach, and spent plenty of time boogie boarding or trying to surf. I love the sun and the beach and the inherent life-style. I guess I just never got the call the way Rayne Droplet did, say, when she steps up deck-side on a lake somewhere and enjoys a morning B - (She told me not say that is slang for "Bud Lite" for fear it would give the wrong impression. I said it makes her cooler. And besides she tried to make me swim in jelly-fish infested water in Mexico!).

I guess this is why I have never done any triathlons. Shawn and Heather's recent dolphin acts seemed to only reinforce how much I like to stay on shore, unless I need to cool off. Certainly, the competitor in me wanted to join them in their recent tri's but the preceding open swim in the local slew slushing through flotsam, jetsam and detritus confirmed what I already did not want to do. (Though Shawn's wrong turn was certainly inspirational in the "funny" way.)

Anyway, recently my enjoyment has changed due to how much Hunter really seems to love the pool. He is fearless, I guess, because he has been pushing physical limits since before he was born, and the pool is perhaps a new vehicle for him to drive to the limits. He has ridden every bouncy chair, crawled up every stair and tried to climb every dresser and book shelf in the house, so maybe he just wanted something new to explore. There is a certain freedom and exhilaration involved in playing in a pool when you are kid, for sure. But this is more than that, I think he loves discovering. The joy and outright giddiness in his laughter while in the pool has been matched only by his magic sleigh ride in the snow. And there is a certain amount of danger involved in each, which should be concerning but instead is a familiar feeling.

Watching him reach out and jump off the side of the pool, or stand on the second step, or do a pull-up over the edge, or kick his legs and splash around joyfully and without any regard for his youth is so wonderful I can almost ignore the Dork Hat his mom makes him wear. She is right, his almost translucent white skin needs to be protected from the sun, but still. At least from under that hat emerges a boundless joy. The smile on his face as he carelessly splashes around or lowers his face into the water is surreal.

It's the look that at once says What's That and Let Me Have That with raised eye-brows and is often accompanied by an O-shaped mouth and curious noise. He does this when he sees things he cannot have like the dog dish, his mom's computer, all the electrical cords, kitchen knives or whatever else he can get his little fingers on. You place him away, at a nearby table say and he gives a grin and a little slap on the table while he searches for something new with which to play.

So I wonder if he will grow into loving swimming, or ever learn boundaries, or fear fearful things and then I wonder if I want him to learn those things, or at least, when. The newness seen in his face as he crooks his head slightly and gets wide-eyed when looking at something he does not recognize, I hope never goes away.



And maybe someday, on vacation, he will swim like a dolphin with not a care in the world, heeding all warnings, except those to maybe to stop exploring.