Forse si, forse no

"This bread was made for my mouth."

That's what my mother said as she chewed the soft, meltaway foccacia bread at La Strada last Friday. Then the soup arrived, pastini in a light tomato broth laced with garlic, and it was the kind of soup that makes you feel more alive, healthier and ready to take on the world.

(What? You doubt the power of soup? Read The Tale of Despereaux, preferably aloud.)

Cyril and I glanced at each other, silently agreeing that the great start to our meal was a good omen.The perfect time to pop the question?

No, not yet. We were having such a good time, and what if she said no? Mom was in great spirits, spunky even. Good bread, good soup, chatting and joking over lunch: these simple pleasures had her light blue eyes dancing, and you'd have thought she was going on 17, not 70.

Our ravioli came, and it was just right, too. Mom declared it delicious, and my clever brother said, "Yes, but not quite as, um, authentic as it could be."

I waved off the sign. Had to preface the giving of The Envelope a bit more concretely.

"So, Mum," I said, "We can consider this the official beginning of your birthday celebration. Your birthday can start now. We can, you know -- "

I kept talking, but I don't know what I said. I was really nervous, fumbling around in my bag for The Envelope and finally catching hold of it.

"So here," I said, tossing it across the table to her.

"What's this?" she said, eyes darting from me to Cyril and back again. We grinned like idiots.

"A card," I said.

She opened it up. "Happy birthday," she read, "Please say yes. 'Please say yes?'"

We watched expectantly as she unfolded the two sheets of paper I'd shoved into the envelope with the card. "What's this? What is this?" she asked. Anxiously expectant, cautiously excited, she looked to us for an explanation but we just pointed her to the papers, a decsription of the trip I'd printed out from the tour group's website.

She read a bit, tried to decipher what it all meant. That we wanted to send her to Italy was taking some time to sink in. She looked up at us and smiled.

"It's a trip," I said, "for you. And one of us will go with you, me or Laura or Cyril, or whoever you want, really. You can say no if you really want to, but we hope you'll say yes."

"This is why you keep talking about Italy!? You've been planning this?"

More grinning like idiots. We babbled about the trip, and how we hadn't put a deposit down yet, and how happy we'd be if she went, and how much we thought she'd love it. I still thought she might say, "Thanks, kids, but I couldn't possibly."

Instead, she looked at us as if she really, really liked us, and said, "Maybe I will!"

Stay tuned for further developments...

Introducing... Top Ten Tuesday

Introducing a new, hopefully regular feature of my blog: Top Ten Tuesday. My hope is that it will encourage you legions of readers to fire back your own Top Tens on the week’s chosen topic.

Don’t email me, though, post a comment. I’m trying to build a community here, eh?

I’m calling it Top Ten Tuesday because, as Caiman says, “Don’t hate, alliterate.” (Yes, he really does.) But... "Top" will mean "top of mind," not ultimate, indelible, forever ranked; and "Ten" may really mean three, five, 12, etc.

Now... on to our first Top Ten (or 12).

Fondest Memories/Most Defining Moments of 1989
Why? Because today I had lunch with my long-lost friend Adam, who figured prominently in the formative happenings of that year.

Here, in chronological order, are my strongest recollections of 1989, the year after graduating from Cal with a B.A. in film studies and no idea what to do next:

1. New Year's Eve, 1988/89 - following Juliana and Jonathan around the Haight with Rick, drinking vodka mixed with anything and vascillating from party-high to swells of loneliness and back again.
   


2. Living in the Fulton Street house with Megan, with it's sticky, subterranean kitchen, funeral parlor living room and, luckily, our bright and cheery bedrooms on the top floor.
   
   
3. Seeing local bands (including Adam's band, the McGuires) at the Paradise Lounge, the Albion and El Rio, and crushing on guitar players.
   
   
4. Writing a script called Rum and Donuts with Adam, after noticing the sidewalk sparkling at 2 a.m. one night in SOMA and dreaming up a new Wizard of Oz, about a girl on a quest to meet her rock-n-roll hero.
   
   
5. Hours in the darkroom developing "artsy" photos and band pics (I never got good at photography, but the darkroom sure was a nice place to be).
   
   
6. At Adam's suggestion... being a bike messenger. Flying through traffic in San Francisco, dashing in and out of elevators, racing Muni buses and the clock to file court documents before 5:00, hunkering down with a cup of coffee on cold days, lying in the sun in Washington Square on warm days.
   
   Oh, and listening to that sexy voice on my walkie talkie all day long. My dispatcher. Some guy named Hugh.
   
   
7. A hot day in the Financial District, stopping at a light on Battery Street. Sweaty, grimy, hot, and suddenly a flash of ice cold on my neck. I turn around and Hugh has pulled up on his RZ, and holds a cold can against my neck. He grins. I laugh. He's kind of cute.
   
   
8. April 21, 1989, the Original Sushi Day. Spontaneous sushi -- and copious sake -- with a gaggle of bike messengers after work. I agree to let Hugh drive me home in his ugly truck-car (his beloved '71 Ranchero). And so begins our life together.
   
   
9. Riding my first motorcycle, a Seca 400, which I get for a song because it's been rear-ended and the seat and tail are bent into an almost vertical line. In under an hour, Hugh and Joe Pethoud have it back in shape, and I'm on my way to the City College parking lot for my first lesson.
   
   
10. Sequoia with Hugh - One small cabin, one acoustic guitar, many giant ants.
    
    
11. The earthquake (October 17, 1989, 5:04 pm) and it's aftermath... sitting on the powdery sidewalk by my bike in the near-deserted City, waiting & waiting for a call on the radio.
    
    
12. New Year's Eve, 1989/90 - watching Cary Grant movies with Hugh on my family's living room couch in Chula Vista, comfy, cozy and not lonely in the least.

What are your top memories of 1989 -- or of your own particular milestone year? Click "comments" below to share your list!

Rest in peace, Shooter

Rod Beck, now he was a Giant. I don't care how great a player is, I'm not going to love him unless he has heart. My guys are the ones who wear their love of baseball right there on their sleeves, who give it everything they've got every time out, who know the meaning of TEAM.

Rod Beck was one of the reasons I fell in love with the Giants. Fell hard enough that my Red Sox fanatacism faded into a sort of nostalgic fondness, the whole American League became secondary to me, and my Padres fandom never really got past the flirtation stage. Those early '90s Giants -- Kevin Mitchell, Matt Williams, Robby Thompson, Will Clark... and Beck -- made Hugh's job of converting me into a Giants fan pretty darn easy. There was also some guy named Barry Bonds, but I was always much more taken with the gutsy, down-to-earth guys. Rod Beck was one of those guys, and then some; he was a great entertainer and, so they say, a good ol' boy who welcomed everyone to his party.

He also had the nerves (and the fastball) to be a great closer. Cue the ninth inning ovation!

Whatever demons plagued you, Shooter, I hope they're extinguished now. Rest in peace. Or, if all is right with the world and heaven's like Field of Dreams, get out on the mound where you belong and kick some ass.

Will she say yes? Oy, my nerves!

Today, at a specially-planned lunch at a quaint, family-style Italian restaurant, we're going to pop the big question. Will Mom accept a trip to Italy as a 70th birthday present from me and my brother Cyril?

I wrote a whole post recently about my Dad without ever mentioning the near-constant twinkle in his eye or his clever but kind sense of humor. I mention them now because they make this story more believable:

Mom and Dad spent their entire parenting lives doing the safe, responsible thing. My dad never made a ton of money or invested any of it wisely, but there was always a roof over our head, plenty of food, and a breathtaking pile of Christmas presents under the tree every year. (Hugh just won't let me forget that some of those presents were things like shampoo and toothpaste, which he discovered when he spent Christmas with my family at the tail end of 1990. Well, how do you think you create a breathtaking pile of presents when you have six kids and not a lot of money??)

So, yes, sensible parents. You'd expect them to move into a smaller house when all the kids had left the nest, or maybe to keep the family house and have guest rooms ready so we could visit on a whim.

But that's not what they did. They sold the house, and used the profit to buy an RV, which they promptly christened the GinJak (they are Ginger and Jack). It became their one and only residence, and they traveled all over the country in that thing. Every place they went, they'd pop out the "porch" and settle in, meeting the neighbors and inviting the nearest friends and relatives to come visit. They learned from other RV'ers to take pride in being "full-timers," and to gently scoff at the "part-timers" who went back to their real homes between trips.

Dad's eyes twinkled more than ever, Mom seemed healthier than she had in years. And they were so goofy in love that they even claimed to enjoy bickering. They made up a theme song to the tune of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" that began: "In the GinJak, the mighty GinJak..."

It was a grand.

...These days, Mom is settled into a senior housing apartment 10 or 15 minutes from us, where she's comfortable inside but doesn't venture out into the common areas.

I know she misses my father every single day, but I think she also misses the sense of adventure they had in the GinJak days. It was adventure rooted in routine and relaxation, but an adventure nonetheless.

One day, I asked her where in the world she'd most like to visit. The way her eyes lit up surprised me, and so did her answer. "Italy." She glowed, the way she does when she tells stories about coming out to live in San Francisco with a couple of girlfriends at 17 after living in Maynard, Mass all her life.

Italy.

I couldn't stop thinking about it, and her 70th birthday is coming up this 4th of July. Are there reasons not to do it? She has COPD and gets out of breath just walking; her knees are shot through with arthritis; she gets anxious around strangers. But, ooh, she's been dreaming of Italy, and she loves wine and good food and has never been outside the United States.

I found a tour that I think sounds perfect. (Check out Tuscany Tours!)

I got Hugh's okay to put equity money toward the trip.

I got Cyril to split the cost. (That was easy. He's into it, and has stayed enthusiastic when I've thought about giving up on the crazy idea. Thanks, little bro!)

This week I went to the doctor with Mom and he said, yes, it was a good idea to start exercising more so she can walk a little further. And that when she walks and gets out of breath, all she had to do was take a break or slow down. And that it's okay to fly.

Our sister Laura -- whose appreciation of wine and relaxation are the perfect match for mom's -- might even go with her, saving Hugh from being left with the kids for a week.

But what's she going to say? Cyril and I are asking now instead of surprising her on her birthday so there won't be too much pressure. But ooh, I really feel like I'm proposing, and I'm nervous.

Please... say yes!

Moment of silence

Our street is a "U," our front door spills out onto one street; our back gate faces onto another. By yesterday afternoon, there was a makeshift memorial on the porch steps of a house across from our back gate, a few houses up.

I'd seen the headlines: family of four shot and killed in Tilden Park, a murder-suicide. The kind of story I try hard not to think about -- there are so many in the news and what can you do? Thinking about it hurts.

But this turned out to be too close to home to ignore. I didn't know the family, can't even recall having seen the little girls (how insular we are these days), but the older one was a classmate of two boys on Eli's baseball team. Too close not to think about, and now I can't get it out of my head, can't stop thinking, "Six years old. Eight years old. Mother, their mother." And him... what kind of devil possessed him, and how?

I don't want to imagine details but I can't stop. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry, and I am not counting any blessings today.

Nikki Morrissey, 8
Elena Morrissey, 6
Dr. Mamiko Kawai, 40
Kevin Morrissey, 51

I'm sorry.

In the bones

My childhood was rather Ozzie and Harriet. Dad worked, Mom didn't; Mom did the housework, Dad was the final word on discipline. And when Dad got home from work, he and Mom would have a gin and tonic, and then he would disappear behind the newspaper until dinner. We always ate together, and though I don’t remember these rules being laid out, we knew and (usually) obeyed them: no TV, no reading and no bickering allowed at the table. My mom cooked dinner and the kids – wait! I think it was only the girls! – took turns doing dishes.

This is how I remember it; my older siblings might tell a more accurate and/or more colorful story. But the point is, I don't remember having a lot of "quality time" with Dad built into our childhoods. I don't remember a lot of hugs and kisses. He didn't tell me he loved me a hundred times a day, like I do my kids. But I always knew he did, and I always felt safe and cared for.

Luckily for me, I was a tomboy, and that scored me some Dad time. He taught me to box -- what could be cooler than that? He showed me how to put my whole arm into a punch, and how to use a speed bag. He was always there for me through soccer, baseball, basketball, softball, one season of field hockey, and more soccer, soccer, soccer.

But here's the gyppy thing: my memory is terrible, and my most vivid childhood memories of dad are of the two times in my life that I was boiling mad at him.

The first is fourth or fifth grade. I've just had a basketball game, and we walk out of the gym into the parking lot at Blanchard Elementary School. It's icy, a freezing winter's day, but I'm burning hot from playing, my face red like a tomato, because that's how I get (still!) when I run around. Dad demands that I put on my jacket, and I protest that I am so, so, so hot. But he insists, and I have to do what he says, and I am furious and invoke the silent treatment.

In the second, I'm 13 and have just come straight from a softball game to the soccer practice where we're having our team picture taken. (Dad wasn't just a spectator, he coached several of my soccer teams leading up to high school. He even got my mom to share the job -- though she now now tells me it was pretty annoying, that she was relegated to chasing errant balls!) I have extreme hat hair -- sweaty, matted, shaped into a little flip by my softball cap -- but my father insists that I take off my hat for the picture, even though I won't match anyway because I'm wearing my softball shirt.


That's Mom on the far left, dad on the far right, and me next to him in the blue shirt. Am I mad or what?

I scored more dad time by working as a temp (a "Kelly Girl") at Dad's IBM office the summer after graduating from high school, and the next few summers, too. Now this was SOLO time with dad, a real treat!

It was the earliest I'd ever had to get up. I think we left the house at 6:45 every morning. Could that be right? I know it felt super early, and I distinctly remember the taste of the early morning San Diego air when we stepped out of the house and onto the pebbly walk to the driveway. Air that was still cool but promised hot.

We were quiet on the way out the door, and walked softly so we wouldn't disturb the hush of our suburban neighborhood. By the time we got in the car (the Camaro... he had one and then a second in the days after we no longer needed a station wagon), I was ready to burst. A chance to talk with my father! I'd launch into a typical a.m. ramble (one of my hallmarks, for better or worse), wanting to tell long stories about every little thing and ask Dad rapid-fire questions about life, the universe and everything.

Alas... Dad had been commuting to work in peace and quiet for 25 years by then. He enjoyed his radio news show (I only made one or two attempts to change the station before learning that was NOT okay); he enjoyed driving without talking. He did not, apparently, enjoy waking up to the world with a teenage girl chattering in his ear. Bummer.

But I got to be there at his side, riding shotgun, going to his other world with him. His job, where he spent 40+ hours a week, where he was not Dad (or even Honey, as Mom always called him), but Jack. Where he sat in an office and drank coffee and ... what? Wrote reports? I never did figure out exactly what he did. (Though I've a better idea now than I did then, having spent more time than I'd care to admit in corporate America.)

Jack had friends I'd never met before, and he was clearly well-liked and respected. I didn't see him much during the day -- we didn't even eat lunch together. (He rarely ate lunch at all. He'd eat nothing all day and then have a hearty dinner every night.) I'd take a break every day, ditching the mind-numbing work of a Kelly Girl to sit outside on the pavement in the sun with a sandwich and a notebook.

But we'd see each other in passing, and reunite every evening for the 20-minute ride home. We did this routine all summer long for three summers, and while it made me feel closer to him I didn't really get to know him better. He was a man of few words, and I've never been one to push people to open up. He'd take me out to lunch near the end of the summer, and then I'd head back to Berkeley. He'd hug me hello and goodbye whenever I visited home, but his hugs were never melty or expressive. They were just... friendly.

Many years later, though, something changed. I'm not sure when it happened exactly, or whether it was gradual or all of a sudden, but I first noticed it on a specific visit to San Luis Obispo sometime after he'd found out out he had cancer.

We pulled into the spot in front of Mom and Dad's place, and I hurried out of the car to meet them. Dad intercepted me at the foot of their porch steps. He took me in his arms and hugged me... how? Longer and tighter? Yes, but there was something more. Something that said he loved me more than he'd realized. Or maybe not that he loved me more, but that he loved me and had realized we're all mortal, that we only have each other for so long. I noted the difference, and I drank it in. My heart broke just a little, because the world suddenly seemed more fragile and more precious, but the stronger feeling was gratitude.

I can still feel that hug, the first of many like it. I can still feel it in my bones.

Thanks, Dad. And Happy Father's Day.

Presenting... the 2007 Albany Little League AA Champions!

That's right! A 2-0 win over the Indians, thanks largely to a huge triple by Elizjah and ace pitching by Theo. Here's Eli receiving his championship medal:

Thankful Friday: last day of school edition

Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there, with a special shout out to Bern and to Jen's dad, Bob. You are both in my thoughts.

My own dad is constantly on my mind these days, too. Too much so to write about right here, right now. (I feel a blog post coming. Okay, I'll admit it: it's halfway done and will be posted on Sunday.)

It's a gorgeous day here in the Bay Area. Hot (for Berkeley) and sunny, with big, baby blue skies. It looks something like this. >>>>>

I'm almost freakishly appreciative of good weather, especially if it also happens to be Friday and the weather's expected to extend through the weekend. And guess what? It is!

So thank god it's Friday, and hooray for sunshine & fresh air. It's going to be a great weekend. Eli's Yankees are in the Albany Little League championship game tomorrow, and on Sunday morning I get to play pickup soccer (before devoting the rest of the day, of course, to my kids' nominee for #1 dad in the universe, Hugh!). (And yes, I heartily second the nomination.)

I'm thankful that my beloved SF Giants finally get to play in Fenway Park, THE ballpark of my youth. I'm thankful for the 1970s Red Sox, who made it so easy to fall in love with baseball (Freddy Lynn, Rick Burleson, Yaz... where are you now?) and for the SF Giants of today, especially my hero, shortstop extraordinaire Omar Vizquel.

Yes, in case you're wondering... I'm rooting for the Giants this weekend. (Please, Grammy Tilly and kin, you've gotta understand. It happens, sometimes, when you move away at an impressionable age, and later on fall in love with a native San Franciscan and lifelong Giants fan.)

My boys are the underdogs here, they're in last place, for god's sake, but I'm not and never will be a fair weather fan. So please be kind, Red Sox nation, if they are crushed by Manny & co.

I'm thankful that today is the LAST DAY OF SCHOOL, and that summer is upon us, even though there's no summer break from my day-to-day cubicle life. My kids' excitement, the flurry and butterflies of starting camp, the long days and the smell of fresh cut grass; they all combine with my gut-level memories of last day rituals and the feel, when you're a kid, of summer days. The feel of the sun and sweat and salt on your skin; the feel of freedom deep inside. Aaah - a powerful brew, with a visceral effect on my mood and energy. I love summer!

And even here in cubicle land, I have things to be thankful for: today my friend and co-worker Radhika brought me a homemade lunch. I usually microwave a frozen lean cuisine or eat a cup of instant soup (just add boiling water) -- it's pretty pathetic. Not today! I'm thankful for Rad -- for bringing me lunch, and for being an all-around wonderful breath-of-fresh air kind of girl!

Finally, I'm thankful that I haven't been banned from Jen's network for being too long-winded. Believe it or not, this post started out as the SHORT email to Jen's network that would link to my Dabs post. But what's an incurable rambler to do?

Public apology from sulky secondbaseman

Last night I was so horrifed about ending our softball game (and season!) by grounding into a double play that I cleared my gear out of the dugout and sulked off to the car without a word to anyone.

If Eli behaved like that after a game, the car ride home would mean a heated lecture on sportsmanship and what it means to play on a team. But since it was me misbehaving, Eli was stuck listening to me curse under my breath from the back seat.

I've been a bad sport since the day I first donned cleats. Not the kind of bad sport that's rude to the other team or harps on teammates for making mistakes or flies into a rage at the ump. I'm the kind of bad sport that kicks up dirt when she makes an error, smashes things in the dugout with her bat after striking out (okay, I've never actually done that, but I've felt like doing it), and storms off the field like a big crybaby after having a bad game.

As the self-loathing over my crappy night at the plate and a booted grounder at second cooled last night, it was replaced by a creeping discomfort about my attitude. ("Your attitude is just as important as the plays you make, Eli.") Walking off the field like that just screamed that all I cared about was ME doing poorly, how badly it made ME feel, how little I cared about my teammates, when actually...

I love playing with the Smack Dabs! Hugh and I are so psyched to have lucked onto a team with such great people (with middle infield spots open, even). It was a great, fun season, thanks to the usual suspects and the new folks. And, geez, I get to see my long-lost Stephie every week now! What's a booted ball compared to that?

So... to get to my point: I'm sorry! We played a pretty good game last night, and in fact -- thanks to April's kickass homerun -- it would've been close if it weren't for that one inning from hell. It was a great season, and I want to thank every last Smack Dab for that. You guys are awesome!

And Eli, I want to apologize to you, too, and thank you for being your mom & dad's #1 fan (and batboy!). I'm sorry for acting like a big baby when I'm supposed to be the grownup. And for cussing! I love having you in the dugout, and I'll try to be a better example from now on. Like Daddy and I have told you, this game is 90% mental, and that includes how you behave before, during and after the game.

Maybe Stephie says it best, down & ready at first base and pointing at her skull, "All in the head! All in the head!" I'll try to remember that next season!

Is that a light I see at the end of this tunnel?

Mid-way through the afternoon on Monday I realized there was a message waiting on my cell phone. It was Caiman.

"Hi, um, Mummy? It's 10:30 and I just woke up a little while ago, and I realized it's Monday... and nobody woke me up. I wish you or Daddy would answer your phone."

We'd forgotten to wake up our 13-year-old and send him to school, I in my usual morning rush to get Eli and Kai out the door on time; Hugh with morning obligations that were different than his usual routine.

I should probably say a quick penance and then sweep this little incident under the rug. But I can't, because after the initial shock and guilt wore off I recognized something big for which I'm thankful:

Our kids are getting old enough that we can forget about them once in a while!

Just over a year ago, through a fost-adopt program, my friend Jonathan and his wife Nancy became parents without the benefit of the adjusting-to-the-idea period called pregnancy. And their bundle of joy was a double bundle: 14-month-old David and his 2-month-old sister, Trinity. Suddenly, they were immersed in all the tumult (and joy, of course, mustn't forget the joy) of parenthood...

A few days ago, Jonathan wrote to me: "Is raising kids ALWAYS going to be this hard? I'm exhausted always."

Can you feel it, parents, can you feel the pain. I can!

They're just so needy -- infants... toddlers... four-year-olds… even eight-year-olds sometimes. The demands of parenthood are virtually nonstop when your children are young. But as the months and years pass, two things happen:

1. You become used to it. Your normal state becomes one of exhausted readiness, and before long you can't even remember what not having children was like!

2. The kids grow up. They become gradually more capable and more independent, sometimes in invisibly small increments, other times seemingly overnight. And you observe things like this:

Taavi, newly out of diapers, running into the room and announcing frantically, “I need to pee!” Tired of the usual routine where I accompany him to the bathroom, help him tug his pants down, and praise his aim, I try something new.

“So go pee,” I say.

“Okay!” And he does an about face, scampers off to the bathroom, and takes care of business all by himself.

Thank you, Taavi!

~~~

Kai -- who was diagnosed with selective mutism during preschool because she wouldn’t utter a single word in class -- skipping down the hallway in kindergarten to a chorus of cheerful greetings, calling back her hellos without reservation.

Somehow, she'd decided not to be The Girl Who Doesn’t Talk anymore, and the whole world fell in love with her. And why not? She is boisterous and funny and smart and a kick-ass monkey bar champion.

Kai, my one and only girl, I am so proud of you!

~~~

We live four blocks from a small grocery store, and we’ve been sending Caiman there for milk or bread since he was 10 or so. Being the second-born, Eli started his solo trips earlier, around the time he turned eight. My heart sits right in my throat while he’s gone, but I try not to show it.

Juliana was over the other day when we sent him, and she was afraid for him.

“Oh, it’s fine,” I assured her.

“But there are so many crazy people out there."

“Think about the things you did on your own when you were eight,” I reasoned. “There aren’t more crazy people now, there’s just more sensational media coverage when something bad happens.”

I was so calm, so rational. And so relieved when Eli returned with the milk and, his reward, a bottle of soda.

Last night he went again, for milk and brown rice. It was starting to feel like he'd been gone too long, but I played it cool. Until 7:20, that is, when Hugh said, “Eli should be home by now. The store closed 20 minutes ago.”

I was out the door in seconds, speed-walking down the sidewalk. Barring bad thoughts, absolutely, and falling into an easy jog. I willed him to appear, but arrived at the store without seeing him.

Hugh had been wrong: the store was still open. I quizzed the cashiers. “Was there a kid in here, this big? Long hair, blue eyes?” They told me he’d come and gone about 15 minutes ago.

I considered stopping at Magnus’s house, which was en route and the only possible place he would have stopped. I planned what I would say, and how severely. “You can’t stop and play when we’re expecting you back! Don’t – you -- ever…”

No, check at home first. Get Hugh and the car or bike. Call the police? Bar the bad thoughts, be calm, of course he's at home, geez.

I ran in the back gate, rushed in the back door and called, “Is he here?”

I heard no response, and felt a wave of adrenalin-laced panic building, churning deep in my gut. “Is he here?” I called, louder and shaky.

“Yes,” Hugh answered, “he’s right here.”

I bounded up the stairs. Eli was sitting on the couch with Hugh, that golden brown skin, that hair, those eyes, his slim, confident self.

“You okay?” Hugh asked.

Everything was very normal, but I felt vaguely dazed and disoriented. The laundry I’d been folding before bolting out the back door was still there on the table. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I picked up a shirt and shook it out.

Eli got up and came over to me. He hugged me around the waist. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” he said, “I went around the front, and it took me a long time. It was really heavy and I had to go really slow.” He mimicked carrying a heavy bag, looked at me with those Eli eyes. Nobody has eyes as light and bright blue as my Eli.

My Eli, who can go to the store by himself, and even remember to get the short-grain brown rice, and can lug the milk and rice and soda home, and not be abducted by all those crazy people out there. Thank god for that!

~~~

And Caiman, shoot, this whole ridiculously long post started with him. This boy watches the other three for us all the time now, so often that we’re probably breaking some child labor law. “Caiman, we’re going to softball. You better have those kids in bed before we get home!”

All year long, he’s been getting himself to school (better late than never?), getting himself to swimming after school, coming home on his own. He does or doesn’t do his homework according to his own will, succeeds or fails at school on his own, and next week, he graduates from middle school. My Caiman is going to be in high school next fall!

He was up earlier than usual on Wednesday, my day off, and I told him to come sit and have breakfast with me.

“Oh, um, I just remembered that school starts half an hour early today,” he said. I stuck out my tongue at him.

He came and sat with me. And for half an hour, he was all mine, it was just me-n-Caiman, me and my big boy, who will always be my #1 son. (First born, Eli, not favorite. First born!)

~~~

Yes, Jonathan, it does get easier. (There are even days you forget about them.) And when you look back, it seems like it all happened in the blink of an eye.

from Salon

I'm younger than that now
My knees are shot and my past is gaining on me. At 53, it's time to admit defeat -- and start living again.By Gary Kamiya

The kid who always strikes out? Well...

I had to write to append Friday's entry. Remember Marlon, the kid who stands hunched over the plate after the third strike until someone reminds him that he's out?

Well, yesterday was the Yankees final regular season game (a few weekends of playoffs to go), and Marlon was doing his usual thing at the plate: edging into the box and assuming an upright stance topped by hunched shoulders, taking slow, late swings at any pitch up high but waving a quicker, more level bat at pitches lower in the strike zone. "Nice cut, Marlon," one of us on the bleachers would call after every decent swingl.

Have I mentioned there were two kids on base, and we were losing 1-0?

A fourth ball was called, so Andrew, the coach, came in to pitch. (AA rules: kids pitch, but there are no walks, and after four balls the hitting team's coach pitches the rest of the at bat.). There was just one strike, so Andrew said, "Only if you like this one, Marlon, only if you like it." He held the ball up above his head to train Marlon's eye on it, and then went into his slow, easy wind up, and lobbed the ball over the plate. Marlon swung -- on time! -- level! -- and smacked a hard ground ball right up the middle, over second base. The center fielder fumbled it and the first base coach sent Marlon to second.

In the same way it doesn't dawn on him that he's out after strike three, Marlon does not get baserunning. So halfway to second, when he saw the center fielder poised to throw to the bag, he stopped, panicky, unsure whether to go back, go forward, or stay right where he was. Everyone was yelling for him to "Go, Marlon, go!" and so he went, still uncertainly, taking big, staccato steps instead of running, toward second, stepping tentatively onto the bag before he could be tagged out.

The crowd erupted. The dugout went wild. Two runs had scored, and there was Marlon, safe on second base, beaming. There was a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes -- and I wasn't the only one so don't laugh.

His grandmother was there, but his mother wasn't. She arrived a few innings late and all of us added our two cents to the story. She smiled from ear to ear, shook her head. "I can't believe I missed that."

The game turned into a rout. The Yanks won by seven or eight runs. Eli got on base three times (without hitting the ball out of the infield); Julia had a couple of big hits; Mariel fielded a grounder at third and nailed the throw to first (pretty rare, in this league, to throw the hitter out all the way from third), and Theo only cried for a minute or so after being hit by a pitch.

Best of all, Marlon had an even better hit his final at bat, a line drive that whizzed past the second baseman and into the outfield grass. And his mother was there for that one. (Unfortunately, he did the same running-without-a-clue thing and was tagged out on his way to second, but it didn't matter.)

After every game, Andrew sits the kids in the outfield and they talk about the game, upcoming practices or games, etc. The parents hover outside the fence, waiting to collect their kids. Yesterday, I felt like we were fans lingering after the game hoping to catch a glimpse of our favorite players.

And the autograph we all wanted was Marlon's.

Did I just hear myself say, "Go Yankees"?

I’m thankful for the Yankees.

No, I’m not talking about those Yankees. God, no!

(On the other hand… life has indeed been richer thanks to the Sox/Yankees rivalry. After all, you can’t have a rivalry without an arch-nemesis. …I guess I am thankful for the New York Yankees, and also for the hated L.A. Dodgers.) Go Giants!

As usual, however, I digress. Today, as their 2007 season draws to a close, I’m thankful for the Albany Little League AA Yankees. Some might see a bunch of little kids playing a little game, but I see something really beautiful — 10 unique boys and two unique girls soaking up the nuance and tradition that make me love baseball, and tasting (cue Jim McKay) “the thrill of victory… and the agony of defeat! The human drama of athletic competition!”

And being eight or nine or 10, these kids wear the thrill and the agony and the drama right there on their sleeves.

Jake, the coach’s son and the only kid the coach pushes hard, on the pitcher’s mound. A second ago he was goofing off in the dugout; now he’s all concentration. You can see the man in the boy. He winds up and throws hard; he's satisfied with a called strike. But on the next pitch he misses high, throwing over the catcher’s head. He shakes his head, curses out loud, kicks the dirt, pouts.
Marlon, the kid who swings a full two seconds late on just about every pitch. He's so oblivious to the count that after strike three someone always has to tell him to sit down. He rarely gets on base, and most balls get past him in the infield. But his parents are always there to watch him, often with an aunt or uncle or grandparent in tow. And without fail he strides back to the dugout after being told he's struck out, holding the gaze of his fans, head held high, proud. And when he's playing second base and the ball sticks in his mitt and he tosses to first for an out, a mile-wide smile lights up his face.

And Julia! She and her twin sister Mariel are the two girls in AA (they also play soccer and chess). Mariel is a better sport, smiling whether they win or lose, but it’s Julia I relate to. She plays with passion, and when she doesn’t get on base or the team loses a close game, her face flushes with anger and shame and she starts to cry. She is furious. She tries to hold back the tears, but never can. Her mother knows better than to get too close too soon, and Julia brushes off anyone who tries to comfort her.

She has no idea I watch her closely, admiring her intensity. She’ll outgrow the crying soon, and hopefully figure out that she has nothing to be ashamed of out there, ever. I'm glad she’s not content just to be there on the boys’ team, though. I like that she wants to play well, and cares about winning.

Go ahead, tell me that's bad. That “it’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” But I think it’s okay to care about winning. I admire the kids (and the fogeys, and everyone in between) who've learned how to lose with grace but always strive to win.

Yeah, it’s the striving I admire.

Picture a pint-sized nine-year old, freckles, bed-head, missing his two front teeth. That's Theo. He’s got mischief in his eyes, and when he’s not playing he's as jumpy and excitable as any kid.

Now put him in pinstripes and watch the transformation. He moves like a real athlete, instinctively fielding the ball, throwing to the correct base without hesitation. Beautiful. He can also pitch – fast - and hit.

But like Julia, he cares so much. It doesn’t matter if he dove to keep the ball in the infield and made a perfect throw across the diamond to first: if the throw is late, a grimace possesses his whole face and the tears stream. He sobs out loud - even as he gets set for the next play. He won’t stop crying until the ball is hit his way, and then he'll make yet another great play.

Shoot. They’re just beautiful, boys in baseball uniforms (girls, too). Especially the kids who are naturals – fielding, throwing, running with fluidity and grace. Jake, Theo, Abe… and my own little Eli, his long hair under his Yankees cap, his blue eyes bright even in the shadow of his visor. He doesn’t pick up as many hard-hit grounders as Theo, but even when he misses he looks like a ball player, and I could watch him for hours.

Oh, man… what could be better than scooting out of work a little early on a warm Friday afternoon, sitting in the sun on the splintered bleachers and watching your handsome 8-year-old steal second base?

I know the youth sports scene can be really scary, so I’m going to keep on appreciating the good seasons. Who knows? Maybe I’ve just been lucky so far – great coaches, parents who are good people, and the right group of kids. Maybe next year won’t be so great. But so far (knock on wood), I am so very grateful for Albany Little League.