Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Sunday, December 15, 2013
State of Play: Trophy Kids
"State of Play is an innovative new documentary film series that digs into complex and multi-layered themes in sports and explores their relationship to larger society." So says the front page of HBO's website dedicated to it's newest series by Actor/Director Peter Berg. That page presently features a still shot from the first installment of the series, "Trophy Kids." I watched Trophy Kids last night and have a personal take on what I saw. As always, my impression is based on the view through my introverted prism, as a loving dad and sports parent.
About four years ago, I read Tom Farrey's excellent Game On: The All-American Race to Make Champions of our Children. Game On is an superb, cautionary (though partially flawed) book on the complicated subject of modern youth sports. The book critically explores, among other things, the role of parents in what I refer to as "advanced youth sports." Other nomenclature for advanced youth sports might be more familiar: Select, Elite, Club, Travel. While the book did mention boorish parental behavior, it did not focus on behavior alone. That book raised the stakes to questioning the advanced youth sport complex while marveling at it. In contrast, Trophy Kids focuses on boorish behavior while revealing a deeper and more troubling sports parent pattern: the potential for sports parenting to supplant authentic parenting outside the context of their child's participation in sports by linking success to the expression of parental love and nurturance.
To me there is no doubt that the arena of sports activities available to our children has changed since my athletic youth. I don't really care to explore how or why we got here. Farrey does a good job examining the various motivations that have created a burgeoning youth sports industry outside of historically adequate outlets such as schools, YMCAs, Jewish Community Centers, and other local recreation centers. Whatever the motivations, two things are clear: entrepreneurs will make money and parents will seek status (or other expressions of happiness) through attachment to the children's' participation in increasingly glamorous programs. Neither is new. But absent in both cases is the motivation of the children themselves.
Trophy Kids capitalizes on presentation of extreme parental examples to make its points. Extreme examples can be helpful in warning parents with moderate sports-parenting issues; those with open minds will recognize the behavior and respond positively by changing their ways. But most parents with issues similar to those shown in the film will break in one of two ways, and both ways perpetuate damaging behaviors. One group of parents will identify with the parents depicted, especially in Trophy Kids, believing their behavior is warranted in view of the ends sought. The other group will flatly deny their behavior is anything like that of the parents in the film.
There's little or no help for the latter group. Denial is a horrible weakness. There is no progress or improvement in the face of denial. But if you are a sports parent, and if you've ever had a post-game or post-practice conversation in the car relating to your child's performance (attitude, effort, mentality, toughness, etc) where you were the ONLY ONE TALKING, alarm bells better be ringing. If you raise your voice to make a point or cut off your child when they attempt to express themselves in response, alarm bells better be ringing. If you change the manner in which you express feelings of warmth, safety, and love to your child based on their results, alarm bells better be ringing. If you have ever made your child cry during competition or on the way home, alarm bells better be ringing. If your personal alarm bells are not ringing in any one of these instances, you're fucked.
On the other hand, parents who believe their ends justify the means (exemplified by the parental behavior depicted in Trophy Kids) are the ones that need the message most. Superficially, each of the parents in the film believes their child is a special, beautiful creature, with great talent and boundless opportunity available through participation in sports. In part, these are natural and correct beliefs. The problem as depicted in the film arises when the parent substitutes their motivation their child's natural motivation. The problem is compounded and complicated to a potentially damaging extent when, for example, a parent cannot rise to express love to their child after a failing performance.
Each of the parents in Trophy Kids believes they are supporting their child's goals. But the film does not present much in the way of evidence of children's goals at all. Instead, each anecdotal example reveals full substitution of a parental desire for a child's goal. Through that substitution comes the loss of a group of essential parental behaviors. And most of the parents in the film actually aver to that substitution! But after a certain age, parents have to give way to coaches who are not burdened by the need to nurture a athlete child the way a parent is obligated to nurture the child. If the parent acquires a coaching demeanor and suspends the nurturing function, then BAM! you have problems. In my opinion, the bottom line starkly presented in Trophy Kids is the apparent absence of parental love as an outcome of failed performance. That absence, especially if pronounced and prolonged, can alter natural relationships and have the exact reverse outcome we seek for our kids in sports: believing oneself a failure and concomitant resentment of the activity.
My son has been involved in organized baseball since just before his fourth birthday. He has enjoyed almost 11 years of increasing performance and success as he experiences increasingly difficult competition and the increasingly demanding preparation that comes with that progression. I've been engaged since the beginning, although I happily turned him over to other men to coach by his age 12U year.
My son has always wanted to be a professional baseball player. I cannot say I fully support the idea of his pursuing pro-baseball; it's far less glamorous than most of us know. But I fully support his desire to engage the process and there's no doubt he's benefitted from the structure and discipline he's needed to express just to get to where he is now.
Despite my detachment from the end goal, I know I have crossed several lines of behavior directly as the result of my selfish focus on what I think my boy needed to know or hear. Almost always, these instances of churlish parental behavior ignored whether my son might have been well coached on the issue and was already possessed of the "right" answer. I've questioned his focus, effort, and toughness. Not surprisingly, parental desire that their child display toughness was a common theme in Trophy Kids. But when your child is raised in a bubble with everything provided him without any instance of exposure adversity outside of sports, should one be all that surprised that one's child lacks the apparent ability to stand on their own two feet?
Part of the problem is the apparent view of these sports parents that their children are merely empty vessels into which we can pour all the information and physical support needed for them to "dominate" their game or "be who they are" through their sports performance. At this point I am just grateful that I understand enough about my child to know that he will become as tough as he desires, on his own, and more so as I withdraw from his process and allow him to achieve and fail, win and lose, get stronger and get hurt, on his own.
About four years ago, I read Tom Farrey's excellent Game On: The All-American Race to Make Champions of our Children. Game On is an superb, cautionary (though partially flawed) book on the complicated subject of modern youth sports. The book critically explores, among other things, the role of parents in what I refer to as "advanced youth sports." Other nomenclature for advanced youth sports might be more familiar: Select, Elite, Club, Travel. While the book did mention boorish parental behavior, it did not focus on behavior alone. That book raised the stakes to questioning the advanced youth sport complex while marveling at it. In contrast, Trophy Kids focuses on boorish behavior while revealing a deeper and more troubling sports parent pattern: the potential for sports parenting to supplant authentic parenting outside the context of their child's participation in sports by linking success to the expression of parental love and nurturance.
To me there is no doubt that the arena of sports activities available to our children has changed since my athletic youth. I don't really care to explore how or why we got here. Farrey does a good job examining the various motivations that have created a burgeoning youth sports industry outside of historically adequate outlets such as schools, YMCAs, Jewish Community Centers, and other local recreation centers. Whatever the motivations, two things are clear: entrepreneurs will make money and parents will seek status (or other expressions of happiness) through attachment to the children's' participation in increasingly glamorous programs. Neither is new. But absent in both cases is the motivation of the children themselves.
Trophy Kids capitalizes on presentation of extreme parental examples to make its points. Extreme examples can be helpful in warning parents with moderate sports-parenting issues; those with open minds will recognize the behavior and respond positively by changing their ways. But most parents with issues similar to those shown in the film will break in one of two ways, and both ways perpetuate damaging behaviors. One group of parents will identify with the parents depicted, especially in Trophy Kids, believing their behavior is warranted in view of the ends sought. The other group will flatly deny their behavior is anything like that of the parents in the film.
There's little or no help for the latter group. Denial is a horrible weakness. There is no progress or improvement in the face of denial. But if you are a sports parent, and if you've ever had a post-game or post-practice conversation in the car relating to your child's performance (attitude, effort, mentality, toughness, etc) where you were the ONLY ONE TALKING, alarm bells better be ringing. If you raise your voice to make a point or cut off your child when they attempt to express themselves in response, alarm bells better be ringing. If you change the manner in which you express feelings of warmth, safety, and love to your child based on their results, alarm bells better be ringing. If you have ever made your child cry during competition or on the way home, alarm bells better be ringing. If your personal alarm bells are not ringing in any one of these instances, you're fucked.
On the other hand, parents who believe their ends justify the means (exemplified by the parental behavior depicted in Trophy Kids) are the ones that need the message most. Superficially, each of the parents in the film believes their child is a special, beautiful creature, with great talent and boundless opportunity available through participation in sports. In part, these are natural and correct beliefs. The problem as depicted in the film arises when the parent substitutes their motivation their child's natural motivation. The problem is compounded and complicated to a potentially damaging extent when, for example, a parent cannot rise to express love to their child after a failing performance.
Each of the parents in Trophy Kids believes they are supporting their child's goals. But the film does not present much in the way of evidence of children's goals at all. Instead, each anecdotal example reveals full substitution of a parental desire for a child's goal. Through that substitution comes the loss of a group of essential parental behaviors. And most of the parents in the film actually aver to that substitution! But after a certain age, parents have to give way to coaches who are not burdened by the need to nurture a athlete child the way a parent is obligated to nurture the child. If the parent acquires a coaching demeanor and suspends the nurturing function, then BAM! you have problems. In my opinion, the bottom line starkly presented in Trophy Kids is the apparent absence of parental love as an outcome of failed performance. That absence, especially if pronounced and prolonged, can alter natural relationships and have the exact reverse outcome we seek for our kids in sports: believing oneself a failure and concomitant resentment of the activity.
My son has been involved in organized baseball since just before his fourth birthday. He has enjoyed almost 11 years of increasing performance and success as he experiences increasingly difficult competition and the increasingly demanding preparation that comes with that progression. I've been engaged since the beginning, although I happily turned him over to other men to coach by his age 12U year.
My son has always wanted to be a professional baseball player. I cannot say I fully support the idea of his pursuing pro-baseball; it's far less glamorous than most of us know. But I fully support his desire to engage the process and there's no doubt he's benefitted from the structure and discipline he's needed to express just to get to where he is now.
Despite my detachment from the end goal, I know I have crossed several lines of behavior directly as the result of my selfish focus on what I think my boy needed to know or hear. Almost always, these instances of churlish parental behavior ignored whether my son might have been well coached on the issue and was already possessed of the "right" answer. I've questioned his focus, effort, and toughness. Not surprisingly, parental desire that their child display toughness was a common theme in Trophy Kids. But when your child is raised in a bubble with everything provided him without any instance of exposure adversity outside of sports, should one be all that surprised that one's child lacks the apparent ability to stand on their own two feet?
Part of the problem is the apparent view of these sports parents that their children are merely empty vessels into which we can pour all the information and physical support needed for them to "dominate" their game or "be who they are" through their sports performance. At this point I am just grateful that I understand enough about my child to know that he will become as tough as he desires, on his own, and more so as I withdraw from his process and allow him to achieve and fail, win and lose, get stronger and get hurt, on his own.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Breaking Fit
As Seattle's October finally saw the transition from late summer to autumn, arbolito's baseball activities shifted indoors to the baseball facility at Rips Baseball. As always, he commits to his hitting work, seven days a week, under the watchful eyes of his program director (35+ years of baseball development and coaching) and his main instructor (five years of MLB baseball and now area scout for an American League team). What changed this year is the loci of his strength and conditioning, and arm care work.
As ever, we remain strong adherents of Driveline Baseball for arm care, throwing training, and velocity development. Having moved his business to open his own facility, we only get to see Coach Kyle Boddy weekly. Arbolito remains dedicated, following the program, throwing as prescribed in the garage when we cannot get to the Driveline shop in Puyallup, Washington to train in person.
Kyle's move from the Rips Baseball facility also left open the question of where arbolito would carry-on his off-season strength and conditioning. Last offseason, Kyle wrote his program and the kid downright blossomed by spring. That mystical combination of good food, hard training and lifting, and a stew of adolescent chemistry flowing through his body lead to remarkable strength gains and physical changes. Rips puts together a very good winter workout program every year. But this year arbolito was ready for a custom performance program to support his gifts and put him on an even more productive path.
For us, the choice was an easy one, even in Seattle, a market with manifold outlets for advanced athletic training. Riley Athletics is what I call a "boutique" gym and looks nothing like what you find in 24-Hour Fitness or LA Fitness gyms. Five power racks, a ready collection of rubber bumper- and iron Olympic plates, Prowler Sleds, battle ropes, a nauseating slew of medicine balls and kettlebells, this place demands purpose and exacts work. Owner Ryan Riley is a Seattle kid with a pro-baseball career and a Clemson degree in, as he describes it, "Weightlifting."
Ryan and his trainers run specialty performance training, of mostly baseball athletes, in very small class format. Sharp, short, diverse workouts hit major attributes of athletic performance in every well-rounded session: absolute strength, speed strength, explosive power, and endurance. The added ingredients of attention to formal detail creates a great gym habit for the high school, collegiate, and professional players training at Riley Athletic. Top it with a special sauce emphasizing mobility training and collaborating with physical therapy professionals, and you have a performance dish that represents a real training value for athletes striving to play their sport at increasingly more competitive levels.
The nature of a niche is the narrowness of the market. Riley Athletic expands his business model running beginning and intermediate strength training, also in class format, and has made a stock-in-trade of the fitness bootcamp. Increasingly popular in the gym business now, and found under many brand names, metabolic conditioning is the combination of groups of seemingly random exercises in varying patterns of intensity and duration, with very short invervals of rest. The bootcamp moniker is appropriated from military bootcamp training where recruits go through several weeks of regimented exercise designed to accomplish physical training and identify the mentally tough soldiers.
Having watched arbolito integrate Riley's athletic training and pick up almost instantly where he left off after last winter's training, I had to admit I was really impressed with the Riley program. At about the time I was sold on the athletes' class at Riley Athletic, Riley offered a six-week bootcamp personal "challenge." The Challenge represented a great training value that I jumped on as quickly as a Chinook salmon on a smelt plug. The next few posts will hopefully highlight (or lowlight as the case may be) some of the experiences I gained during the Riley Personal Transformation Challenge I just completed.
As ever, we remain strong adherents of Driveline Baseball for arm care, throwing training, and velocity development. Having moved his business to open his own facility, we only get to see Coach Kyle Boddy weekly. Arbolito remains dedicated, following the program, throwing as prescribed in the garage when we cannot get to the Driveline shop in Puyallup, Washington to train in person.
Kyle's move from the Rips Baseball facility also left open the question of where arbolito would carry-on his off-season strength and conditioning. Last offseason, Kyle wrote his program and the kid downright blossomed by spring. That mystical combination of good food, hard training and lifting, and a stew of adolescent chemistry flowing through his body lead to remarkable strength gains and physical changes. Rips puts together a very good winter workout program every year. But this year arbolito was ready for a custom performance program to support his gifts and put him on an even more productive path.
For us, the choice was an easy one, even in Seattle, a market with manifold outlets for advanced athletic training. Riley Athletics is what I call a "boutique" gym and looks nothing like what you find in 24-Hour Fitness or LA Fitness gyms. Five power racks, a ready collection of rubber bumper- and iron Olympic plates, Prowler Sleds, battle ropes, a nauseating slew of medicine balls and kettlebells, this place demands purpose and exacts work. Owner Ryan Riley is a Seattle kid with a pro-baseball career and a Clemson degree in, as he describes it, "Weightlifting."
Ryan and his trainers run specialty performance training, of mostly baseball athletes, in very small class format. Sharp, short, diverse workouts hit major attributes of athletic performance in every well-rounded session: absolute strength, speed strength, explosive power, and endurance. The added ingredients of attention to formal detail creates a great gym habit for the high school, collegiate, and professional players training at Riley Athletic. Top it with a special sauce emphasizing mobility training and collaborating with physical therapy professionals, and you have a performance dish that represents a real training value for athletes striving to play their sport at increasingly more competitive levels.
The nature of a niche is the narrowness of the market. Riley Athletic expands his business model running beginning and intermediate strength training, also in class format, and has made a stock-in-trade of the fitness bootcamp. Increasingly popular in the gym business now, and found under many brand names, metabolic conditioning is the combination of groups of seemingly random exercises in varying patterns of intensity and duration, with very short invervals of rest. The bootcamp moniker is appropriated from military bootcamp training where recruits go through several weeks of regimented exercise designed to accomplish physical training and identify the mentally tough soldiers.
Having watched arbolito integrate Riley's athletic training and pick up almost instantly where he left off after last winter's training, I had to admit I was really impressed with the Riley program. At about the time I was sold on the athletes' class at Riley Athletic, Riley offered a six-week bootcamp personal "challenge." The Challenge represented a great training value that I jumped on as quickly as a Chinook salmon on a smelt plug. The next few posts will hopefully highlight (or lowlight as the case may be) some of the experiences I gained during the Riley Personal Transformation Challenge I just completed.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Monday, September 16, 2013
Among the missed opportunities
Amazingly, after posting the music video I made from footage of my son training for his first high school baseball season, I did nothing to journal that season. All I have to say is, "it was wonderful." Arbolito captained the freshman baseball team in a campaign that saw them regularly play against mixed-class teams (albeit non-varsity) and finish with a .500 record. He was a fire-starter hitting at the top of the order, was flawless in centerfield, made five strong, almost dominant appearances on the mound. This is Arbolito at 14 throwing back to back three-up/three-down innings at Bellevue High School.
When I enrolled Arbolito in select youth baseball after his super 11U PONY season, I only sought to get him prepared to be a good high school baseball player. I thought that as with many things, as the competition matures, the game passes many players by and attrition sets in. I wondered when that would occur for Arbolito. Thankfully the answer is a resounding "not yet." If anything, his game, physicality, and athleticism continue to improve. As such, he has already far exceeded his father as an athlete and I admire him to no end. Thanks Arbolito for sticking it in and hammering away.
Monday, September 9, 2013
If I were a diarist, I'd barely exist, Part 2
Returning to Seattle from Florida on the eve of my 51st birthday was arduous in that flying was uncomfortable for me, oh ye of short legs. Airplane seats, like most, are just off-positioned for my stature that they put quite a bit of strain on my knees. Even my newly minted mechanical knee was a bit unhappy. But having my son as a traveling companion more than made up for that discomfort. I would do it a ten-thousand days in a row for him.
The passage of my birthday, once so looked-forward to as a child, is not the milestone for me anymore. And not just because it signifies aging, which has its own sucky earmarks. No, living in Seattle, my birthday passing means the imminence of Fall. When I played rugby, the arrival of Fall meant an outlet, camaraderie, and my best physical shape of the year. Now, passing that date just means the obvious shortening of daylight, absence of sunshine, and a mix of yardwork that used to occupy me deep into November. Here's hoping the loss of two very mature backyard trees this changes that schedule a bit.
August also means a complete change in baseball activity. Most teams in the region hold their tryouts and seek to fill rosters for the following spring and summer. As does Arbolito's club. But them, August also means 16-days of the best baseball camp in the area. Arbolito's coach loves his teaching function, and although these camps are also money-makers and recruiting tools, he flourishes in a teaching environment. He maintains a work rate and structure to behold. Arbolito attended every day of camp, save the final three which we blocked out for a family trip to the beach.
At the beach, we did what we do. Walk the dogs. Shop for seafood and organize beautiful meals. Sit dazed in our comfy furniture with the fireplace stoked. And then develop our own stoke paddling out and surfing the bounty of wind, fetch, and ocean. This trip was truly beautiful in that Arbolito and his best friend are now completely self-sufficient in the water, paddling for and catching their own waves and reforms. Their abilities freed me to hit the outside line-up with big red, a 10 foot, single fin longboard, and show that I still charge. I do.
Returning home from the beach was, as always, a mild bummer, but welcome nonetheless. The shock of Arbolito returning to school was softened this year, as it was last year, by activities that have him and his classmates present at school before classes start. I believe theirs is a great system. And although the homework hit hard, at least in a couple of classes, right off the bat, the kid is settling into that scholastic rhythym and tempo that includes the reopening of his social life via the Friday Night Lights and Dances with Girls. If he's happy then so am I.
The passage of my birthday, once so looked-forward to as a child, is not the milestone for me anymore. And not just because it signifies aging, which has its own sucky earmarks. No, living in Seattle, my birthday passing means the imminence of Fall. When I played rugby, the arrival of Fall meant an outlet, camaraderie, and my best physical shape of the year. Now, passing that date just means the obvious shortening of daylight, absence of sunshine, and a mix of yardwork that used to occupy me deep into November. Here's hoping the loss of two very mature backyard trees this changes that schedule a bit.
August also means a complete change in baseball activity. Most teams in the region hold their tryouts and seek to fill rosters for the following spring and summer. As does Arbolito's club. But them, August also means 16-days of the best baseball camp in the area. Arbolito's coach loves his teaching function, and although these camps are also money-makers and recruiting tools, he flourishes in a teaching environment. He maintains a work rate and structure to behold. Arbolito attended every day of camp, save the final three which we blocked out for a family trip to the beach.
 |
| Big Red |
At the beach, we did what we do. Walk the dogs. Shop for seafood and organize beautiful meals. Sit dazed in our comfy furniture with the fireplace stoked. And then develop our own stoke paddling out and surfing the bounty of wind, fetch, and ocean. This trip was truly beautiful in that Arbolito and his best friend are now completely self-sufficient in the water, paddling for and catching their own waves and reforms. Their abilities freed me to hit the outside line-up with big red, a 10 foot, single fin longboard, and show that I still charge. I do.
Returning home from the beach was, as always, a mild bummer, but welcome nonetheless. The shock of Arbolito returning to school was softened this year, as it was last year, by activities that have him and his classmates present at school before classes start. I believe theirs is a great system. And although the homework hit hard, at least in a couple of classes, right off the bat, the kid is settling into that scholastic rhythym and tempo that includes the reopening of his social life via the Friday Night Lights and Dances with Girls. If he's happy then so am I.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
If I were a diarist, I'd barely exist
I get ten ideas a day when I think about writing. That's why I chap my own hide when I check in here and realize I've let yet another TWO FUCKING MONTHs elapse since my last entry. That last entry consisted of me apologizing for not posting more frequently. What a ficken' doufous!
Now it's early September, and living in Washington State USA, that means summer is over. I realize my latest lapse was failing to journal the summer. And a nice one it was, with plenty of uplifting and equally vexing occurences that are the stuff of a thoughtful life and hoperfully, an interesting journal.
July passed. That means that my son's regular baseball season with his year-round club, ended with a nice tournament showing and a league playoff run. The boy grew a bit in stature and a lot in self-confidence as his team relied on him to fill at shortstop while his teammate, the starter, was down with an injury. This lead to a three week stint where he started at the position he once loved and owned before leaping from PONY to select baseball. And he owned it yet again, opening his coaches eyes to some new flexibility in the lineup.
He also pitched for the first time since near the end of his high school season when he took leave from the mound to address some soreness in his upper arm. More on the soreness later. His coach had no desire to pitch him this summer, seeking to protect his young arm for later in his high school career, but was left with no options as our best guys were already spent. The scenario was about as "high leverage" a situation as you could ask of a youth pitcher. He actually threw really well, with a ton of velocity, but surrendured a single earned run that turned out to be the game winner.
Hopefully, you're getting the picture that this was the good stuff of a summer well-lived. And I took it all in, but never went beyond my own thoughts to journal it. Making me a poor specimen of a writer; a breed renowned for its poor specimens. Sort of like being king of the dipshits.
Arbolito continued to struggle with yet another spasm of throwing-caused soreness (this being the third, each in a different part of the arm). This time, while attending his first evaluation "showcase," he made a big throw and came up hinky. He battled the pain and showed well, but the "injury" greatly dampened the experience. I had been warned this one might not be worth attending and I've been beating myself up about going ever since that throw.
As July passed into August, we found ourselves flying to Fort Myers, Florida, my son a member of the 14U Team Northwest contingent at the Perfect Game World Series wood bat tournament. These are highly competitive, national invitational events at which the best age-group players in the country compete. At the right age-levels, these are events at which prospects can show-off for college recruiters and even professional scouts.
Arbolito nursed his way through the event, protecting his arm yet playing extremely well in centerfield and, for a few innings, at shortstop once again. Unfortunately, his worst two moments of the tournament also occured in the field at short, leading to runs that brought our nationally-ranked opponents into a 2-2 tie, and then a 3-2 loss. At the plate, the boy swung the bat well, although a somewhat picky approach that lead to 8 walks, several stolen bases and runs scored, also lead to 3 strikeouts looking, a hitter's most detested outcome.
A sports parent always wants chances for their little competitor to shine, and hopes against lapses. But the chance to travel with my son made this nine days special no matter what transpired on the field (although the good showing was deeply satisfying). Sure seven ball games in five days were great. Winning two of the last three games, including one against the #4 travel team in the country was awesome.
But so was standing waist deep in the Gulf of Mexico.
And choosing a different restaurant every night.
And swimming in the hotel pool in a tropical downpour.
And miniature golfing with a million of our very closest mosquito-friends.
And stopping into the ghetto sneaker joint, and Arbolito having a really down conversation with a super-cool hip-hop sales dude.
And visiting the campus of Florida Gulf Coast University just as freshmen (girls) were arriving for orientation.
And finding out a friend from elementary school is on the founding faculty of this very young university and meeting her for dinner during yet another tropical downpour.
An immensely satisfying trip. So much so, I just found out last night that one of my fellow Team Northwest dads is still wearing his Perfect Game Event Pass wristlet as a memento he had so much fun down there.
Continued in Part Deuce.
Now it's early September, and living in Washington State USA, that means summer is over. I realize my latest lapse was failing to journal the summer. And a nice one it was, with plenty of uplifting and equally vexing occurences that are the stuff of a thoughtful life and hoperfully, an interesting journal.
July passed. That means that my son's regular baseball season with his year-round club, ended with a nice tournament showing and a league playoff run. The boy grew a bit in stature and a lot in self-confidence as his team relied on him to fill at shortstop while his teammate, the starter, was down with an injury. This lead to a three week stint where he started at the position he once loved and owned before leaping from PONY to select baseball. And he owned it yet again, opening his coaches eyes to some new flexibility in the lineup.
He also pitched for the first time since near the end of his high school season when he took leave from the mound to address some soreness in his upper arm. More on the soreness later. His coach had no desire to pitch him this summer, seeking to protect his young arm for later in his high school career, but was left with no options as our best guys were already spent. The scenario was about as "high leverage" a situation as you could ask of a youth pitcher. He actually threw really well, with a ton of velocity, but surrendured a single earned run that turned out to be the game winner.
Hopefully, you're getting the picture that this was the good stuff of a summer well-lived. And I took it all in, but never went beyond my own thoughts to journal it. Making me a poor specimen of a writer; a breed renowned for its poor specimens. Sort of like being king of the dipshits.
Arbolito continued to struggle with yet another spasm of throwing-caused soreness (this being the third, each in a different part of the arm). This time, while attending his first evaluation "showcase," he made a big throw and came up hinky. He battled the pain and showed well, but the "injury" greatly dampened the experience. I had been warned this one might not be worth attending and I've been beating myself up about going ever since that throw.
As July passed into August, we found ourselves flying to Fort Myers, Florida, my son a member of the 14U Team Northwest contingent at the Perfect Game World Series wood bat tournament. These are highly competitive, national invitational events at which the best age-group players in the country compete. At the right age-levels, these are events at which prospects can show-off for college recruiters and even professional scouts.
 |
| Team Northwest 14U, 2013 PG World Series |
A sports parent always wants chances for their little competitor to shine, and hopes against lapses. But the chance to travel with my son made this nine days special no matter what transpired on the field (although the good showing was deeply satisfying). Sure seven ball games in five days were great. Winning two of the last three games, including one against the #4 travel team in the country was awesome.
But so was standing waist deep in the Gulf of Mexico.
And choosing a different restaurant every night.
And swimming in the hotel pool in a tropical downpour.
And miniature golfing with a million of our very closest mosquito-friends.
And stopping into the ghetto sneaker joint, and Arbolito having a really down conversation with a super-cool hip-hop sales dude.
And visiting the campus of Florida Gulf Coast University just as freshmen (girls) were arriving for orientation.
And finding out a friend from elementary school is on the founding faculty of this very young university and meeting her for dinner during yet another tropical downpour.
An immensely satisfying trip. So much so, I just found out last night that one of my fellow Team Northwest dads is still wearing his Perfect Game Event Pass wristlet as a memento he had so much fun down there.
Continued in Part Deuce.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Ideas that don't suck
I'm thinking of opening a bar/cafe called "Whiskey and Keyboards." I'm visualizing a stylish, but age-non-specific, urban joint with modern decor. The idea is to cater to folks who want to get sloshed and write things on the internet they will later regret.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Branching Out
It occured to me lately, that I was posting here, all manner of music videos. Mining youtube and soundcloud has emerged as a pass-time for me. Besides, you wouldn't get to hear all this groovy stuff if I didn't find it for you, right? Well to me, Blogger didn't seem like the right platform for that sort of social "blogging." So I started a gnary old tumblr for you.
Welcome to gnarlyoldguy.tumblr.com.
Oh but don't stop coming here. I still have to write an essay every now then. Hopefully you'll read one of them.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Genre Defining
The rise of the internet and digital music sharing made available a multitude of genres of dance music previously only heard in the grooviest nightclubs and dance halls. Once I was a little clubby (in my San Diego days). But now I am way too old to slip-n-slide around town anymore. Nevertheless, I never lost my taste for beats and bass. Perhaps my favorite electronic dance music micro-genre is the downtempo, hip-hop, chop sample, and Akai MPC driven music exemplified by the Deadbeats.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Sneakerhead Anthem: Rise of the Foot Soldier--Wizdom
This song and video are for all the dads (and moms) dealing with a kid harboring a sneaker addiction! I have been lucky to get to know MC Wizdom this year and credit him with having a real role in Seattle's superb hip hop network.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Courage and Dignity
The story of Jason Collins' recent first-person column in Sports Illustrated hit the popular airwaves and the internet yesterday in a major way. For non-sports fans, Jason is a professional basketball player with a twelve year career, who came out as a gay man in this column. His choice to make an announcement of this information made him the first male player in American major professional sports to do so, despite the apparent evidence that every team in every sport has one or more gay athletes.
Before Jason, no other professional male athlete in a major sport came out during their career. Welsh Rugby superstar, Gareth Thomas came out toward the end of his career, but then left the game to advocate for gay rights. Another brit, John Amaechi, came out after completing a relatively successful professional basketball career, and has contributed an articulate dignity to the evolving public discussion on homosexuality in this country.
But why should I care enough to blog the issue? I have adored girls since I can first remember meeting one in nursery school. I still remember her name. As I do the girl I kissed in 2nd grade, after which I was sent to the principal's office and paddled. I was lucky to gain my first real girlfriend in 3rd grade (a whole year!), and then a parade of great crushes every year thereafter. By law school, my buddies in San Diego kidded that I was the "fall-in-love-guy" in their broad circle of friends, because I went for every rollergirl and punker chick that cruised by us while we sat on the boardwalk checking the Mission Beach surf. That is, of course, until Angela moved in next door and stole my heart from the world, forever.
Yet despite all the evidence of my orientation, despite the obvious google-eyes I had for nearly every girl at Hall High School, I spent a three-year period of my life, 9th to 11th grade, the subject of nearly daily, merciless bullying by a small group of kids who persisted in calling me a "fag" or "gay" or "homo." I never understood the genesis of this experience and it caused me unending pain and anxiety at a period of my life when I wanted nothing more than to date girls. I still suffer occasional nightmares from that bullying experience.
Which leads me to wonder how brutally difficult life must be for a teenager who actually is gay, but is terrified of the possibility of being called out for it. The data regarding teen gay suicide does not lie. And that's a cultural shame of tremendous magnitude. In this small way, I want to congratulate Jason Collins for his courage and dignity. The conversation might make some people uncomfortable, and it's not for me to criticize the basis for their discomfort. But the shift is on. And conversation starters like Jason Collins' will benefit us as a society in the long run.
Before Jason, no other professional male athlete in a major sport came out during their career. Welsh Rugby superstar, Gareth Thomas came out toward the end of his career, but then left the game to advocate for gay rights. Another brit, John Amaechi, came out after completing a relatively successful professional basketball career, and has contributed an articulate dignity to the evolving public discussion on homosexuality in this country.
But why should I care enough to blog the issue? I have adored girls since I can first remember meeting one in nursery school. I still remember her name. As I do the girl I kissed in 2nd grade, after which I was sent to the principal's office and paddled. I was lucky to gain my first real girlfriend in 3rd grade (a whole year!), and then a parade of great crushes every year thereafter. By law school, my buddies in San Diego kidded that I was the "fall-in-love-guy" in their broad circle of friends, because I went for every rollergirl and punker chick that cruised by us while we sat on the boardwalk checking the Mission Beach surf. That is, of course, until Angela moved in next door and stole my heart from the world, forever.
Yet despite all the evidence of my orientation, despite the obvious google-eyes I had for nearly every girl at Hall High School, I spent a three-year period of my life, 9th to 11th grade, the subject of nearly daily, merciless bullying by a small group of kids who persisted in calling me a "fag" or "gay" or "homo." I never understood the genesis of this experience and it caused me unending pain and anxiety at a period of my life when I wanted nothing more than to date girls. I still suffer occasional nightmares from that bullying experience.
Which leads me to wonder how brutally difficult life must be for a teenager who actually is gay, but is terrified of the possibility of being called out for it. The data regarding teen gay suicide does not lie. And that's a cultural shame of tremendous magnitude. In this small way, I want to congratulate Jason Collins for his courage and dignity. The conversation might make some people uncomfortable, and it's not for me to criticize the basis for their discomfort. But the shift is on. And conversation starters like Jason Collins' will benefit us as a society in the long run.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Fun and Agony at the Ball Park
Last night tres_arbolitos and I attended the Seattle Mariners vs Houston Astros professional baseball game at Safeco Field courtesy of the Houston Astros. My son's strength, conditioning, and arm-care coach is in the process of developing a process for the Astros' minor league pitching development (or at least a little part of that). He met with front office brass before the game and then treated him and several of his young pitching proteges to take in the game from just above home plate.
The game was a mess for M's fans as the team performed poorly against one of the worst teams (presently) in Major League Baseball. But the company was great and son's coach was in rare form revealing some of the breadth of his baseball knowledge, a great sense of humor, and a penchant for profanity to which I could only supplicate in utter respect.
As a result of the company, coach, his colleague and friend, three young pitchers who have worked exceedingly hard together all winter, and the dads, the night was a hilarious success. Perhaps the single best moment, leaving aside when coach screamed out "That ball was FUCKED" following a towering homer hit by one of the Astros, was when a fan caught a foul ball in his beer cup and proceeded to chug the beer before removing said ball. The beauty of personal and social media being what it has become, someone caught the event on tape and it's now up on the internet.
The game was a mess for M's fans as the team performed poorly against one of the worst teams (presently) in Major League Baseball. But the company was great and son's coach was in rare form revealing some of the breadth of his baseball knowledge, a great sense of humor, and a penchant for profanity to which I could only supplicate in utter respect.As a result of the company, coach, his colleague and friend, three young pitchers who have worked exceedingly hard together all winter, and the dads, the night was a hilarious success. Perhaps the single best moment, leaving aside when coach screamed out "That ball was FUCKED" following a towering homer hit by one of the Astros, was when a fan caught a foul ball in his beer cup and proceeded to chug the beer before removing said ball. The beauty of personal and social media being what it has become, someone caught the event on tape and it's now up on the internet.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
On the road to 10000 hours: a video tribute
First, allow me to apologize for lagging another couple of months before posting to the blog. I actually have way too much to blog, and as with many things, some times having too much of a good thing is not good. For instance, I keep finding new sources of independently-produced music that, well, is far more listenable than anything the RIAA ever lorded over. And folks seem really eager to give it away for free. That doesn't stop me from donating a few bucks to the young guys making this music so that they can buy better laptops, drum machines, and keyboards, so they can cut more beats.
On the sporting front, baseball season is underway. Readers familiar plain old dad's family know very well that our lifestyle revolves around tres_arbolito's baseball seasons. He's passionate about playing, practicing, training, learning, and playing even more. He has big aspirations and works unbelieveably hard to build the foundation on which to begin his climb to meet them. At nearly 15, he's begun seeing some of his old teammates and friends leave the game, or lose the passion that once fired their play. In the face of such loss, he put his head down and blasted through an incredibly dense off-season beginning in September 2012 and culminating in his first high school baseball tryouts the last week of February 2013.
Thinking I might one day want to relive this passage of effort, I recorded a lot of it. Then I started to play around with the simple movie-making software on our most recent PC. I discovered that with the correct permissions, I could add a layer of sound incorporating some of the music I found so inspiring this winter.
And so, with extreme thanks to Seattle's producer duo, Odesza, for their wonderful track "How Did I Get Here?", the result of my first foray in video-making. Please enjoy.
On the sporting front, baseball season is underway. Readers familiar plain old dad's family know very well that our lifestyle revolves around tres_arbolito's baseball seasons. He's passionate about playing, practicing, training, learning, and playing even more. He has big aspirations and works unbelieveably hard to build the foundation on which to begin his climb to meet them. At nearly 15, he's begun seeing some of his old teammates and friends leave the game, or lose the passion that once fired their play. In the face of such loss, he put his head down and blasted through an incredibly dense off-season beginning in September 2012 and culminating in his first high school baseball tryouts the last week of February 2013.
Thinking I might one day want to relive this passage of effort, I recorded a lot of it. Then I started to play around with the simple movie-making software on our most recent PC. I discovered that with the correct permissions, I could add a layer of sound incorporating some of the music I found so inspiring this winter.
And so, with extreme thanks to Seattle's producer duo, Odesza, for their wonderful track "How Did I Get Here?", the result of my first foray in video-making. Please enjoy.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Odesza Summer's Gone
I might be old, but I love hearing new music that moves me. Seattle producers BeachesBeaches and CatacombKid combine to create Odesza, and offer their album for nothing on their website. I downloaded it onto my waterproof mp3 player and listen to it when I swim. Sometimes twice when I'm going long. You can too. Thank you Odesza.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Driveline Baseball Promo
Driveline Baseball is the branding for the strength and conditioning coach in my son's select baseball program. Lest the term "select baseball" turn you off immediately, or at least raise doubt as to the credibility of the strength, arm care, and throwing approach used, take a look at this video.
Tres_arbolitos featured deadlifting at 0:29. Too bad the photographer didn't come five minutes sooner as this was shot the day tres_arbolitos pulled 290 (twice his bodyweight) for three repetitions.
Tres_arbolitos featured deadlifting at 0:29. Too bad the photographer didn't come five minutes sooner as this was shot the day tres_arbolitos pulled 290 (twice his bodyweight) for three repetitions.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Time to start writing about swimming...
I swim a lot these days. I used to swim a lot and enjoyed reading the blogs of others that did so also. I think I'll start adding some swim posts.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
As long as we're catching up...
The week we left for Las Vegas (last October), the old-growth maple in our back yard gave up the ghost and fell on the house. A huge clattering and scratchy racket awakened us at 3:30 in the morning. Still clouded by the illogic of full REM sleep, I first thought the noise was Kenai (our Anatolian Shepherd dog) chasing a coyote across the back of the house and roof. Operating in an adrenaline-driven, dreamy waking, I ran to the living room to get out the back slider into the yard and calm the fuss. Only, I could not open the slider.
Still clouded, and not sure why I couldn't slide open the back door, I ran to and out of the side door. The night was relatively warm and calm, the ground sopping wet with a type of rain we in the Pacific Northwest refer to as "fog drip." Certainly there were none of the typical weather markers for conditions that typically drop trees out here. Yet there it lay. Our 100+ year-old maple tree had fallen on the house.
On the one hand, an event like this one is always a surprise when it happens, and the lack of stormy conditions amplified the surprise. On the other hand, I had been ogling our leafy beast for a couple of years now, wondering in which direction it would fall when it did. This was a tree with four-come-three major trunks (the fourth was knocked off some 10 years ago when the neighbor's sitka spruce uprooted in a proper northwest windstorm and fell into our yard). So yes, I fully expected this night to happen, just not this night.
My first reaction to seeing the tree on the house was amplified panic; full-on fight or flight. I ran half-clothed to get my chainsaw, and tried to climb the ladder onto the roof before Angela grabbed me and talked some sense. "But I have to get it off the roof before it crushes the house!" was my brave, dimwitted reply. "No. It's down, it hasn't crushed the house, so it won't. Let's call the fire department and find out what they recommend."
I hate the fire department. None of those guys is gnarlier than me. Yet to a man, they're all tall and handsome, and so goddamn friendly and helpful. And yes, they were a big help. The young buck couldn't wait to crawl around the attic in full bunking gear to inspect the roof and rafters. The chief; the guy that drives the suburban and the one dude that actually resembled me, layed down some process for us and arranged a city inspection. When it happened later that morning, the inspection was a positive event in that the house was deemed habitable.
Most importantly, I managed to get a friend who happens to be a contractor over the house and he had his tree guy on the job by mid-morning. By mid-afternoon the tree was on the ground, bucked and limbed, and my contractor buddy was back to tarp off the portion of the roof that was punctured in several spots.
With the tree off the house, I was able to determine that the full meat of the main trunk struck the house mid-slider, just above the header. The header for a 12-foot sliding glass door being a very big piece of wood, absorbed the brunt of the fall and spared us the tree slicing through our house like a katana through a straw omote cutting target. But it would have to be replaced along with the door, several rafters, and some siding ruined by puncturing limbs. One such spot included a limb that broke off at the side of our master bedroom after puncturing the roof overhang there. Had it not, it would have plunged into our bed causing worse than dream-wracked panic.
This week, roofing and repairs began. And with that, I set about restoring the back yard minus the respected elder, carrying and stacking his heavy pieces to our woodpile. And feeling pretty gnarly about it.
Still clouded, and not sure why I couldn't slide open the back door, I ran to and out of the side door. The night was relatively warm and calm, the ground sopping wet with a type of rain we in the Pacific Northwest refer to as "fog drip." Certainly there were none of the typical weather markers for conditions that typically drop trees out here. Yet there it lay. Our 100+ year-old maple tree had fallen on the house.
On the one hand, an event like this one is always a surprise when it happens, and the lack of stormy conditions amplified the surprise. On the other hand, I had been ogling our leafy beast for a couple of years now, wondering in which direction it would fall when it did. This was a tree with four-come-three major trunks (the fourth was knocked off some 10 years ago when the neighbor's sitka spruce uprooted in a proper northwest windstorm and fell into our yard). So yes, I fully expected this night to happen, just not this night.
My first reaction to seeing the tree on the house was amplified panic; full-on fight or flight. I ran half-clothed to get my chainsaw, and tried to climb the ladder onto the roof before Angela grabbed me and talked some sense. "But I have to get it off the roof before it crushes the house!" was my brave, dimwitted reply. "No. It's down, it hasn't crushed the house, so it won't. Let's call the fire department and find out what they recommend."
I hate the fire department. None of those guys is gnarlier than me. Yet to a man, they're all tall and handsome, and so goddamn friendly and helpful. And yes, they were a big help. The young buck couldn't wait to crawl around the attic in full bunking gear to inspect the roof and rafters. The chief; the guy that drives the suburban and the one dude that actually resembled me, layed down some process for us and arranged a city inspection. When it happened later that morning, the inspection was a positive event in that the house was deemed habitable.
Most importantly, I managed to get a friend who happens to be a contractor over the house and he had his tree guy on the job by mid-morning. By mid-afternoon the tree was on the ground, bucked and limbed, and my contractor buddy was back to tarp off the portion of the roof that was punctured in several spots.
With the tree off the house, I was able to determine that the full meat of the main trunk struck the house mid-slider, just above the header. The header for a 12-foot sliding glass door being a very big piece of wood, absorbed the brunt of the fall and spared us the tree slicing through our house like a katana through a straw omote cutting target. But it would have to be replaced along with the door, several rafters, and some siding ruined by puncturing limbs. One such spot included a limb that broke off at the side of our master bedroom after puncturing the roof overhang there. Had it not, it would have plunged into our bed causing worse than dream-wracked panic.
This week, roofing and repairs began. And with that, I set about restoring the back yard minus the respected elder, carrying and stacking his heavy pieces to our woodpile. And feeling pretty gnarly about it.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
No Left Knee Behind
 |
| Surgery is over. Stoked. |
After fasting the the night, I checked into Overlake Hospital in Bellevue, Washington on Monday, October 29, 2012. Esposa tres_arboles steadfastly took the reigns as partner and coach, and saw me through, from check-in to recovery room as I underwent left knee complete arthroplasty. Knee replacement. A lifetime of athletic injuries (and subsequent incidental insults, many described earlier in this blog), had rendered my knee a bone-on-bone mill of pain and lost function.
I thought about blogging the surgery and especially the entire recovery process. A few years ago, I read this amazing piece of work on another young athlete's venture into joint replacment. Since then, I gained the author's (Mary) friendship and support for my own bionic adventure. Knowing the value of the utter candor and personal truth present in Mary's blog, how completely important it was for me to read, I wanted to pay forward the benefit. But the bottom line is that as lay in the hospital immediately after surgery (and then in my home those first few days after surgery), I couldn't rise to it. To be blunt, although I worked at being a recovery super star, I had a difficult few days early in the process and didn't want to blog my complaints.
Now I am a little more than 2 months post-operative and have veered from focusing on surgical recovery to building function to last the rest of my life. Thinking this past weekend about what I experienced the past two months gave me some new energy I want to pump into this thing. Hopefully, I have a few interesting things to pass on.
 |
| Clean site week one, sutures still in |
Difficulty arose from not trusting my own well-though-out plan for post surgical pain management. For four days I followed my medicinal regimen precisely. Then, impetuously, to my chagrin, listened to the bad advice of an earnest but poorly informed in-home therapist assigned to my case. She suggested that as a former athlete (and relatively young total knee replacement patient) I should be off narcotic pain medication after one set of doses (by day five). She also insisted I should spare my intended, intense icing regimen. She believed inflammation creates a healing environment for the surgical site and icing would impede that effect. She was wrong in both instances and for a brief couple of days, I lost control of pain management and set my recovery back more than a week.
By skipping the oxycodone for just one dose, I allowed the pain curve to catch and pass me. By avoiding ice for anything over 20 minutes ever couple of hours (her recommendation), I suffered through the agony of pulsating swelling around my knee. It all hurt so much, I was climbing the wall.
Luckily, a case manager replaced the this poorly-opined home-therapist. My replacement was wonderful. She pushed the renewal of the oxycodone and endorsed constant ice, elevation, and compression. Thanks to the help of my wife, my mother-in-law, and a great neighbor, we attacked the swelling tactically. Although I never quite got full pain relief again, restarting the narcotic stuff masked pain well enough to allow me to sleep. And week two pushed into week three when real recovery began.
 |
| "We can rebuild him" |
At six weeks, I saw my orthopedic surgeon, a man who might be the single best care-giver I've ever had, who pronounced me very far ahead of the recovery curve. He did not schedule another follow-up, requesting that I only come in and see him after I have some good news to bring him on tres_arbolito's impending first season of high school baseball.
At the six-week appointment, I happily snapped a photo of the x-rayed site, amazed at the length of the tibial post on this prosthetic. I know little about the prosthetic itself, other than my surgeon choses to use this one. According to his sampling on younger patients, this piece of hardware has the lowest incidence of revision for his patients that remain "more active" after recovery. I'm glad to fall in that category and can only expect he's correct. Because I have a bunch of stuff planned for this summer and intend that no left knee will be left behind.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Las Vegas with the Family for Halloween!
Actually, we did head to Sin City for Halloween, as a family. But not to partake of the bizarro-world of the Strip on All-Hallow's Eve. No, we went down for our first form of family entertain: a youth baseball tournament!
Tres_arbolito's Brewers descended on Vegas for the Las Vegas Fall Classic Baseball Tournament where they enjoyed a two and two showing. Failing to make the Championship bracket mattered little as family and friends enjoyed some sunshine a some surprisingly good competition at a time of year when most sports-minded folks are turning to football for entertainment.
Family_arboles had a particularly nice time as tres_arbolitos played very well, batting over .500 including three doubles and a bunch of stolen bases. He also finally got a shot at middle-infield, playing a solid 2B in our last game racking up four assists including a cool diving catch in short right field.
Perhaps the most fun moment for our family occurred when tres_arbolitos came to the plate with two on and two out. He got a sign from his head coach and promptly stepped out of the box with palms up. Calling time, he walked toward his coach up the third base line. Approaching tres_arbolitos, and within earshot of the opponents' dugout (and parents), Coach barked, "that's the sign for 'I want a two out double.'" Folks laughed out loud and tres_arbolitos took a smile back to the plate. He promply bashed the next pitch to the warning track in right center, knocking in two runs and arriving safely at 2B.
Moments like that made the trip. These moments included the myriad other great performances such as the fearless hitting of the kid two years younger than his mates but playing up like a fricken' tiger; the spotless and cagey pitching performance by the quiet kid wearing the insulin pump who played on the "B" team last year; and the other guys picking up where they left off at the end of last season when tres_arbolitos was benched with an injury. The kids had so much fun, it was a pleasure just to be near them.
Now as they are playing at increasingly older and more competitive levels, the outlines are drawn for the team they will compete on as 18 year olds looking for collegiate or even professional recruitment. This is a group of boys developing by participating in a process in which they have to work extremely hard. Not all are cut out for it. Those that are, who commit, are very likely to achieve really great things.
Tres_arbolito's Brewers descended on Vegas for the Las Vegas Fall Classic Baseball Tournament where they enjoyed a two and two showing. Failing to make the Championship bracket mattered little as family and friends enjoyed some sunshine a some surprisingly good competition at a time of year when most sports-minded folks are turning to football for entertainment.
 |
| "That's the sign for 'I want a two-out double'." |
Perhaps the most fun moment for our family occurred when tres_arbolitos came to the plate with two on and two out. He got a sign from his head coach and promptly stepped out of the box with palms up. Calling time, he walked toward his coach up the third base line. Approaching tres_arbolitos, and within earshot of the opponents' dugout (and parents), Coach barked, "that's the sign for 'I want a two out double.'" Folks laughed out loud and tres_arbolitos took a smile back to the plate. He promply bashed the next pitch to the warning track in right center, knocking in two runs and arriving safely at 2B.
Moments like that made the trip. These moments included the myriad other great performances such as the fearless hitting of the kid two years younger than his mates but playing up like a fricken' tiger; the spotless and cagey pitching performance by the quiet kid wearing the insulin pump who played on the "B" team last year; and the other guys picking up where they left off at the end of last season when tres_arbolitos was benched with an injury. The kids had so much fun, it was a pleasure just to be near them.
Now as they are playing at increasingly older and more competitive levels, the outlines are drawn for the team they will compete on as 18 year olds looking for collegiate or even professional recruitment. This is a group of boys developing by participating in a process in which they have to work extremely hard. Not all are cut out for it. Those that are, who commit, are very likely to achieve really great things.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Sorry to Disappoint
Much has transpired and I have experiences to relate since my last post. There was no way to do so until now. A few nice things to follow. I promise.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)