DEBUT OF EPIC PROPORTIONS

He was on deck, waiting anxiously for his chance the swing the bat.  You could see the anxiety, mixed with the adrenaline and excitement, on his face; even from my vantage point in the bleacher seats.  Unfortunately he and I would both have to wait until the next inning.  The batter before him swung hard but missed ringing up the third out.  You could tell it was hard for him.  He was ready, his head bowed in partial disgust.  

The team's manager clapped loudly urging the players back onto the field for defense.  He adjusted his cap, pounded his glove, and settled into his position.  I am certain his stomach was one big knot; knowing that he would be the lead-off hitter in the bottom half of this inning.  he would finally get his opportunity: his first at bat in a regular season outing.  It was three up, three down; and the time now belonged to him.  He had practiced hard, weathered a postponement or two.  Destiny was knocking at the door.

As I sat in the stands watching I couldn't help but wonder, what was going on inside his head?  What was he thinking?  Could he do it; would he disappoint?  I watched as from inside the dugout he selected the perfect batting helmet.  I watched him grab his stick.  He stepped out and took a few practice swings.  I sensed his readiness.  The manager shared a few encouraging words.  I swallowed my thoughts.  I looked around, I wanted to capture the moment for all it was worth.  His dad was hopefully optimistic.  It didn't matter what happened, his mom's tears would soothe or leap for joy; whatever the moment allowed.  Both his grandmothers were there and both had cameras at the ready.  His sister was simply lost in her own thoughts.  It truly was a moment for the ages.

The first pitch went by without even a flinch from anyone - BALL ONE.  As the umpire stared the next pitch was met with a breeze as the bat missed the ball - STRIKE ONE.  With a count of 1 and 1, he stared the mound down.  While it was hard to tell from my seat, I just knew he was poised and determined to turn this moment into something to be remembered for a long time to come.  As the pitch left, I almost closed my eyes but there was something inside screaming, "Watch, and watch carefully."  As the ball crossed the plate I held my breath.  The bat began it's semi-circular motion - CONTACT.  None on the defense could make the play.  It wasn't over the fence, but it was a hit.  In his debut, his first at bat, he could say, "I conquered."

While it wasn't Rickey Henderson, or Maury Wills (I am dating myself describing two of the best base runners of all time) he made it to first.  He looked to the stands, knowing exactly where we were sitting among the packed house.  I could see his smile.  He was satisfied with his efforts.  The first base coach allowed him, and us to relish in the moment before calling him back to the game.  I am sure we would have all been thrilled beyond measure had he been able to score, but it was not to be.  After all it is a team game, not tennis or golf - it's baseball, and no matter what anyone ever tries to tell me in this flash of time all was perfect.

While there would be no victory jumps (his team fell 3 to 1), the moment would forever be etched into several hearts.  We had a chance after the game to greet him, but he seemed more interested in the "super hero flashlight" and Star Wars fruit snacks we brought him rather than the events that had just unfolded.  But it didn't matter to me; I got the chance to watch my four year old grandson in his first at bat, at a game I have loved since the day my grandfather took me to see Ted Williams, the Splendid Splinter (one of the greatest of all time) swing a bat.  I'll take both of those memories with me, sorry Ted; PJ's just slipped in front of yours.   

Circle of Life

I have recently spent some time pondering my mortality.  While thoughts of how life ends are not uncommon, they just seem to be creeping in at a more frequent occurence than they once did.  I am certain part of it is the fact that I am now closer to sixty than I once was to fifty. By the way, that crock of manure (keeping it civil) about sixty's the new fifty, etc., etc.; not really what it is cracked up to be.  I guess a bunch of that has to do with how one views and acts on it - age I mean.  I never was one for following all the man made trends for subverting, or making more convenient that which in reality simply is.  There has to be an order that has been set from the beginning of time.  Don't believe in it? Well just look around, or look up at the stars once and awhile - couldn't have happened by chance, or even by a "big bang."  What caused the big bang; what was the "first cause?" And truly thinking about it, time itself is one of those crocks that humanity has construed for itself.

Another nudge to my contemplation comes from that other reality we love to joke so much about; you know all those death and taxes comments.  The ones that are now catching up with some dear friends, and relatives, and childhood heroes.  A little over a month ago my sister fought a hard battle against cancer; she lost - we lost.  Almost a year ago a good friend and colleague went through the same war.  It also seems, more often than not, my wife or I will remark; "Do you know who died?"  A few that really stick out recently are John Wooden - I wasn't a UCLA Bruin fan but as a young coach I read Coach Wooden's book - I was influenced.  He was 99.  I want to make it to 99, or even 100, but I want to have my mental, emotional, and spiritual capacities.  I want to know who I am looking at, and who I am talking to.  Dennis Hopper, actor and artist, was 74 - for crying out loud; man Easy Rider was my generation's Rebel Without A Cause. 

And while I was thinking about this I googled the deaths so far in 2010 - the ones somebody considered newsworthy. There were at least 5 for every day of every month; actors, actresses, athletes, statesmen, dignitaries of all shapes and sizes. Manute Bol, former NBA athlete, who I actually saw play was only 47. Jimmy Dean slipped into my research; he was 81. I watched him on The Grand Ole Opry TV show when I was a kid spending weekends at my grandparent's house. Grizzly Smith, American Pro Wrestler was 77. I watched him wrestle when I thought pro wrestling was legit.  Teenagers really are very impressionable. The list said Alzheimer's was his nemesis. I really dread Alzheimer's.

Then I got to a little more thinking.  I've been to 38 high school graduations since my own back in 1970, most of them as a teacher.  I've been to quite a few funerals in that same time span as well; a few senseless like the ones for students and former students who have commited suicide, or died in a tragic accident.  I'm not trying to be morbid here; and I am not obsessed with death or anything like that. And please don't try to read anything sinister into this writing. I think that's one of the critical errors we have been prone to as a culture. We read things into what people say, we jump to conclusions; and nine times out of ten all those pre-suppositions are the furthest thing from the truth. I have just been pondering my mortality - our mortality; or actually my (our) immortality - that's all. Pondering things is good for you.  Wasn't it Plato who said, "I think, therefore I am?"

Shouldn't the real question be, is there a life after our temporal one ends? Or, are we born, then exist, then die? I sure as hell hope the latter is not the case. My upbringing, my faith, says there is something else. Maybe that's the real fun of all this "circle of life" stuff. The wondering, the pondering, the hoping, the questioning, the seeking, the believing - these are the parts of LIFE & DEATH that make this chaos so much fun.

It's just like this past weekend. I got a call from my daughter. "Dad, can you come help Dusty (that's her husband) move a couple of things?" They are getting ready to sell their condo. When I arrived, a couple - that's two right - turned to three, four, five, etc.; you get the picture. When I arrived back home I get this text message: Thanks again for today! You were a huge help. I love you. So I text back: You just do things for your kids. Tell Dusty he will pay me when it's his turn to do the same for Mak (Makenzie, his daughter, my granddaughter) I'll know when it happens...I love you too.

I probably won't see it, but it could happen. I can do the math. Keets, my daughter, is 29. So, when Mak asks her dad to do whatever at the same age, I might be 87. None of us knows what the next twenty or so is going to bring. I heard something this morning from Norman Lear, you know the guy who created the TV show All In The Family.  (You haven't seen All In The Family?  It's a classic.  Archie Bunker - you thought Limbaugh was conservative.  And the meathead, c'mon.)

Any way - Norman Lear is almost 88 so I guess I could make it - I see Lear on CBS's SUNDAY MORNING, and he makes the following statement to end the interview, "I really am about now and next."

So for the moment at least, I'll stop worrying about my mortality and spend more time on NOW & NEXT.  Why don't we all try to do the same. 

MGPJ&LBEAYSWTJL!

Tom Morello Eat Your Heart Out

Have you ever had a rock concert performed right in your own living room?  Well, you haven't lived until you have.  Yesterday afternoon I was able to scratch that one off my "bucket list."  Peyton Joseph Mares (my 4 year old grandson) paid a visit and brought me back to my love for the classic rockers.  For most grandparents there is always this self doubt; what are we going to do with them when they come over.  For me (and thanks to HBO's presentation of the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame's 25th Anniversary Concert) it is so simple.  All I do is ask, "Wanna play a little Tom Morello?"

There is this segment in the concert where Bruce Sprinsteen and Tom Morello, one of Peyton's all time favorite guitarists are playing together. (QUESTION: How does a 4 year old know that Tom Morello is his favorite rocker? ANSWER: Guitar Hero, of course!) Peyton questions what he will use for a guitar - he often brings his; yes he owns a an electric of his own thanks to Mimi and Poopsie's Christmas present.  I tell him I have just the thing.  I produce an old yardstick, and I can see the imagination take hold and watch as the 36 inch piece of wood is immediately transformed into the best Fender Statocaster around.  It takes me a few minutes to find the segment; which provides Peyton with the perfect opportunity to "warm-up."  You didn't think he was going on stage (my 3 step, step ladder) cold turkey do you?

With the spot found it was now time to start the performance.  Peyton goes into the next room providing explicit instructions to me as to how he is to be introduced.  I get the privilege of being The Boss in this little re-enactment.  So, I mimic Sprinsteen's introduction, "Welcome to one of the great guitarists, (Peyton Mares) a.k.a. Tom Morello.  I watch, mesmerized as my grandson emerges and steps up on the "stage."  As Sprinsteen and Morello break into Rage Against The Machine's hit The Ghost of Tom Joad, Peyton copies each of Morello's hand movements; and belts out the lyrics that he knows.  (He knows the entire chorus, by the way.)  My little 4 year old rocker is in rare form.  Videographer, Mimi, is on the couch doing her best to capture each moment of this stellar experience on her Blackberry; while sister Makenzie (she's 11 months) is bobbing and clapping enough to make even a die hard groupie proud.

I have been to a few good ones in my day.  I've seen Zeppelin, ZZ Top, Clapton, and I actually sat outside the stadium once and heard Hendrix as clear as if I had been in the front row.  But, none of these brought me to the sense of joy and pride like the sight of that precious little rock star plying something that he has come to love. 

Just when I thought I had seen it all, there came a point in the song when the real Morello was laying down a sequence that brought goosebumps to the skin.  Peyton "Morello," keeping up as best as he could, took the opportunity to improvise a bit.  Before I could caution him he was already airborne.  He landed, thank God it was on the carpet, in perfect kneeling form and his fingers missed nary a beat on the "yardstick."  He then jumped to his feet and followed everyone of Morello's licks with surgeon-like precision. 

One more slide to the knees later, the song sadly came to it's end.  The good news though was that John Foggerty would join Sprinsteen for a rousing rendition of Fortunate Son; and everytime Peyton belted out, "It ain't me, it ain't me..." I received another hit of that joy and pride I mentioned earlier.  After Foggerty (me), and Springsteen (Peyton) completed the Roy Orbison classic Pretty Woman, we readied ourselves for one of my all-time favorites.  This time Peyton made percussion his rocker style.  Placing the Sponge Bob drum along side the Playskool one that we had since he was two, my little rockstar readied himself for a finale that would top even the best Who encore.

With my "foam finger" guitar poised, Peyton and I broke into the iconic Born To Run, following every move on the stage of the E Street Band that we could possibly pull off.  It was hard to tell if we were succeeding over the bangs of the drum, but I didn't care.  It was the closest I was ever going to get to rock star status, and to be quite frank with you I think at least in my grandson's eyes I was already there.  Our "concert" had come to an end; or so we thought; oh the wonders of the rewind button.

Peyton's mom and dad entered the house for the pick-up, and in the interest of "you had to have been there," Peyton 'Tom Morello' Mares, and I; Earl 'the Boss' Gervais proceeded to provide an encore presentation for my daughter and son-in-law.  It was an afternoon that will surely follow me to my grave.