Take Me Out of the Ball Game

 

It is two locations, but only one place. My baseball journey began in the Summer of 1983, when every kid in attendance at Jack Murphy Stadium received a free bat. Tony Gwynn and Pete Rose on the same field, at the same time. Still learning the game, I listened intently when the adults talked. Names of old came up; Mays & Aaron, Maris and Mantle. Current names like Ryan and Jackson. The game only lasted nine innings, but there was one constant, something that felt it was always there and always would be.

Beer.

My brother Joe and I in the parking lot, trying to drink our Pepsi’s like the men were drinking the Budweiser’s. Crushing the can and burping loudly before tossing another fallen soldier into the back of the rusted-out Ford Ranchero. The Padres won 5-4. A little tired and worse for wear but having no desire to go home, the party moved back out into the parking lot after the final out.

Thirteen years later I go to my first game as an “adult”, meaning I paid for my own ticket and parking. Ditto the cooler full of beer. The constant.

Beer.

My Uncle Ron worked concessions, so the beer flowed as freely as the breeze on those warm summer nights in Mission Valley. I needed only to buy one beer, then keep going back for free refills. After the game I carry on the tradition I first became part of in 1983, the postgame tailgate party. Open the cooler back up, relight the grill. I could fill the cooler with the same amount of money it takes to buy a postgame beer or two in the Gaslamp now. Back then, Uncle Ron would clock out and bring his coworkers for some merriment. Before that season ends, I have no shortage of concessions employees willing to refill my cup.

With beer.

Baseball was only from April to October, so the only real constant in my life was alcohol. I simply drank more and paid less for it in the Spring and Summer months. Suddenly, my sometimes legendary in-game alcohol intake is eliminated completely. I’m working there now, escorting the National Anthem singer down to the field, overseeing fan contests, and rallying the crowd. I take a lot of baseball lessons to heart; I leave it all on the field. I end each game exhausted, confident I gave all I could. Then I head straight to the bar, hitting a few postgame parties on the way out of the parking lot.

The nights are long, the years short. One night a fan asked me what I do in the offseason. I reply “Drink”. Waiting for spring training. I don’t look forward to Christmas, I don’t give a rat’s ass about New Years Eve. Us alkies call it “Amateur Night”. Opening Day is my only holiday. I figure it this way, it’s the only one left our culture really celebrates for the reason, the rest of them we celebrate just for the celebration. The only difference is the way we dress and the decorations we hang up.

Opening Week and I’m on a bender. But I maintain. I’m nothing like my dad. I don’t cuss and scream. I don’t start fights. I don’t get DUI’s. I can handle my alcohol. Even the guy who runs the liquor store nearest the stadium thinks so. Why else would he come over to McGregors’, on a night he’s closing early, to bring me a six pack of tallboys and say “Just pay me tomorrow”? At McGregor’s, “last call” means go next door and get a sixer so I can keep drinking when I get home. On any day of the week. Once the game is over, my only responsibility is to finish all my beer like a good boy.

I work hard, I party harder. At any given moment, I’m working more than one job. Going three and four month stretches without a day off. One time I was told that working for the Padres wasn’t a real job. I reply “Don’t tell Larry Lucchino that, ‘cuz he sends me a paycheck every two weeks for doing it.” A week later, the same ones criticizing me for working a job I love are bragging about me, I’m their ticket connection. Go figure.

I move closer to my thirties, A Ballpark for San Diego is almost complete. By this time, I know every concessionaire in the stadium. On the rare day off I’ll take in no less than ten drinks in the parking lot. I’m nearly seeing double by the time the first pitch is thrown. The 7^th inning brings the first “last call” of the night. I choose a seat near my favorite stand. There’s no less than six full beers under my seat. I stand next to the tap, slugging down the last one as the last out of the 7^th is recorded. Seconds later I take the two frosty cold ones waiting for me.

More beer

The new Ballpark opens and everything changes. Everyone has to learn the lay of the land. People get lost making their way around our new home, it’s nothing like the Stadium. I’ve studied the blueprints since they became available, I took every opportunity to roam the construction site, so I know the place better than most. The day it opens I’m not concerned with anything other than the score to the game and where to find my postgame drink. I quickly locate my contacts from the Stadium, I devote myself to getting to know the new beer vendors. New home, same goal.

Beer.

I blink, and I have two sons. Every waking moment not on the clock is spent drunk, looking to get drunk or recovering from the last bender. But hey, I’m a known guy. I’m like Norm. Except when I walk through the gates, forty thousand people say “Rudy!”. Yet the writing on the wall becomes clearer. I start enjoying the beer less and less. So that means I enjoy everything else less too. Once I get through the gates, everything is fine. I’m in my universe and it's the only one that exists. But as soon as that last out happens, the depression comes back like a sudden, unexpected steal of home. Then I start expecting it, so that “fine” feeling starts going away in the top of the ninth. Then as soon as we finish singing “Take Me Out To The Ball Game”. Even when I take the field to sling goodies to the crowd, the specter weighs on me until finally, not even pulling on the jersey and hearing “Play Ball” is consolation to what I have become outside the Ballpark.

All because of beer.

It all comes to a head in the final weekend of my final season. 8^th inning and I am enraged that the game is running longer than I want it to. I am equal parts sad and furious, the Game is cutting into my drinking time. An old friend, a Marine turned police officer turned retired hippie approaches with his usual smile and comments on how it was rare to see me at that part of the ballpark so late in the game. White knuckled, I give a curt reply and he walks away, perplexed. This sinks me deeper. How could I treat anyone that way, especially Keith?

It doesn’t get better. Yet.

That night I grumble, since I only have enough for a regular six pack, no tall boys. The one semblance of happiness I find that night is four forgotten tallboys in the fridge. Next thing I know, it’s nearing four in the morning and I am out of beer. So I start doing the sensible thing. I start swigging tequila like it was Gatorade. I would have drank more but I passed out at sunrise. Day game a few hours later, and I do what my mind tells me is the responsible thing. I take Harbor Drive into the East Village instead of I-5, because I’m still drunk and figure it’s safer for me and all the other motorists to take surface streets to work.

Because last night it was more than beer.

Two weeks later, I’m digging for change in my car seats to get one more drink. I go to weekend family gatherings to drink for free, coasting in on fumes since I don’t have gas money. I pretend everything is alright, when all I really want to do is take that one-way trip to the Coronado Bridge.

I start to learn. I start writing. I put pen to paper and tell my story. I am horrified at the father I had become. The kid who swore he would never be like his old man started doing just that. As I wrote it was like reading a book about me but written by someone else. One of the big local stories is of a sports hero attempting suicide. He said he fell asleep at the wheel, but a few years later we learned better. I knew something had to change, fast. The next night, I took my last drink. Morning after that, I inform the Padres I would not be returning for a fourteenth season.

No more beer.

Since those days there have been countless moments, moments I lived in sober, and thought to myself “I never would have made it here with a beer in my hand”. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was the Baseball Gods, maybe it was both conspiring for me. In 2024, the year that coincides with the jersey number I wore all those years, I walked into A Ballpark for San Diego yet again. It was a smallish crowd; only the field level seats between the dugouts were available. The rest of the seats were blocked off.

I thought back to that first summer in 1998, when I garnered thousands of signatures to get this place built. I thought of that first game back in 1983, when baseball and partying became as much a part of my existence as breathing. I looked around the mostly empty ballpark, every seat holding a memory; every light illuminating those memories. I thought of how even though every family there now shared a history of the Ballpark, none had a deeper history at Petco Park than my family.

I surged with pride, I surged even stronger with gratitude. But nothing could have prepared me for the high that came next, a high that far surpassed any previous ballgame, concert or combination of the two. It was a high only a parent could know, a sober parent. My baseball life had come full circle when the PA announced “Now batting for Monte Vista High School, number fifty-one, Trevor Gonzales”...

 

2020 Vision

It has been a while since I have written a year-in-review and I am ashamed to say, it’s been nearly as long since I have written much of anything. Yet seeing as how we’re not only at the dawn of a New Year but also a new decade I figure now is as good a time as any to hop back into the saddle.

2019 dawned with crushing news. My dear friend Summer Serrano had spent 2018 burying her 94 year old grandmother and 106 year old Pearl Harbor survivor great uncle Ray Chavez. On January 3^rd I saw a post with Summer’s name on it. I felt for her and thought to myself “Who did she lose now?!” and when I looked a little closer, it was a post stating Summer had passed the day before.

I was having lunch at work when I read the news and though Summer and I were not blood related, she is one of very few I consider an immediate member of my Family of 40,000. A terrible loss to say the least. Summer was the very first person I spoke to on my very first day of sobriety. In the subsequent years, she was often the first person I sent a new blog piece to, giving her the opportunity to read my work before anyone else.

During the week before she passed I was working on a piece talking about my pending 3,000^th day of sobriety. I dearly wanted to tell her about it but like an excited parent on Christmas Eve, I patiently waited to show her once it was complete. I knew she would love it.

When I learned of her passing I considered not publishing the blog piece. After all, how could I make a baseball reference regarding my life during such a tragic time? Then I thought of what Summer would have said had she known I was considering not continuing with the piece and I opened the laptop right back up and finished it as a tribute to her.

Imagine the honor I felt when just days later I was contacted by Summer’s mom Delia and asked if I would assist in writing her obituary as well as her eulogy.

She didn’t have to asked me twice. Those of you who write as if it is your calling know what it’s like when you merely feel like a channel, an instrument of knowledge or healing guided by something much bigger than yourself. That’s how I felt when I wrote for Summer. Once I met with Delia to discuss the writing I slowly became something of an advisor in matters beyond the two pieces, I met with her every Sunday for the entire month and helped plan what turned out to be the largest gathering of San Diego Padres fans in Mission Valley since 2003.

Those of you who were there need no explanation and it’s no use trying to explain it to those who weren’t there. But I will say there were well over a hundred people who couldn’t find a seat, among them several members of the 1998 National League Championship team.

The midway point of the year began with great promise, as I started a new job; took the family on a surprise trip to Knott’s Berry Farm and celebrated a surprise 92^nd birthday party for my paternal grandmother Mary Gonzales. It was quite a sight, as when we arrived at the party the mariachi band happened to be walking in as well, so we had our own entrance music.

The Gonzales family was rocked less than two weeks later as grandma Mary was called home on July 12^th. Strange yet familiar emotions developed during that time; I often had found I had to force myself to feel sadness, as my gratitude left no room for the sadness that attempted to creep in here and there. Sure, I had my moments, where I would drop to my knees and bawl like a baby. Yet I also thought of friends I knew in school who lost their grandmothers when they were in 3^rd or 4^th grade. My grandmother was in my life until I was nearly at the half century mark, and my children grew to know and love her just as I did at their ages. Can’t be sad about that…

I was also let go from my job of seven years and in spite of the financial troubles unemployment brings, it was the best thing that could have happened for me. Not only did it give me the opportunity to get to Little League Opening Day, it paved the way for two outstanding camping trips and several memorable hikes. Best of all, it freed me of the absolute worst morale I’ve ever seen in a workplace…

I’m not making resolutions this year. In fact, the last time I made a New Year’s resolution I was drunk. When I decided I needed to remove alcohol from my life, I would have been dead had I waited until the New Year to change. Thankfully, I learned change starts now. To set a date and wait for change is the first step toward ensuring change never happens…

Resolutions Part Deux: I do make resolutions almost daily; anytime and anywhere I see a need for change. One resolution I make every day is to remove anyone and everyone who may be a negative force in my life, regardless of title, relation or how long I’ve known the person. When Summer passed I made a point to add her initials permanently next to Tony Gwynn’s on my gameday shoes. Someone commented with a wiseass and unintelligent comment about the initials. I replied, stating they were a tribute for a dear friend. The person then made another comment which suggested he was making the post about him, making no comment about Summer. Deleted, and I haven’t gone out of my way to speak to the person since. Purge. Don’t say “But I’ve known him/her so long.” Feels damn good…

Opening Day was bittersweet for more than one reason but one bit of news made it the most bittersweet opener of all. For the past ten or so years, every Opening Day at Petco Park brought with it news of a dear friend who had passed over the winter. When I went to visit my good friend Keith Milledge I saw his daughter in his seat. The look on her face told me all I needed to know; my friend had passed. We walked away with a win that day, but I could not shake and still have not shaken the feeling of such overwhelming loss. A life well lived, Keith. Thank you for your friendship…

Bittersweet, Hipster Edition: Went to the Monster Trucks in January, definitely not a baseball crowd. Opening Day wasn’t much of a baseball crowd either, at least not as I once knew them. I felt so out of place unless I was in a pocket of real fans; fans of the team and the game. It looked like a good chunk of the crowd was there just to drink craft beers and take selfies. The older I get, the more I understand why Tony Gwynn used to say his favorite game of the year was the day after Opening Day…

Another loss: My high school buddy David “Noodles” Lynn passed in late April. I hadn’t seen Dave in over twenty five years and had only recently gotten back in touch with him. As I wrote in April, he was one to ride the river with. Good man, even though it’ll be a few years before I’ll be able to tell my sons most of the stories about him…

New job is going pretty well. Must be, I was named employee of the month after my first month. Working with adults with disabilities is something I never imagined myself doing. Now I can’t imagine myself not doing it. Thanks to me, some of these people have held a snake for the first time, gone on their first hike, seen a deer in the wild for the first time and learned so many other things in my presence. I still think they’re teaching me more than I am teaching them…

Had a memorable camping trip in May, one of record five on the year for Jojo. Burnt Rancheria in the Laguna Mountains was nearly empty due to the threat of rain, hail and temperatures in the low 30’s. We hiked the PCT, cooked steaks over the campfire, stalked wild turkeys and lived like mountain men. Had I asked Jojo if he was willing to camp in such dreary conditions he likely would have said no. That’s what I didn’t ask him. Instead I showed him he could do it…

Not counting the many cookbooks, historical reference, and natural history books, I’ve read twenty-seven books this year. If I had to make one resolution this year, it would be to read more. I’m slacking…

Went to church for the first time in years last week. Nothing against anyone’s beliefs, but I get close to my interpretation of God every day. I just get closer to him on the trail, far from any and all buildings. Days later a good friend sent me a quote from John Muir; “I would rather be in the mountains thinking about God than at church thinking about the mountains.” That was me last Sunday…

So in no way is this a complete recap of the year. And I may even be forgetting some things. But if you’ve read this far, I thank you and ask that you strongly consider the following:

We all need somebody. Whether it’s a spouse, companion or just a friendly smile and wave to a stranger, we all need someone. And equally important, we need to be needed. May sound strange to some, might make perfect sense to others. But here’s how I learned this.

As I mentioned I was let go in April from a job I had held for seven years. Some of you may have seen posts I’ve made since about the nearly unbearable ignorance I faced with some guests. What I didn’t talk about is the, excuse my language, absolute shit management structure I worked under. Here and there I encountered some with decent leadership skills but overall, it was a system that demanded high morale yet did nothing to help morale and ignored the glaring signs of the reasons for the low morale.

So when I left, I was in a financial situation which enabled me to take the summer off, my first since I was around thirteen years old. Hikes, vacations, beach trips it truly was a summer to remember. But toward the end of the summer some strange things started happening. Before this summer, anxiety was as foreign to me as rocket science. I never had it so I had no understanding of it. Sure, I’ve had my bouts with depression over the years but with depression, I always was able to trace it to the source; loss of a loved one, end of a relationship or simply a series of poor decisions.

But this anxiety came out of nowhere, for no reason. I would sit for hours staring at my computer screen, paralyzed with fear over something as simple as an email about a Cub Scout meeting or a basic question about camping. Later I found myself driving my son home from school and every second of the way, feeling like I was on the verge of a major car accident even though there were no other cars on the road driving in a way that could cause a collision.

Even today, I stare at a text of the simplest matters and for some reason, I cannot reply no matter the subject. Makes me think of the baseball catcher who simply cannot make the throw back to the pitcher.

I know it is psychological on at least some level, but I have had some success in battling it from a physical standpoint. In early fall I all but cut caffeine, which is hard to do because I love my coffee. I’ve upped it again as of late, but not on the level of past years and more important, I’ve been much more mindful of eating right. Gone are the days of waking up at 6am and not eating until noon and having half a pot of coffee in between. That has helped considerably. And during the brief time I worked as a courier, I found that being out on the road helped some. Yet it’s still there. The email thing is still occurring, just not nearly as much a before. Still I sometimes agonize over a text and feel like I’ve moved a mountain once I have replied.

I have thought of going to see a doctor about it, but there is no one on the planet who can convince me a doctor will care more about my personal well-being than he does about Big Pharmacy. I’ve seen it before and hell, they say it right there in the commercials. Every pill they try and sell you has a laundry list of side effects, and you’ll invariably see a list of pills to help with those side effects. And you know the screwed up thing? Descriptions for many pills prescribed for anxiety and depression state side effects can include “Suicidal or psychotic thoughts”.

I sometimes think it will be with me the rest of my days and truth be told, I would take that over the side effects. Besides, I have done quite well managing it. I know they say telling someone with depression to “just pray about it” is not always the best advice and I can see why.  At least, not “just”. I burn sage when I pray, and the smell takes me back to the first trails I hiked alone as a child. It’s a brief trip to the hills even though I am in the city. I have a wide selection of fine teas I tend to drink at night, a more natural way of relaxing myself.

I have a close group of friends who are my spiritual advisors and confidants. One is a schoolteacher and to me, the epitome of what a good Christian is.  Another is a devout Catholic who is indeed the example of all that is good in religion. Still another is one who scoffs at the thought of religion and dares to think not what we are often told to think, but thinks upon what he has learned and insists upon exposing the truths beyond what is popular to believe, and that’s the very reason I value his words as much as anyone I have known in my life.

I know a guy whose political beliefs differ greatly from mine but unlike many people from either side, will not look down upon another for a different belief and still will look for the qualities in others in spite of those differences. We have a few common interests and our areas of knowledge are different and I have learned so much from him.

I have my anxiety on its heels and I am not letting up. In recent months I found the best way for me to, if not defeat it, keep it at a distance. As I mentioned I am now working with adults with disabilities. There’s a few I work with whom you may never know has a learning disability. Others are more obvious. Take for instance a kid I work with a few days a week. Confined to a wheelchair, his communication abilities are limited. Day by day I learn how to better communicate with him and the others. He can’t move the wheels of the chair himself; he is completely reliant on others for that. Yet sometimes, I feel like I need them more than they need me.

I often wonder who’s teaching who. Sure, some might not get along great with some of the others but you can pick any ten people from any walk of life and you can bet they will not all get along.

Yet never once have I heard one put another down, nor have I seen one carry themselves as better than another because of materiel possession, or sports team, or financial status, or any of the other shallow trappings of “success” this world and culture has programmed us to believe in. Alright, there’s a long tangent to go with that one but I’ll save that one for another time.

The point is, while alone time is vital to personal well-being too much alone time can make things even worse. This is why now, more than ever I am very selective with who I involve myself with. They come from all walks of life; their backgrounds and beliefs as varied as all the birds in the world. Yet I choose to be close to them for one reason.

All inspire me to be a better person, every day.

Inspire. How often do we hear, read and speak that word? I have found myself gravitating to those who inspire me, or those who I inspire. If neither is happening, I am wasting my time and they are wasting their time. And the only thing I despise more than wasting my time is wasting someone else’s time.

That said, let’s not waste our time or anyone else’s time this year…

An Awakening

Last night I read a blog detailing the life experiences of a person who has had more than a fair share of hurtful, negative and downright tragic moments. As I pored over a veritable laundry list of recounted experiences, I falsely assumed it was a compilation of the experiences of several people. Horrified as I was, I was even more horrified to learn these were the experiences of one person. I wondered how many other people I knew who have had similar experiences. I wondered why they were never talked about. And I wondered why though I had heard of similar things in the news and in the wind over the years, they have never affected me until I read that blog.

The last question answered itself before I finished asking it…

I know the person. I know the person’s hopes, dreams and goals. I know the person has risen above past circumstances and I know the person has done so for one reason and one reason only. This person has made a stand, this person has spoken up and this person has refused to allow anything get in the way of achieving peace.

I read and re-read the piece. At last count, I have read it over a dozen times in the past twenty-four hours and each time I read it, a million thoughts and twice as many emotions come pouring out of me. In the past few years three books have changed my way of thinking. One is affectionately known as “The Big Book.” Reading the Big Book and applying its principles in my life led me to another book; “The Traveler’s Gift” by a man named Andy Andrews. Through that book, I read a book written over eighty years ago by a man named Napoleon Hill, “Think and Grow Rich.”

As I read them, strange things would happen to me. Strange in that they felt natural, strange in that they hold the wisdom of universal truths, during a time in my life when truth was unnatural. I don’t know a whole lot about auras and universal energy, but if someone in the know was observing me as I read, they would surely have seen a plethora of colors surrounding me.

Still, nothing I learned in those books that could have prepared me for what was to come when I read that piece.

It made me think of how I was verbally and emotionally abused for things my father did before I was born. Then I thought of the kid I used to sit next to in third grade, whose pencils I used to steal and drawings I would rip up, just to make him cry.

It made me think of hearing my mom come late at night from work, exhausted and crying and of how I felt there was nothing I could do to soothe her. Then I remembered the time in church camp when I played a double entendre-laden song from one of my favorite hair-metal bands and “dedicated” it to a girl my age, and how she ran away crying and embarrassed.

It made me think of how I swore I would never grow up to be like my dad. Then it made me think of how I would fly into a drunken rage whenever one of my sons did something I perceived to be wrong.

It made me think of the times I wished I was physically beaten instead of verbally ridiculed, even at a young age I knew that physical wounds heal much easier than emotional wounds. Then I remembered we weren’t supposed to talk about emotional wounds. And depending on my reaction, talking about it sometimes led to physical punishment.

It made me think of how my grandfather dedicated his life to God, Country and family; he truly was a man who lived for the common good. Then I remembered the time I drew some very offensive symbols on the back door of a church, just because I was into some bands who sang about some of the darker elements of human nature.

It made me think of these things, and more. It made me think of some of the things that were done to me and it made me think of some of the things I had done. But most vital of all, it made me think.

I thought about how when I hear Elton John on the radio, I don’t hear a gay musician. I hear a human musician.

I thought about that time I helped a young mother bag her many groceries at Food 4 Less. I wasn’t helping a Somali immigrant, I was helping a mother.

I thought about the homeless man several years ago, whom my coworkers and I gave the remainder of our lunches, three beers, about seven dollars in change and umm, half of an umm, “cigarette”. I wasn’t helping some bum, I was helping a fellow human in need.

While the earlier examples were from childhood, the three preceding examples were of people who I had at one time looked down upon in my adult life. I used to look down on many people. Still, there are aspects of my way of thinking which I need to change.

I cannot cure the world’s ills, but I can change the way I treat my fellow man.

I cannot change the way some treat others, yet I can change the way I treat both.

And if I can do it, anyone can.

We can stand against hate, we can stand against ignorance, and we can stand against fear. It’s no longer an issue of can, it’s an issue of MUST.

Every aspect of life, no matter how encompassing, is rooted in individual choice. As individuals, we rise up alone. As one, we can stand united.

As humans…

 “Be the change you wish to see in the world…”

On Gratitude 2015

My first memories of Thanksgiving are not unlike most; family, football, and food, food, food. I never have and never will be very excited about Black Friday; as the only large crowds I like are rock concerts and ballgames. But that’s a story for another time. As a society, we have taken the Thanks out of Thanksgiving. People are obsessed with shopping deals and their entire holiday existence revolves around it.

Not this kid.

This year and in all years past, I choose to be thankful. And I’ll be no more thankful today than I am the other 364 days of the year.

I am thankful for over ten years with my wife Anna by my side…

I am thankful my son Trevor’s thirst for knowledge and passion for baseball surpasses my own at that age…

I am thankful my son Joseph shows great interest and compassion for all wildlife; from the smallest critters buzzing around the flowers to the elephants we marvel at on our frequent trips to the San Diego Zoo…

I am thankful for the late nights after work when my daughter Layla joins me in my little office in the  garage, pulling books on the shelf and pointing at the numerous pictures asking “Daddy, what’s that?”…

I am thankful my daughter Chloe is following along nicely on the path set forth by her siblings…

I am thankful that when the San Diego Padres realized they needed a new home, they hired people experienced in building new homes for teams rather than a lawyer whose previous experience was teaching Bill Clinton how to lie to the American public…

I am still thankful my friend and former coworker Danny Lawrence never kicked my ass for all the short jokes I threw his way…

I am thankful my grandfathers’ instilled in me a deep appreciation of music, the outdoors and the value of honest work…

I am thankful our politicians look out for the best interests of this great nation, the common good and never make a decision based on popularity or their respective parties…

I am thankful you all know that last line was bullshit...

I am thankful for the freedom of knowing my life is in my hands, that my decisions are the difference between success and failure in my life…

I am thankful for the hundreds of books on my shelf and how they open a world of reality that has nothing to do with selfies, celebrities and the daily intolerance the sheep of the social networking universe choose to embrace…

I am thankful for men like Alvin York, George S. Patton and Roy Benavidez…

I am thankful Chesty Puller chose the Marines…

I am thankful Tony Gwynn chose baseball over basketball…

I am thankful Tim Young took a chance on this long-haired high school dropout…

I am thankful for my Family of 40,000; three of whom were called home this year yet it continues to grow amid the tragic losses…

I am thankful when Theodore Geisel was told his books weren’t good enough, he refused to believe the lie. Which goes to show the importance in believing in yourself when others don’t…

I am thankful for the works of Louis L’Amour, Andy Andrews and Nick Canepa…

I am thankful that I am the Man in the Arena, and will never take rank with those timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat…

Most of all, I am thankful for freedom of choice. I can choose depression or I can choose gratitude. I choose gratitude. I choose gratitude today and every day. This is a short list, a small sample of the list I add to every day of my life. A man wiser than myself once said “the seeds of depression cannot take root in a grateful heart.”

Truer words have never been spoken…

 

Did You Call Your Dad Today?/Respect By Default

A few months short of nine years ago, we received news my Mom was suffering from a terminal illness. Father’s Day came two days after we got the news and before attending a family function I visited her in the hospital. Mom was sleeping, so I quietly left a note at her bedside and tiptoed out of the room. The note read:

“I just wanted to drop by and wish you a Happy Father’s Day. After all, you did the job of both parents and a hell of a job it.”

Though the family gathering later that day was enjoyable, I carried a heavy weight upon my heart. What was to become of her? What was to become of me? I’ve never been a negative thinker but the facts suggested she didn’t have a whole lot of time left. While speaking of this to a family friend, I was rudely interrupted by someone who asked “Did you call your dad yet?”

Against my nature, I stopped my conversation to acknowledge the person who interrupted. “No, but as you are aware I’ve had a lot on my mind this weekend.”

Not satisfied, the interrupter said “Yeah, but he’s still your dad…”

In a tone I don’t normally use when speaking to an elder, I quietly but firmly said “Someone should have told him that thirty fucking years ago…”

I had no regret for saying it but I must say I was surprised my response quickly diffused the situation; I surely expected things to get pretty heated. Thankfully they didn’t and I was able to spend the rest of the day in relative peace.

This got me thinking, how many other grown men are out there being criticized for having little more than “respect by default”? By this I mean how many fathers out there demand respect from their children, yet not show it in return? It’s the equivalent of a man planting a garden and blaming the garden for not growing when he neglects to water it.

The home I was at that day was the home of my uncle through marriage; not blood related but the respect I have for him is unsurpassed and accordingly, he earned it. He may not have sought and whether he likes it or not, I love the hell out of him. That love and respect was gained through who he is, from the heart and not from what a piece of paper says. He has four sons and their bond used to be something I envied as a child, even jealous of at times.

Yet there was no reason to hold my cousins in contempt for how great their dad is, nor is it their or anyone’s fault my dad wasn’t exactly Ward Cleaver or even Al Bundy. That was the life I was born into and to quote my uncle, we turned out pretty good considering the hand we were dealt.

Reading Huckleberry Finn for the first time was the first example of someone having a dad like mine. Drunk, bitter, conniving? Yep, that was my dad. I couldn’t relate to any of the TV dads or even any of my friends dads. When I watched La Bamba it scared the hell out of me, Esai Morales’ character Bob was the spitting image of my father. I had the opportunity to share these thoughts with Esai himself one day, though I was able to assure him things are not quite as tenuous as they used to be.

There were a lot of resentments and often, I was punished for having the resentments. Even worse, I was a verbal punching bag for many who had issues with him, and punished again for daring to ask why I was being criticized for things my dad did before I was even born. The resentments are gone now, at least as gone as they can be. This is something I never knew was possible. As a man wiser than myself said one night in response to my fierce criticism of my dad, “That’s his cross to bear, you did nothing wrong and you’re only hurting yourself by feeding those resentments.”

Sage advice that helped rid me of decades worth of anger in a manner of seconds.

Father’s Day is a bittersweet time for me, but in years past it was all bitter with no sweet about it. Such is the same with the relationship I have with my dad these days. Long gone are the days I would be criticized for something he did and punished for not liking it. No longer do I live in fear of him and his ways, instead I live with gratitude for who he is now. And it’s been three decades since he cussed up a storm about my mom dating, all while driving to one girlfriends house to cheat on his live-in girlfriend; now he is happily married to my step mom, who had as big a role as anyone in the changes my dad has made.

I’ll never forget what once was, nor will I hold resentments.

I saw my mom cry many times due to him, but the last time I saw her smile was because of him as well. I shook in fear when he came home drunk and took his frustrations out on us, but I also saw the sincerity in his eyes when he said “Mijo I wasn’t a perfect father, that’s why I thank God for your mom and your grandfather”. I was reduced to tears of embarrassment when he would criticize and ridicule me, in front of others, for not knowing something that most kids usually learn from their fathers; but I cherish the times he comes to town and the way my kids faces light up when hands over a bag of cookies, a handful of jerky or a new bike.

No, things weren’t always great and for a long stretch, were not good in any way. But he’s trying, God bless him. He’s honestly and earnestly trying, not to make up for the past but to be the best he can be now. And when you think about it, that’s all we can ever ask about each other…

 

Still Fine

Like roughly half the married couples around the country, my parents divorced when I was seven years old. I can’t say it affected me in a negative way; when my Mom broke the news to me I was actually relieved to know my dad would not be living with us again. In fact, their divorce seemed like a natural thing to do; when he was around, everyone was on edge and most definitely not happy and as far as I could tell, things were pretty good when he wasn’t around. For the record, around four years later I was stricken with the news David Lee Roth had left Van Halen. My little fifth grade heart was crushed, life as I knew it was over. Mom and Dad divorce, oh well; one of the greatest rock bands ever break up, Oh the humanity! Go figure.

I was blessed that in spite of the hardships my Mom endured as a single mother of three, our home life was much better than other cases I’ve heard of and witnessed on the aftermath of an acrimonious divorce. In many cases, the children suffer more than anyone and the effects can last well into adulthood.

On something of a lighter note, the pending “Divorce” between the City of San Diego and the Chargers has left thousands of children (read: lifelong Charger fans) at a loss for (nice) words for all parties involved. Upon reading the news earlier tonight, I was saddened just as many other fans were. Even more, I was disgusted to know that they would be moving in with the Raiders. “What a terrible PR move” I initially thought to myself. But they’re leaving, so they wouldn’t care too much about their PR in San Diego.

In the coming weeks and months, we’ll be subjected to plenty of hemming and hawing over who did what, who should have done what and who is to blame. But like a divorce, the ones who suffer most will be the fans; the ones who truly put their hearts and souls into the team and have little to no say over where the team goes. Personally, I think they’re as good as gone. We San Diegans cannot expect any help from the NFL; they’ve wanted a team in LA for over twenty years and if it takes making America’s Finest City NFL orphans to make it happen, they’d gladly do it. Chargers (dis)Ownership stands to make more money than ever with an LA move and when it gets down to it, football is a business to them, not a game.

Saddened as I will be, I’d say good riddance to an Ownership who contrary to public image is not known as the best local corporation to work for. This from people who have worked many years within the local professional sports community. A few weeks back, I made a halfhearted suggestion that one side of the deal; either the team or the city, would be wise to hire none other than Larry Lucchino as a consultant. If you don’t know Lucchino’s track record, look him up. The man gets things done.

As I was mulling over the possibility of the San Diego Chargers being a thing of the past, I thought of that post and something struck me; not ONE person hired by either side has any experience in getting a ballpark built. Plenty of experience in lawsuits, injunctions and accusations but not one has “Stadium Building” anywhere on the resume. So maybe any feasible stadium deal was doomed from the start. After all, I wouldn’t hire a plumber to fix my car and it makes even less sense (especially on the Chargers end) to hire a lawyer whose past accomplishments include defending one of the biggest liars in Our Nation’s history.

One of the things team ownerships “sell” in the push for a new stadium is the “Identity” the team brings to a community. Yet San Diego has had things which have been part of the local fabric, the very essence of this sleepy little Navy town since long before Barron Hilton brought the Chargers to Balboa Stadium.

The San Diego Zoo is staying put, and its intensive work is inspiring the next generation of biologists around the world; ensuring the vital work of wildlife preservation will live on long after the goalposts are torn down. The cutting-edge research being conducted at the Salk Institute will continue to improve the health of people the world over and who knows, maybe even find a cure for cancer long after the polluted soil below the Murph is finally cleaned up. And even long after the final concrete light standard is hauled out of Mission Valley, the white granite stones at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery will continue their silent vigil; keeping watch over all of us as we enjoy the freedoms given to us by those who are laid to rest there.

Yes, it would be a sad day indeed when we open the sports page to read about the Los Angeles Chargers. But after reading that last paragraph, can you really convince yourself it matters that much? After all, NFL or no NFL; we’ll still be a damn fine city…

(un)Professional Sports, the (not so) Super Bowl and the Things That Really Matter...

 

Ahhh, Super Bowl Sunday, when mega-corporations across the land pay millions of dollars to shill their product to billions of consumers; vying for the attention of those whose life desire is to spend way too much money on things they don’t really need. Where corporate executives who wouldn’t know an infield shift from shinola get the best seats to the best events, simply because the company coffers spit out enough money to house a hundred families so their logo can be displayed in fonts larger than the actual team names and logos. (Okay, that last line was inspired by a moment I had on Opening Day 2004, when a bunch of corporate stiffs yelled at me to sit down when I was cheering Our Padres in an extra-innings situation.)

But seriously, I dare you to ask yourself, when was the last time it was about the game? Every College Bowl Game is sponsored by someone; and the original names are much less prevalent than those of the corporate sponsors. Hell, even Disneyland has cornered the market on the congratulatory speech and nowadays, the now-classic “I’m going to Disneyland” line seems relatively harmless next to the less endearing side of human nature Professional Sports now exposes, with much help from the social networking universe.

If you’re reading this blog, chances are you found it through Facebook and if you have Facebook, it is safe to say you have seen literally thousands of examples of how we (we meaning SOME) have cast the game itself aside in favor of unearned bragging rights; a sociological phenomenon I have termed “the Illusion of Accomplishment”. Surely in the past week you have seen posts regarding the NFL and throughout the past year, a large chunk of the words coming across your newsfeed have had to do with Major League Baseball and any of the other major sports. How many of those posts have spoken not of appreciation of one’s chosen team; but of derision towards an opposing team?

I relish a good conversation on the greats of the games; The Johnny Unitas’ of the world; the Willie Mays’, the Larry Birds and the Wayne Gretzkys’; good talk about legendary players. Sadly, such conversations are rare a find as a Bud Selig fan at Petco Park. Bragging about something one had nothing to do with is the rule nowadays and it makes me wonder; are people that insecure in their own abilities they feel the need to use the doings of other to feel good about themselves?

In this life of mine, I have learned that balance is key to just about every endeavor. One example is not only knowing but living the balance between honest reflection and living in the past. Reflection aides in learning from the past; living in the past means one has learned nothing. In a perfect illustration of imbalance, look at Raider fans (and yes, there is no shortage of examples of serious imbalance among Raider fans); they’ve lost ten or more games in thirteen of the last fifteen seasons. Yet whenever question about the current state of their team, a fan will ask “How many rings you got?”

Living in the past, while living in absolute denial of the present situation. It’s easy to use the Raiders as an example, in fact almost too easy. Something like the saying involving fish in a barrel. But if you look at the average fan of any team, much of the same mentality is there; one person claiming superiority over another merely because a differing choice in favorite teams.

Even the accomplishments of the players themselves have taken a back seat to off-the-field behavior and in some cases, the athletic skills of players can’t even find room in the car among all the celebrity gossip and media-fueled drivel. Take Richard Sherman; great player and by most accounts, a solid man in his community. Yet most conversations about him start and end with his brash, loudmouth ways; while only occasional mention is made of his athletic prowess. Some guys out there make even Dennis Rodman look relatively tame by today’s (lack of) standards, and they don’t even have to wear feather boas and sleep with Madonna to do it.

I find it humorous and saddening at the same time, how many people will eat that kind of thing up, while the rest spend even more time complaining how ridiculous it all is. I know it may sound hypocritical, seeing as how I’m taking the time to write about it, yet I write about it from an outsiders view; rather than hem and haw over what’s going on in the world of sports fandom these days I look at it in the larger context of how it reflects who we are as a society and when I look at it that way, I must say I am not impressed.

Just over nine years ago, my Mom passed away during what was looking to be a championship season for the Chargers. Alas, our Chargers stunk it up, at home against New England in a bitter playoff elimination. After the game ended, guys were throwing their hats on the ground, yelling at their wives and tossing their jerseys in the trash can. I was irritated at first, of course I wanted to see LT and Phillip Rivers hoist the Vince Lombardi Trophy. But the irritation lasted only a few minutes, as I was all too aware of what a TRUE LOSS was. Momentarily I wished I was small-minded enough to think a football game was the end of the world. I look back on that moment as the moment I started losing interest in professional sports as a whole, as to get involved was to invariably have to deal with those with the “Illusion” way of thinking.

Lately, I have been thinking much of the Chargers only Super Bowl appearance, a day my brother and I stationed shotguns by the door so we could fire a shot in the air every time they scored. (Something we did for every televised Charger game when we live in New Mexico.) For us, it was about the game yet being it was our first, you can bet there was also a big party. Yet we manages it well, those who were there to party had no seating rights; those who were there for the game got preferred seating.

I’m working today and a big part of me is glad I am. Most Super Bowl parties these days are filled with people who know nothing about the game and you can bet tomorrow more than one person at every party will be rooting for Seattle simply because someone else is rooting for New England, and vice versa. Observe those around you, you will be amused; at least until you realize some of the people rooting hardest don’t know Tom Brady from Tom Cruise. There’s nothing more irritating than hearing someone talk nonstop about something they know nothing about. Yet for those who enjoy the game as much as the party, I salute you. You’re in it for all the right reasons.

I tip my SD hat to those of you who watch the game for the game; who follow their team for the team, and who respect the history and traditions. And for those who would claim superiority over another person, even over a professional athlete simply because the team you like is better than the team they root for or play on, I give you the old Chub Feeney salute…