It Rained On Our Parade—So We Threw a Party

The rollercoaster ride that was Zach's final season in Little League came to a crashing halt last Wednesday. After eight weeks of ups and (mostly) downs, it took a perilously steep and fast descent in the final week, jumping the track completely. But we weren't going to let it end that way, especially after Zach had braved its twists and turns so valiantly along the way.

So we threw a party. And we—the players, their families, and the coaches—had more fun than we'd had all season. Even when the clouds opened up and sent us all scurrying home.

For those who haven't been keeping up and/or prefer a Reader's Digest version, here's a recap of the season:

• In February, Zach's off-season preparations paid off big-time when he more than held his own in tryouts.


• A few weeks later, we learned Zach had been selected high in the draft by the Mariners, who came with a strong pedigree after giving Zach's old team, the Rockies, one of their toughest challenges last year.


• Early practices for the Mariners went well, and Zach's new coach showered him with praise. Scrimmages against other teams indicated the team had promise.


• When Zach was asked to try out at catcher, he jumped at the opportunity but then came home from practice with a sore, numb throwing arm—something we didn't grasp the severity of at the time.


• On Opening Day in April, Zach missed a play in left field, scrambled for the ball, threw it—sort of—and effectively wrapped up his season. Three days later, he was diagnosed with elbow tendonitis and a pinched ulnar nerve.


• Zach immediately began physical therapy with a former minor league pitcher. He bonded with the therapist, Mike, to such a degree that it really softened the blow of not playing.


• As the season progressed, the Mariners struggled horribly. Despite practicing relentlessly, they routinely fell victim to The Big Inning, allowing games to get out of reach.


• Meanwhile, Zach assumed the role of team cheerleader and stand-in bench coach, never wavering in his commitment—and recognized by his coaches, his teammates, and even his therapist.


• Zach set his sights on the season's final game, scheduled two days after his two-month follow-up appointment. But then we learned that due to a scheduling snafu, the game was cancelled. Zach was devastated, since it appeared his season was over.


• To our utter surprise, Zach was cleared to resume playing baseball just a day before an April 30 doubleheader. To say he was elated would be an understatement. He barely slept that night.


• Sadly, those games followed an all-too-familiar pattern, as the Mariners were blown out, on a very warm day, 5-19 and 0-11. Combined with the heat and only a short break between games, they left horribly dejected.


• With a record of 0-12, outscored by a combined 38-156 runs, the coach set his sights on the final game. Zach did the same, thankful for another chance to play.

And that, Gentle Reader, brings us up to date as we headed in to a game that would, for all intents and purposes, define the Mariner's season. Win, and they could say they pulled out at least one victory. Lose, and they'd say they never won a game.

Unfortunately, they'd never get the chance to do either. What they ended up with was a sacrifice win since the other team, the Pirates, who'd already been eliminated from the playoffs, failed to show up. It was better than another loss, perhaps, but bittersweet in its implied sense of "What if?"

Suspecting the Pirates were not likely to show, we'd hurriedly pulled together a party for the team, determined to go out on a positive note. We hauled in barbecues, food, and beverages, and once game time officially struck and the umpires announced us winners by default, we lit the briquettes, broke out the baseballs, and—for the first time in weeks—took a collective deep breath and relaxed. And it was wonderful.

Players, coaches, and fathers split up into teams and took part in a spirited, fun-filled final game, playing with more intensity and joy than they had in ages. And Zach, wound up on adrenaline and two months' worth of pent-up desire to be on the field, reveled in it, at last feeling like he was part of the team. He even got to play third base, which he'd been aching to do all season.

As luck would have it, we paused for dinner mere minutes before storms that weren't supposed to arrive until after midnight became unwelcome party guests. As sprinkles became a heavy downfall, families scrambled for their belongings and ran for their cars. It was a shame, really, leaving precious little opportunity for goodbyes. Or reflection. Or closure. And yet, maybe it was for the best. To come together, steal a win—even a cheap one—celebrate, and part ways was probably the best medicine for the emotional wounds inflicted by such a brutal season.

Most of the players will be back for another chance next year. But Zach won't have that opportunity since, based on his birth date, he's done with Little League, injury-shortened season or not. But as I said to his coach on Wednesday, I think Zach learned more sitting on the bench all those weeks than he would have on the field, even. About baseball. About challenges. About hope. And about life.

Not a bad season, when you look at it that way...

For Love of the Game

While the door on Zach's only season of Majors eligibility for Little League isn't shut yet, it's only open a crack at this point. But since Zach's not ready to give up hope on his being able to play again this year, neither am I.

If you haven't been following Zach's season, he was diagnosed five weeks ago with two forms of tendonitis and irritation of the ulnar nerve after "gapping" his elbow while overthrowing. At the time of the diagnosis, which came just a couple of days after Opening Day, Kelly and I never dreamed Zach would be out more than half of the season. But last week, he was told by his sports medicine specialist to hold off throwing for at least another four weeks. With his next appointment just two days before his final game, the entire season, save opening day, was suddenly in jeopardy.

A few years ago, this wouldn't have mattered much to Zach. Back then, I was coaching him in soccer, and he seemed to have no interest in baseball. He never played T-Ball, and after a useless season of quasi-instructional recreational baseball, he appeared to have left my favorite sport behind, despite attending summer camp with former San Francisco Giants players. Each year, I'd ask if he wanted to play Little League, and each year he'd say no. I began to lose hope he'd ever play.

But then we moved to Redding just as Zach was—unbeknownst to me—losing interest in soccer. And when Little League signups rolled around that winter, Zach said he wanted to give it a go. And in the uncompetitive, nurturing environment of "farm league," with its machine pitching and de-emphasis on scoring, Zach really took to baseball for the first time.

The following year, there was no question Zach would be playing. By that point, he was calling baseball "his" sport and making friends with other players. That was a season of huge growth for Zach under a very supportive coach, and in the end, his team, the Rockies, went all the way to the league's championship game. They lost, but it was a thrilling ride. And when he hung up his cleats for the year, Zach clearly had the bug. He was a baseball player, plain and simple.

Drafted the following season by the same coach—who had to broker a trade to get him. To my disbelief, Zach had initially been selected by a Majors team based on his performance at tryouts. But given his lack of experience, Kelly and I felt—and Zach agreed—that it would be more beneficial to spend another season in Minors. Returning to his old team, starting nearly every game, and developing on every level, Zach's performance started mattering to him more than pleasing his parents. And it showed. He earned a game ball, he became more consistent, and he fully contributed to his team's amazing performance, completely dominating the league before losing again in the championship game—ironically, to his former coach and the remnants of his farm team.

As this season dawned, everything was intensified. Because of his birth date, Zach was left with only one year of Majors eligibility, and this was it. He and I began preparing early for tryouts, and he did himself proud in them once again—well enough to be drafted third after the coaches' sons were chosen. I don't know who was more ecstatic over that news—him, or me and Kelly—even if we were collectively disappointed that his former coach, who had been so supportive, had not been chosen to move up to Majors. Regardless, all the pieces seemed to be falling into place for Zach's—and our—dream season.

But then, the walls of the proverbial house came tumbling down. After one early practice, when he was being evaluated at catcher—yes, catcher—Zach complained of excruciating pain and numbness in his arm. Then the same thing happened on Opening Day. And once the macho, overly-proud side of me gave in to the practical side, we it checked out—and got the bad news. Zach was left with a prescribed regimen of rest and thrice-weekly physical therapy, made slightly more bearable by the fact that his therapist, Mike, was a former minor-league pitcher who shared many common interests with Zach.

So that's where we stand. Bittersweet as it is, the moral of the story, should Zach not return before season's end, has already been written. When we got into the car after being told last week by his doctor that he wasn't ready to resume playing, I asked Zach how he was feeling. "I'm depressed on the inside, but I have to be positive on the outside," he said to me, matter-of-factly. What could I add to that? I'm sure the pride—and love—I was feeling for him was evident on my face, but I still complimented him on his level-headed thinking and great attitude. I mean, c'mon—the kid's only twelve years old!

In the end, all that's left is the hope that, through some small miracle, Mike clears Zach to resume playing ahead of schedule. With an 0-7 record and having been outscored 16-85, Zach's team is having a brutal season. It's been agonizing for Zach to just sit and watch, knowing he can't contribute. But as bad as it's been, he's conducted himself beyond admirably, staying upbeat and acting as a stand-in dugout coach and assistant. And his coaches have noticed and commended him for it.

And as for us? Kelly and I will just have to take things as they come, making sure that no matter what happens, we follow our wise-beyond-his-years son's advice and stay positive on the outside. Even if, yes, we're depressed on the inside...

The Perfect Day

Two lower box seats at AT&T park: $93 I had no business spending

Veggie dogs, garlic fries, and Cokes for two: $37 I had no business spending

Gas, bridge tolls, and parking: $52.50 I had no business spending

A day at the ballpark with my son on a brilliant day for an awesome game: Priceless

Shortly after being woken Sunday morning by Zoë, at 6:10 after a very long week, with the kids home on vacation and Kelly traveling, I expressed in no uncertain terms a need for some alone time. Or family time. Or both. And shortly after that, completely by coincidence, I discovered that Randy Johnson, Zach's favorite pitcher, would later that day be going up against his former team—and just as importantly, the only team in the Major Leagues who he'd never beaten—the Arizona Diamondbacks. When Kelly heard this, her response was immediate: "Go!"

Since money is tight, I was hesitant. It didn't help that we'd promised Zoë that, on its final day, we'd take her to the annual Spring Break carnival. Perhaps even more significant, since she'd never yet attended one, Zienna was begging to go. But as Kelly egged me on, I realized I was long overdue for time with Zach, too. And alone time. And baseball.

So I did it.

Moments later, Zach and I were frantically packing essentials—caps, gloves, seeds, music for the three-plus-hour drive, and sunscreen—and heading out the door. It was roughly 9:30, and we didn't have a moment to spare.

Hitting Interstate 5, we quickly fell into a relaxed existence, as Zach has acquired from me not just a love of baseball but a shared appreciation for trance music. With the bass thumping from our favorite, DJ Doboy, we were soon barreling down the highway with hardly a care in the world. We'd headed out without breakfast, but our grumbling stomachs didn't matter much. We had a higher calling: GIANTS BASEBALL! And long overdue Giants baseball at that.

Though I did my best to push the speed limit a bit, we were up against numerous participants heading home from the weekend's Kool April Nights classic car rally held here in Redding. With some cars on the road and others on trailers, it seemed we were constantly behind someone not willing or unable to to go the speed limit. By the time we reached the outskirts of civilization—aka Vacaville—we were not as far along as we needed to be. And then we hit the Bay Bridge toll plaza, which showed us no mercy. Minutes ticked by as we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic quickly remembering why, all things considered, we don't really miss the Bay Area.

By the time we got to the bridge, the traffic finally opened up, and we made our way across with the first inning of our game already in the history books. Fortunately, since I used to work a block from the stadium, I was able to navigate our way quickly to a reliable and cheap parking garage adjacent to the stadium before the end of the second inning. Then we dashed across King Street, intent on getting to the game.

Once inside, we grabbed some food, since we'd not yet eaten, and made our way to our seats, along the first base line and just six rows up from the Diamondback's bullpen mound. Then we relaxed, taking in the glorious stadium that for too many games to count—World Series and playoff games among them—we'd taken for granted when we lived in the Bay Area and owned a share of Giants season tickets. It was a glorious day, just over 80 degrees and with a slight breeze. One of the most historic pitchers in Major League history was pitching for my team. And I was with my son, who I'd promised would see this matchup before season's end. There wasn't much more I could ask for.

Oh, and said pitcher was on his game, despite pregame concerns he might not be. At 45 (Ahem!), he'd pitched two duds in a row to debut for his new team, and it was questionable whether he'd be in true form any time soon. But he was, throwing seven innings of spectacular, nail-biting no-hit ball. And the Giants offense, asleep since opening week, showed up to support him. Zach and I couldn't have been much more excited. When Randy left the game, we gave him a standing ovation. And for my part, it was as much a thank you for my son as much as anything. We might never again see this man, who I'd taken Zach years before to see face the Giants when he was almost too young to appreciate why people were giving him dirty looks for cheering the opposing pitcher, play again. So this was really, really special.

In the end, the Giants won the game 2-0. When they did, Zach and I cheered until we were hoarse, high-fived, and reveled in what had been a magnificent day. On the way out, I added to our "no business spending" total by purchasing Zach a Randy Johnson Giants shirt. I knew it meant a lot to him, and I knew he might never get one if I didn't buy it right then. And then we headed home, in indescribable father-son love and content beyond words, with trance music thumping to keep us awake.

Sometimes, life is almost too good to describe. Sunday falls into that category, and I doubt I've done it justice. But it doesn't really matter. Zach told me repeatedly on the way home how much fun he'd had, how much he loved me, and how much he'd appreciated the day. And those words are far more important than mine. In fact, I'd call them priceless.

Baseball Teaches This Fan a Lesson About Life

Being the baseball fan that I am, I was really excited heading into this season knowing Zach would be playing in the Majors division of his Little League. I was even more thrilled discovering that Zach's interest in the sport had grown even beyond what it had been last year. And I was ecstatic when he did himself beyond proud in tryouts when, on a cold, blustery day, with shifting, driving winds straight out of our beloved AT&T Park, he fielded like a pro. That performance led to his being selected early in the draft, setting the wheels in motion for what I expected would be his—and my—dream season.

I'm generally not one of those parents who live and die based on their kid's athletic performance. But as my hopes for what Zach could accomplish escalated, I started to feel like one. So when Zach told me after practice a few weeks ago that his arm was bothering him and that at one point, it had actually gone numb, I was concerned, but not terribly so. Blinded subconsciously by an unwillingness to accept that anything could derail how well he was playing, I told Zach to rest his arm when we got home and to let me know if it was still bothering him the next day. And then I basically forgot about it. Normally, I'd have worried. But I wasn't in that mode.

Finally, last Saturday, the big event arrived: Opening Day. Zach's team had practiced and scrimmaged Wednesday and Friday nights, then snuck in additional preparation during downtime that afternoon. Shortly before game time, Zach took a line drive from one of his coaches hard off his sternum. I wasn’t there and didn't know about it until later. But as I’d learn, it was going to impact him in a big way.

Minutes later, the game was underway. Right off the bat, it was clear Zach and his teammates were dragging. After going down in order in the top of the first, they took to the field, with Zach heading to left. He jogged out and was moving slowly, and I became frustrated, not aware that he’d been hurt earlier. But then things went from bad to worse when a ball hit to left went right by Zach, rolling to the fence. He trotted to the ball, bent down slowly to retrieve it, and then tossed it half-heartedly toward the infield. I was thoroughly confused, knowing how he'd been pumped up for days looking forward to this game.

When his team came off the field after giving up three runs, signs of the funk affecting them was etched on every one of the players' faces—particularly Zach's. The coach apparently noticed, and he made some changes pronto. After batting once—and striking out—Zach was pulled from the game. I couldn't blame the coach, given Zach's performance and the fact that they were trailing and playing lackadaisically. But I still wasn't happy. Suddenly, I was that hyper-competitive parent again, wishing I could snap my fingers and make my kid perform like Super Athlete.

A few innings later, Zach was reinserted in the lineup, and as fate would have it, he was left standing at the plate when a teammate tried unsuccessfully to steal in the final out of the game. Zach headed toward the dugout, dejected, and I knew we'd be having a heart to heart on the drive home. When we got to the car, he nearly started crying, telling me about the ball that had hit him and explaining that when he'd taken the field in the first inning, he could barely breathe, let alone bend over. Then, when he'd tried to throw the ball and salvage the play, the numb-elbow-and-pain-down-the-arm syndrome had struck again, only much worse this time. And, he said, by the time he'd made it back to the dugout, his hand was shaking and so weak that he could barely clutch a water bottle.

At that point, I did a complete emotional one-eighty. Here I'd been disappointed that he'd been giving less than 100% effort, yet he'd been pushing himself to perform and not admit that he was hurting, and hurting pretty badly. I felt so ashamed.

We iced Zach up when we got home, but it helped very little. By morning, he was worse. His arm had kept him up much of the night, and he had tenderness in his inner elbow and pain when he rotated his hand downward—classic signs of Little League Elbow, which affects a child's growth plates, as repetitive throwing causes soft, developing cartilage to crack and sometimes separate from the arm bone. Kelly and I talked, and after reading online that any boy Zach's age experiencing elbow pain after throwing should be evaluated immediately, we agreed he needed to see a sports medicine specialist.

So, two days later, Zach was x-rayed and evaluated. The good news was that he didn't have Little League Elbow. The bad news was that he had two forms of tendonitis, and he'd be spending at least four weeks in therapy, prohibited from throwing. When I heard the doctor say four weeks—and knowing that was the best-case scenario—the competitive dad started to surface again. But then I saw Zach's long face and obvious sadness, and I got over it. The consoling, supportive dad took over, and I heard myself telling Zach this was good news overall and that it could have been much worse. Finally, the realistic, pragmatic dad had arrived, and just in time.

Zach began his therapy the next day, and he loved the fact—as did I—that his therapist, hand-selected by his doctor, was a former minor league pitcher for the Oakland A's. And it was icing on top of the cake when later in the day, Kelly and I received a message from Zach’s coach telling us what a wonderful kid we have, how sorry he was to hear about the injury, and how badly he wanted Zach back on the team. Kelly and I shared the message with Zach and told him in no uncertain terms how proud we were of him and what he’s already accomplished regardless of whether he makes it back to the lineup this season. And watching his reaction—and sharing a group hug—I was reminded that as much as I love baseball, I love that kid a whole lot more.

Zach and I are both students of the game. But it’s pretty clear that this season, I’m the one who’s being taught the bigger—and ultimately, more valuable—lessons.