'Balance; Once On a Far-Away Field' by Rand Crook 2015

'Balance; Once On a Far-Away Field'                                    by Rand Crook 4.12.15  Tiburon, Ca.

I will tell you a story. A standard sports story, as much about me, or you, maybe, as it is my son, who is its protagonist. Its about the intersection of life and sport, about how we become who we are. My son loves sports of all kinds. He has not played a sport he doesn't like, except maybe golf or lacrosse, but that's just because he hasn't much tried those.

I am one of those dads. My wife has a category for it but I am not the only parent who approaches his kids' sports endeavors, or any endeavor, for that matter, with certain vigor and even edgy intensity.

After playing on successful Little League baseball teams a couple years, and even after helping bring his team to the championship last year in the minors, Miles was turned on to the glory of goal-scoring in soccer. Although I'd never cared for the sport I became a huge fan with my son running up and down the field, occasionally kicking the ball in the goal, feeling so good about himself.

In non-competitive soccer he had savored the taste of personal achievement which had eluded him in other sports, but that can go to your head, can ruin you, can kill your love of play, erode one's sense of sacrificing for the team, for improving the age-old, tried and true way: gradually and painstakingly by bruising trial and error, often mostly error.

Mainly, only, a die-hard fan of watching my son's teams play any sport, and not a hard-core Giants, Warriors, 49ers fan, I save most of my sports passion for the Carolina Tarheels men's basketball team. As a kid the University of North Carolina is where I wanted to go to college and play ball; my parents met at Chapel Hill, etc. But when it comes to watching anything else, only my son's games hold my rapt attention, only in them do I really invest, Tarheel ball notwithstanding. I can be counted on to attend each and every game and often sit transfixed watching practices, feebly offering my analysis and tips to Miles.

I had been scorched by the experience of watching him play on two basketball teams in the same season, with church and school, both who were mauled into defeat nearly every game. I had never grown so accustomed to losing as I did watching team after team burn and dominate my son's lamely performing teams, as if the other teams had actually practiced and played the sport often and knew how to play. It was amazing to watch how Miles' teams learned to lose, and take their few victories so well. Pitiful, really. I was not so disappointed by losing as much as the way they had fizzled out, the CYO team anyway, with few players bothering to even show. I had taught my son what I knew. Part of the game is simply showing up. What I lacked in brilliance, or even competence, sometimes, as a student, in business, in life, I made up for in sheer effort and making damn sure I could be counted on to arrive, ready to go, uniform crisp and complete.

The majestic part of team sports, key to its attraction, fundamentally, was the pride of wearing the team uniform, getting it dirty in the scrum of competition, dirtier the better, but only after the game. Something almost holy about the well-appointed, sharp-attired team, who can also play well. Its primal, militaristic, collectivity, all for fun. It always bothers me to see one of the kids lacking a hat, or with his shirt slackly untucked, or some other uniform impediment. Hallelujah! Must be some compulsory syndrome there, in that need for team order and ship-shape sameness. My son always seemed to rebel with some oddity either adorning or augmenting his look, such as funny socks, pink headband, etc. I am delighted he is not too rigid about this, although concerned that he not go too far. Reckon, in this regard, the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

Neither Miles nor I had been sure of the moment when he agreed to play in the majors, but it did occur, unless I would not have signed him up, paying the small fortune in fees, etc. Sure, I wanted him to play and had probably made some "deal" with him while he was otherwise detained by a computer game but, never the less, a deal was a deal and he was going to go to try-outs. In the car, after his final basketball game, his faced deep-welled up in tears, flowing from a wound, a bruised place within him, but not stemming from losing seasons or his lost last game.

"I don't want to be the crappiest player. I can't hit!" he said, crying in his car seat, basketball gear still on from a loss on the court. He had, ironically, played his best basketball game ever scoring ten points at point guard on the day when the game had been officially forfeited by his team, for lack of players. I was perturbed, to say the least. When the following game the coach didn't show up either I vowed not to let him do CYO ball again. But he protested, even in his defeated season, saying "I just like to play, Dad. I don't care about all that."

So he showed up, we showed up, the cold, damp, cranky morning of majors try-outs, and he did much better than expected. His strength was noticeably greater than the year before when he could barely pitch the ball over the plate from the mound or to first base from third on a grounder. He is paper thin, but a second degree black belt in taekwondo. Like I say, if he ever gets any bulk he will be dangerous, but now he is still a scary-thin, svelte, eleven year old boy.

I tried to put his reluctance into some perspective, to make it real for him.
"Look, Pele, your soccer "career" is yet in the bag, the ink is not dried on your seven figure contract in the big leagues, Mr. Goaler! (Pele being only one of two names with which I am familiar in soccer) So you should remember all the fun you had playing baseball last year. Championship? You know you are fast as lightening!" I said.

"The guy at the try-outs did say I was about the fastest in the majors!  But I suck at hitting. I never have been good and I just can't be the suckiest one, Dad."

 He tried to size himself up honestly. I realized then it was not just about hitting but about school cache, about respect on the playground, about being somebody, about not being a punk, about not being the teased one, the bullied and looked down on one. His anguish with sometimes defending the meekest ones in school scuffles, not being physically imposing enough to prevent overbearing larger kids from aggression, had bothered him, although he kept a cool and tough exterior façade. The girls never looked glaringly, wantonly, at the lamest, geekiest, worst player. The quarterbacks and the running backs, and the big scorers and the heroes, they are the ones who get the attention.

Miles was accepted onto the A's team, with a crack group of coaches: doctors, lawyers and real helpful dads all committed to working with this team. Miles was so frightened about hitting, or not hitting, that he cried on the way to his first team practice. I tried to council him on the redeeming nature of being on a team, on the virtues of teamsmanship, of how important it was to be other things on the team besides just a good hitter, or a hitter at all, but he wasn't buying it.

"But this is the majors, Dad, and you 've got to hit." I, again, must have made some deal with him in order to get him to show up for his first practice, telling him something, throwing him a bone ...but never do I accept nor encourage quitting.

That was my ace in the hole. Life is showing up, and we must take our commitment to the team seriously, despite our personal shortcomings, feelings, or....vacations. Those are secondary.

"The problem, Dad, is that its no good if I am fast if I can't get on base. No pinch runners."

I admitted that he was not the best but not the worst player, either, last year, and that he could get better. I am not inclined to lie to him, although my wife is one of those "support him no matter- if you can't say something nice-its all good" kind of parents. I do admire yet disagree with her on this, to some extent. I reserve the right to criticize constructively and to, if need be, let the kid fail. Plus, a deal is a deal, and we aint getting a refund at this point. 

So, "Go out there and give it all you've got. Don't worry, son. Babe Ruth was a strike out king." I said as he jumped out the car.
"Daddy.." he smirked at me for that one.

I told the coach of my son's trepidation. How he has cried, terrified about his dilemma. (and nothing, ya'll, I mean nothing, NOTHING is more heart-breaking than seeing your son's tears gushing down his face like a sad fountain of despair.)

I wanted to stop them, dry those tears, to save him from shame and humiliation but I could not. That would have been a grave injustice. I knew it was too late since we were, he was committed. I had assured him that next year he need not play if he wished, and that this may be it for him and baseball, as I too was being convinced of my son's limitations. Better to learn now of them than be crushed later, maybe. Coach heard me and assured me that he would work with him. Little did I know that he and the other top notch coaches would do just that in such a way that was impressive to watch, practices being an example of efficiency and intelligent work for the kids.

My son had lamented also that since he didn't know some of the other kids on the team then they must be a crappy team this year too. I said "Ok, don't prejudge, son. Lest ye be judged yourself. The other kids may surely feel the same about you."

After winning an initial scrimmage and another couple hard-won victories, Miles got zero hits, zero walks, and basically struck out consistently. As a father I take this rather personally, finding myself to blame for his hitting problem, since, after all, I had not vigorously brought him to the batting cage nor the ball field as I should have. All my fault but .

At least Miles had decided to go for it, if with a push. I told him that rather than run from this fear of his, this reluctance and concern, he should, after many strike-outs, and practices which I had to coax him to, not wanting to go, wanting to hang out with his friends, embrace his "weakness" and play that part, let them underestimate you, and try extra hard. He went to practices and did nothing more than hit in the cage.

He is a solid center fielder, with his dark glasses on. Not much work needed there in the field so he spends nearly every practice in that cage, working with the coaches, swinging the bat, working on his stance, his balance, his eye to hand coordination, his precision, making the bat-ball connection.

By contrast, slow, plodding and often inglorious baseball, especially if you are not a starting pitcher or key infielder, and especially playing when one is sure to be the lamest hitter, the sitting on the bench, the sure bet season of being the loser at the plate, had lost its appeal next to the glow of soccer. He was not feeling it.

Then my 54th birthday came around, as birthdays do so swiftly at this point in life. An ever-shrinking circle, a shorter cycle each year.

I do not consider compelling my son to follow through and to do as he say and keep commitments to be an act of cruelty, whatsoever. But, rather, it is an act of tough love in which his life and character depends upon his being true to his word and to his promises. To do otherwise would be to handicap my son and to rob him of his chance to grow, to become a man, damnit, someday. That is my job. I have been accused of being a bit overbearing in this matter, since my wife and mother all seemed to feel that he should perhaps have been urged less intensely to play baseball. The fact that neither of us, Miles nor I, can recall him actually agreeing to play in the first place was, by then, irrelevant.

My father was an intense "coach" when we were kids, and I admired his approach, throwing the ball hard with us, left-handed and not wimping out with us, in that scary-dad way. He listened to Waylon and Willie and rode motorcycles, and trucks and once drove a cool blue Pontiac Grand Prix, with super-cool white leather bucket seats.  He had tossed me and my brother in the deep end of the pool before we could yet swim, terrorizing us, laughing the entire time, but knowing we were in no real danger.   It was, he showed, a world full of challenges.  I, in turn, hope to impart a sense of responsibility and toughness to my kids, and intensity, and no better time and way to do so than with organized team sports. Dad taught us to hang in there, to take it seriously.  Its not always about you or your numbers, but about being there for the team. Life lessons.

Dad's cousin Rusty called to wish me a happy birthday, with a voice so velvety-southern as to melt my heart each time I hear it. He is a patriarch, a twin son of the youngest child of a  big, country family of eleven children of Fort Mill, York County SC, and we always, my brother Kyle and he and I, referred to each other, affectionately, as "Claude." Maybe it was our way of funnin' with him being a stocky, corn-fed, country boy, and we were "city" kids from the suburbs of Charlotte who admired him always. From before I can remember he was a hero because he was a fantastic baseball player who holds fourteen records in his name at Clemson. He told me in his gorgeous hearty drawl.

"Now, Rand ..I want you to know how much we really appreciate the love you have always had and shown for your family."

I returned the compliment.."Rusty, you have always been and still are our hero...and the glue of this family.' He says the prayer at every family reunion of the Crooks, although he himself is an Adkins. His mother Ruth, the youngest of the eleven, was the family record-keeper and biographer, a graduate of Winthrop College.

Before letting him go I asked Rusty for tips for Miles, since he retained an un-challenged forty-one game hitting streak at Clemson.   He also was their only three-time All American player.  He said his first hit and last at-bat in college as a Tiger had been home runs but his thing was just base-hits.  Anything Rusty could offer to aid my son's unfruitful attempt to hit the ball with the bat, in a game. Miles had done pretty well with the coach pitching at practice, even cracking a couple long ones, one hitting the fence deep in left field, but not under game pressure when it counted. Rusty is a legend and he played Great baseball, but his career ended sometime in the early seventies, never quite getting the call he had dreamt of all his life and to which he came so close. The Big League Majors was a hill too high to climb, but not for Rusty's lack of trying.  Maybe he wasn't the fastest guy out there and other aspects of his game failed to match up to the big test. Maybe hitting was not all a baseball career made. But he said what he could and I translated it to language Miles could, quite literally and figuratively, comprehend. Southerners talk in code, when they are most relaxed and themselves, which can be very nuanced and confusing to outsiders, to non-southerners, especially Californians like my son.

"Now, I wish I could tell you, and I am a little rusty, (ha)..but hitting a baseball, ya see, is not something you can just teach someone, not something you can learn. Its like a ....gift! Ya know? What can I say, Claude? Its very tricky, not everyone can do it. But, uh, well, tell him to be balanced and relaxed in there. I don't know exactly. I love ya'll." He made me feel good, regardless. I was not sure if he was right or wrong but was in no position to challenge the notion, whatsoever, being a strike-out king and bunter myself.  Rusty's baseball career had, aparently, legendarily, amazingly, begun with a home run at his first at-bat and ended with a home run at his last.  Bookend home runs.  Perfect.

"Thanks for callin', and bye-bye, Rusty, ...I love you too," I said and we hung up after a nice, heart-warming conversation.  He is my link to the land, the dirt of my home area, the salt of the earth.  He raised many a proud crop of turnips and always knew things and interesting stories to tell, told with full affection, inflection and nuance.                                                                       

Beginning to feel like a bit of a tyrant, although I would act no less so if this were about playing piano or steel drums than if it were baseball, except for the team aspect. I had considered writing a letter to our local paper when I was so frustrated by just what we as parents were teaching our kids by allowing and encouraging them to flake out on team commitments in lieu of skiing and vacationing in Tahoe, or any other luxury. Just what would our legacy and lessons be if we condoned such irresponsibility and fly-by-night, fair-weather sportsmanship? What kind of future world and civic leaders were we raising? I still wonder. But, as for mine, we didn't sign up for bullshit and I told him to play the part best he could, to

"Make the most of them underestimating you, son...and furthermore, like I said..
Your soccer career is not ..in the bag." He had only played a couple seasons of soccer and that too would be much more difficult in the higher levels of play. The grass always looks greener, but I cautioned against forgetting baseball. Plus, he knew already that he was among the fastest, and he had done well at try-outs and now, if he could only get a hit or a walk or something.

Now, despite the work in the cage, the constant effort to improve his batting, after winning a couple games and losing a couple, Miles was not hitting, and the dread had not let up. But, regardless, each practice he did more hitting, remaining in the cage, and less and less fielding. I began to wonder. Strike out after strike out at the games. I reckoned they, my family of naysayers, were all correct; Miles had not been able to crack the code of hitting. Maybe Rusty was right. Maybe I was just too demanding, forcing him to do what I alone wanted. Another case of an over-ambitious parent going over the edge of reason and what was natural for his kids. Even last year's championship coach Johnson, who pitched with the MLB Blue Jays of Toronto, offered his take on Miles' unsteady and fruitless hitting and how he might fix it.

"Stay balanced," he too cautioned, just as Rusty had on the phone. Phone calls, good ones, and good verbal advice seem rather rare these days, and theirs was so much needed; the sound of Rusty's voice, the care and love in it. His wit and humor, his unique and ancient familiarity to me. And the thoughtful advice of Coach Johnson.

On the way to the game I mentioned things trying to help, knowing he knew I had never been a hitter, never hit anything more than a double, and yet was a bad-ass pitcher who struck out many kids, until throwing my arm "out" and settling in as second-baseman and catcher. I had triumphantly pitched a two-hitter and still own that ball and glove with this commemoration inscribed in red pen on it: '6/22/73- Two-Hitter Esso vs. Harry and Bryant' Best day of my life. One of them, anyway.

"I noticed, son, those heavy hitters on your team (none who have hit homers) seem to approach the plate, each and every at-bat, with a sense of eagerness, and urgency, an aggressive Need to hit the ball, and the ones who aren't just shy away, step out of the box even. Its a choice. Screw it, what's the worst that can happen? You strike out again. They are expecting that from you, so play the part, and don't sweat it. Swing slowly, coaches said, and watch it all the way, and turn your hips."

"Dad! I know- I know. I suck at hitting." He said.

"But, that's what the coaches said, son!" I replied.

My wife always said I could never be coach; too intense. I beg to differ, if only I knew all those little rules in the rule books: inside fly rule, run to first on a third strike if the catcher misses it rule, etc. Never quite grasped all those minutia. I never like to watch any sport as much as if my son is playing, and admit freely that I do not share my dear friends' passion for watching the game of baseball, men in clean uniforms casually tossing a white ball around, running and swinging a bat, playing a boy's game. That only holds so much allure for me, but if my kid is playing then I Am There, every second of every inning cheering on every kid, and mine. And although I have been banned by my son from cheering audibly and particularly using the terms "babe" or "baby!" I assured him it was real, appropriate baseball jargon, however dated. But I greatly admire the way these coaches work with these kids, shaping the A's into a good baseball machine.

Rusty had played for the Birmingham A's, the professional B-league training ground for the big league A's, and I had been an A's fan for years living in the Oakland, so we welcomed Miles' new team name. Canseco, McGuire, Kingman, and all the "bash brothers" made the game very exciting the be an A's fan, not to mention greats like Vida Blue and Reggie Jackson., who played on that bright yellow clad team.

Miles struck out over and over and it was beginning to be a mess, a dreaded mess, when we faced the Ross Valley Nationals, in resplendent crimson hats and jerseys, perfectly starched white pants with red stripes, and with a six foot tall girl who is supposed to be eleven but whose Id I wanted to check. Fortunately, for us, she was not pitching. Her mother is the basketball coach for the UC Berkeley women's team, who I hear are damn good this year. As fate would have it today she only played first base.

The game was to be played on a Wednesday afternoon, on a far away field. The Nationals were no weak team, and they came to play with intensity. There was always the slight fear of the unknown team of those "other" kids from another neighborhood, since in basketball that always was a bloody massacre when our Tiburon teams met the kids from the other towns over. Those other kids are always meaner, tougher and bigger than us. So it seems.

Game Time

We had arrived an hour early, among the first on our team to show on the blustery, Sir Francis Drake field. I let him stay and hang out while I met my father in law and my daughter at Peets for coffee. While waiting for them I wondered just when or if at all Miles would simply get himself on base. If he was just doomed to a season of failure at the plate, if Rusty's statement was in fact true. Either way, there was no turning back and it was exciting just to find out.

The Nationals came out swinging the bat well and scored three runs in the first inning. Right away the afternoon weather on the foreign ball field turned annoyingly harsh. Cold winds and frigid air made us squirm in the bone-chilling bleacher seats. We cheered on the A's as they made a comeback to even the score with a few big base hits and some solid pitching to match. Go Yellow and Green!

We made shivering small-talk as the score was evened in the fifth inning. They only play six innings in Little League. It had become a seriously frightening thing for my son that he seemed to almost without fail become the batter who must hit with two outs and runners on base and with all the Pressure. It rarely failed to happen that way for him, like he was the one chosen to withstand the hit when it went down. He had already struck out, not surprisingly, twice in the game, and I remarked to the mom next to me that I really hoped it would not come to that again right here, in the miserable cold, afternoon.

Three to Three- Tied up. Bottom of the fifth! Two outs, with one hitter before him on first. Owen had smacked a good single and was ready to run to second. "Come on Miles!" he yelled.

"Oh, no." I said under my breath as sure enough, like clockwork, my skinny son approached the plate, stoically.

"Be a hitter!" I said calmly and then fell silent, knowing better, realizing it didn't help him to hear me say shit from the stands, however supportive.

I could not believe that here again was Miles faced with this challenge. The same one he had failed at so many times. I felt the sense of inevitability, in a not good way. A gnawing in my gut, but hardly as excruciating as what he must have felt. I wanted to look away. I was entranced, everyone was. The wind blew angrily.

I bounced on the long metal stand, cold and nervous. I would have given almost everything I have for him to just get his ass on base. But he was on his own. Nothing I could do or say. All those baseball practices, all that sacrifice of other things to be here, forgoing taekwondo sometimes, making it up later, and piano practice altogether, sometimes practicing or playing four out of seven days a week, it was either with him or not.

The pitcher looked fierce in his crisp red. The infield and outfield gave signs they were not intimidated, moving slowly in closer to home plate. Even his teammates cheered with a near resignation, yet dutifulness, in their raised voices. I really wished they would have chosen another to go to the plate. Batting is not Miles' thing.

"I don't want to even play baseball, Dad!! I suck at hitting...I always will!" his words rang in my head, hauntingly. "Can't be taught, its a gift you either have or you don't!" repeated Rusty's mantra. Ugh.

Maybe my baseball hero cousin was right. Maybe my wife too, of course. Maybe I am the tyrant for making Miles play when he was no good at hitting. I began to wonder. But deep down I knew better. "No kid was permanently damaged from being a Sucky Hitter! If so then screw it. There is more to baseball, to life, than hitting a baseball!" I thought this to myself, knowing I might be wrong. But certainly I was responsible for my son's utter failure, no matter, for simply not training him properly, like he is not a good bike rider might be my fault too. Best believe that with each and every strike and strike out, I myself was to blame. I am sure I am not the first or last father to feel this. Mothers are usually, instinctually, naturally smarter than this. ("We are men, we are Devo", etc.)

There he was, my little man, ready to face the firing squad. The pitcher threw three straight balls to get Miles thinking walk, again, but that didn't work like it did in years past when the pitchers could neither throw strikes nor hard. Now it was different and even though they had again gotten him used to bunting, it simply was hard to make any connection with the ball, impossible even, it seemed, as that pitcher came down fast and furious on the next couple of hard ones.

WHIFF! he swung at the air. "Strike one!" barked the ump.

Then the pitcher threw another high ball.

Miles began to shift out of the box a bit, realizing this was serious pitching, and he might be in for another bad ending. Again, the pitcher threw the ball hard..

WhIFF!!! "Strike two!" yelled Blue, with a kind of unnecessary glee.

Now, the count was full - Three balls and two strikes- Two OUTs- Bottom of the Fifth Inning!
God, why him, Lord, again. This was all too familiar.

Miles took a deep breath, stepped confidently into the box now, not revealing any fear or reluctance. Held his right arm up, begloved, to signal to the ump to wait while he settled. The suspense was thick, so we made small talk and jumped up and down slightly in the bleachers, mainly to keep warm. We had begun to just want this to be over, since our bodies and nerves were frazzled from the weather and the jitters, feeling our kids' straining efforts and disappointments.

On the foreign, far-away field of battle, in the cold and uncomfortably gusty winds, by Marin's standards, my son faced his foe who wanted to take him down. One pitch and they could go on to perhaps score and win the game. Or..

The pitcher fired a curvy, fast-ball with great gusto. His name was Miles, too. Seems to be one on every team. The ball turned at the last moment and caught the outside of the plate. Miles slowly but surely swung his orange-colored bat meeting the ball squarely, releasing so much power that it sent the ball high over the pitcher's head into the outfield, over the center-fielder's upstretched glove, and sailed high above the low fence, so as to make the ball invisible.

At that moment a lifetime, all eleven years of his and my own, of pent up stress, a million dreams of doubt, a hundred pangs of insufficiency, a mountain of personal pain and existential angst was let go. I don't know exactly what happened in those surreal, time-stopped moments when the world conspired toward our joy, toward my son's personhood, toward his man-hood, toward his benevolence, toward a just and right epiphany of the troubled spirit, toward my own vindication and personal triumph over being a slack and terrible father, ha, and toward one boy making himself and his father mighty mighty proud.

So proud as to compel me to share it with you, friends, who may see yourself in some of this mess, who have had your own challenge of spirit, who may also be wanting to quit, who may also see only your own failings or desires as important, who are rather blind to your own gifts which, despite Rusty's words of wisdom, CAN be taught and improved upon.

Proud to the point of seeing this as an amazing learning moment for myself. To remember, that within one swing of the bat, one single effort, after much hard work and trying and suffering and debilitating insecurity, no matter what anyone says, exists our triumph too, our two-run homer, our glorious moment of pure, unimaginably ecstatic JOY.

I can't easily tell you what my mind did in that moment of my son's home run. I swung around like some insane, nut-job who was actually drunk on joy and pride. I nearly fell down on the ground, after leaping from the bleachers to the dirt below, and can't tell you what went on as my son ran the bases in his victory. I can only tell you that a huge weight had been lifted and I never felt better or more elated; my feet barely touched the field. Miles received the respect from his fellow teammates he so deserved and the game ball. He will never forget that. Ever. Just like my two-hitter; only infinitely more fabulous, and so hard-earned, the old fashioned way.

Not that I would care if he ever hit the ball again, got on base or won a baseball game, or any game, for that matter, after that, but the Nationals put up a good fight in the final innings. After Miles' two-run homer, did I mention how great and glorious and deep and all it had been?, ok, the A's were up five to three in the top of the sixth. Immediately the Nationals crushed a similar two-run homer to tie the game. Nothing mattered any more. Win, lose or draw, makes no difference. Sometimes we need little or big wins in our life to propel us forward, to do what we have to do otherwise. Nothing like joining the home run club to boost the cache, at home, at school and on the team.

Of my crowd, only Rusty and my brother had been members of that elite club of which my son was now a new member; The Home-Run Hitters' Club. Proud papa doesn't begin to explain, hence this loquacious account. Some things matter that much.

After tying it up in the sixth and our team failing make another run, the ump and coaches called the game soon thereafter, declaring it, after an extra two frozen stalemate innings with no score, an official tie game.

Five to Five. Everybody wins, nobody loses. And I will certainly take it.

Never give up, especially if its doing what you otherwise love to do. Your two-run homer is just around the next corner, and your other "career" is not promised.

Since then, knock on wood, Miles has not yet gotten another hit, but his burden is lifted and he has bragging rights. He is playing the game.  They respect him now. I admire him even more. That is priceless. As, if not more, importantly, Miles is doing his part for the team.

Go Tiburon A's!  Balance!

Thanks to Rusty, to my father and brother Kyle, my coaches, the phenomenoal Coach of Coaches Jake Wade, Esq., the A's coaches and thank ya'll kindly for (g)listening,

Randt