No Sing, Mama, No Sing!

And with that, we have what is more than Hunter's first real sentence, as much as it is his first real plea to the world. And, maybe the first sign of baby/daddy solidarity. Because while we all agree Hunter is the only one who should be singing in our house, Rayne Droplet is a wonderful mother and beautiful wife, but she is now convinced she just might be bad enough to be on American Idol. And this is where Hunter and I agree because she is not.

A guilty admission of mine has been that I have allowed Heather to force me to watch American Idol, as I certainly don't really enjoy the the show. Although, ever since I picked two straight winners from the Audition episodes, I feel like I am a bit of seasoned judge myself. I mean I know a dawg when I see one, and when things sound a little pitchy. (Don't get me started on those bogus voter numbers they claim, or try to sell me the idea that America chooses...). Anyway, since we have begun watching the show together, it has been a great saying around the house that Heather is not a bad enough singer to get on American Idol. She can sing OK. Not (real first season winner) Tamyra Gray good. But not train wreck bad either. Thus, not bad enough to be on American Idol.

I feel for Hunter in that regard. Anyone who was at our wedding can recall how musically talented my uncle is. And my grandmother, too, of course. In fact, anyone who was at our wedding would be hit in the face, by my grandmother, if they did not remark to my grandmother -after her show stealing serenade- that she was obviously responsible for ALL his talent, (and for the whole wedding for that matter if you asked her but that is another blog for another day).

And then there is my mom. Also not bad enough to be on American Idol (but certainly young enough!). She is convinced that she sings Queen songs better than Freddie Mercury. Not that she has a better style or more charisma, because that would be ridiculous. Nope, she is convinced her voice sounds better than his. That she is a better singer. Again, I say, not bad enough to be on American Idol.

If you follow along below, you will see Hunter's American Idol Audition video comprised of such international megahits, as Itsy Bitsy Spider, and the Elmo's World theme song. And I must say he puts his own spin on it. The non-partisan judge in me says he makes these very familiar songs "his own" in a way that would certainly impress David Cook, who is falsely given credit for being the Idol to mix up songs, when Daughtry was really the first guy to do that.

So I wonder, as I watch him continue to develop athletic skills, and keep things organized, what skills beyond those of his parents will he develop? I mean we know where he gets his great looks and wonderful personality. And we also know where his sarcasm comes from. Sarcasm, you say? Yeah sarcasm, in a barely 21 month old.

A short story long, it is my blog after all... we were getting some Frozen Yogurt and Hunter had been blazing up and down the corridors, obviously inspired by my recent Dipsea Race, all the while yelling RUN! FAST! RUN! FAST! Well, we finally make it over to the yogurt place and the line is huge and now we are butting against that frozen time in the afternoon where if he is in the car too long he will fall asleep and ruin his sleep pattern for the night, so I actually am in a hurry to get him home, as we had a bit of a drive in front of us. So I pick him up, but he is too squirmy and the yogurt too cold to handle all at once, so I plea with him a couple times to get down and RUN! FAST! To which he coldly replied, NO. So finally I put him down and tell him has to run fast to the car. So he looks at me, gets on his hands and knees and starts to crawl slowly, saying, FAST! FAST! And when I picked him up he was laughing... And I was a proud papa.

Which explains how he always knows at exactly which note to look at his mom with the glint in his eye and smile on his face and say, NO SING, MAMA, NO SING.

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).