A lot of people I know are retiring these days or at least talking about it.  That’s not surprising since I and most of my friends are in our mid to late 60’s.  Retirement used to be something way down the road.  Well, “way down” has come a lot closer.  Thinking about this topic has me wondering about the whole idea of “retiring a number.”  Can you do that?  After all, how do you count to 100 if you don’t have a 22.  In fact, you couldn’t even get to 24 much less 25, 27, 30, 36, 42 or 44.  But in baseball you can retire a number and back in July of this year, the San Francisco Giants did it again. This time they took number 22 out of circulation and placed it on display along with all those other numbers of Giant greats. *

No Giant will ever wear 22 again because of one particular ballplayer; William Nushler Clark Jr. who wore the double deuce with distinction through eight memorable seasons.  Known as Will the Thrill or just The Thrill, Clark was a throwback, old school if you will, who played the game with passion and enthusiasm, full of confidence and swager.  He rescued a floundering franchise beginning with his first at bat when he hit a home run off of Hall of Famer to be, Nolan Ryan.  Clark was the heart and soul of a Giant team that went from 100 losses in 1985 to the post season in 1987 and all the way to the World Series in 1989.  

The exploits of Will Clark are well chronicled, and the honor is richly deserved, but I want to turn my attention to the notion of retiring a number.  What if you could “retire the numbers” of the men and women who impacted your life.   My list would include teachers, preachers, bosses and colleagues, and without a doubt my high school baseball coach.  I don’t remember the number* that Terry Christman wore as coach of the Crestmoor Falcons, but I rarely watch a ball game that I don’t think of something that I learned from Terry.  He taught me more baseball in two years than I learned before or after.  Even now I can see his head shake in disbelief when teams played the infield in way too early in the game.  “Don’t they think they can score one run!”  

Terry’s experience in pro ball in the New York Mets organization as a pitcher, position player and manager were already mostly behind him by the time he was the coach at Crestmoor High School in San Bruno, California but we were the all the richer for his experience and his stories.  Terry is the consummate storyteller, and he had and still has a wealth of material.  Not only that, but he also genuinely enjoys people, and you can’t help but know that when you are in his company.

If you found yourself sitting on the bench with Terry as your coach it was like receiving an advanced degree in the game of baseball.  He could start out pretty agitated about something happening on the field, like the first baseman holding the runner on with the bases loaded rather than playing behind or in front of the runner.  After an initial strong and often salty reaction, Terry would take the time to make sure you understood why.  It was like it mattered that you learned the game which meant that he thought you might actually get on the field.  Even more, it communicated that you mattered.  If you listened carefully, you would begin to understand how to pitch with two strikes on the hitter, what it meant to get your pitch to hit, and why you NEVER made the first or final out of an inning at third base.  

Terry knew the game and he could teach it.  Case in point – he taught me how to bunt.  I ended up getting nine bunt singles my senior year in college and hit over .300 – lesson learned!   Those who played for Terry were the beneficiaries of good instruction and excellent drills.  I was not even afraid to bunt with two strikes.  Terry would talk about getting your head right in there so you could see the ball.   I once bunted a ball on a squeeze play right off my nose which might be a little extreme, but I never thought much about it.  I was confident that I could put the bat on the ball and get it down on the ground.  Suffice to say that I am still shaking my head when I see major league players who can’t do the things Terry taught us to do.

We often worked on executing rundown plays and the method Terry taught us is as close to foolproof as you can get.  I taught it to lots of kids that I coached in Southern California, Portland, Oregon and Wenatchee, Washington.  Watch the next rundown you see in a big-league game and see how many throws it takes to get the runner.  More than two or three?  They need to talk to Coach Christman.

Every practice was put together like the lesson plan of a master teacher.  My sister had Terry for her World Geography teacher in ninth grade.  It would be fair to say that his teaching skills did not show as well in the classroom as on the diamond.  However, on the field with a vast storehouse of baseball knowledge and experience at his fingertips, he made practice both fun and productive.  There was not a wasted minute and if you’ve played baseball you know that is rarely the case.  Things have changed for the better, but back in the 1970’s batting practice with one guy hitting and everyone else shagging was all too typical.  Our practices were designed to allow us to learn and improve both as individuals and as a team.  I almost always stayed afterwards to work on some aspect of the game.  Often Terry would stick around as well and throw BP which once I got older and had my own family, I recognized the sacrifice that represented.

Terry loved the game, and it came out in a number of ways.  He was intense and he wanted to win but he made it fun.  Whether it was a bunting drill or taking batting practice there was usually a contest involved.  Even conditioning and baserunning made you forget the pain as you competed in some kind of fashion.  He taught us the game of FLIP which I have passed on to every team that I have coached.  Terry had a deep appreciation for the game and a respect for its traditions.  His experience in professional baseball meant that we were learning from someone who had actually reached the level where he was getting paid to play baseball.  For high school kids that was our dream and he had lived it.  He knew the standard of excellence required to make it to the top and he was committed to passing on to us as much as we wanted and were ready to receive.  I can honestly say that because of what I learned from Terry I rose to a level greater than my talent would have predicted and went on to play four years of college baseball. 

Will Clark in his speech surprisingly had some good things to say about Candlestick Park where he played his whole career as a Giant.  Fans of the Giants in the last century remember “The Stick” and the miserable place it could be to play and watch a ball game.  Wind, fog and cool temperatures were the rule, and it took until Roger Craig came along as the Giants manager to convince the team to embrace Candlestick as a competitive advantage.  Crestmoor High School, only 15 miles south of Candlestick sat on a hill completely exposed to the prevailing west wind that blew in from left field.  It was arguably every bit as windy as Candlestick.  In fact, we even had a game WINDED out.  It was blowing so hard that it was impossible to hit a fly ball to left field and even the ground balls were visibly slowed by the force of the wind.  

Yet, Terry knew what Roger Craig knew.  We could complain or we could turn the conditions in our favor.  No one wanted to hit in the wind and cold and our pitchers learned to pitch with confidence to teams that would have preferred to sit on their team bus than in the dugout.  They came to the plate more concerned about how cold they were than on hitting the ball.  We would have all preferred to play in better conditions, but Terry helped us learn to make the best of a tough situation.  It was a lesson learned on the ball field that in the words of Will Clark “made us the adults we are today.”

The life lessons did not end on the field.  I remember a game that we lost and one my teammates made a comment about “getting his two hits.”  He should have turned the volume down.  Terry heard him. Suffice to say that none of us ever made that mistake again.  Baseball is a team sport played by individuals and Terry helped us learn that truth.  Much of life is played the same way.

I realized that my baseball playing days would be numbered so I began to consider a career as a teacher and coach.  Two words stood out to me, competency and concern.  I came to believe that in teaching and coaching, in fact in whatever I would go on to do, these qualities would be the foundation of success. Competency is critical to enable you to do your job well, and genuine care and concern for people allows you to share what you have to offer.  Terry modeled this on the baseball field, and it has made a difference in how I have lived my life.  

I have stayed in touch with Terry over the years.  Back in 1999, it was the Giants last year at Candlestick, I took my wife and 2 young boys to see one more game at the ballpark I’d been going to since I was eight years old.  It was a pilgrimage of sorts.  I had to go one more time and my boys had never been.  Terry and his wife Jan had us to dinner the night before.  He showed the boys his World Series rings that he had received from the A’s and the Giants for whom he had thrown batting practice over the years.  Terry was still throwing batting practice** for the Giants and he got us tickets for a couple of games.  He arranged for the boys to get some autographed baseballs.  Needless to say, it was a special experience.

Terry and I talk by phone at least a couple times each year.  We’ve talked about the Giants and controversial umpire calls.  I asked him about players who have passed away like Tom Seaver and Bob Gibson and of course he had great stories to tell.  We grieved the loss of a teammate and friend who died before his time. I’ve heard about Terry’s grandkids and he has shared in the joy of our first grandson who will be two this December.  I believe God brings people across our paths; some people call it coincidence – I think it is much more. People like Terry are a gift that can’t be measured by any modern day analytic.  I know that my aging memories only capture a part of Terry’s influence on my life and since I can’t retire his number, I just display this bat above my office desk. *** 

Thanks Terry!

* New York and San Francisco Giant numbers that have been retired:

 3  Bill Terry                  24 Willie Mays              42 Jackie Robinson

 4  Mel Ott                    25 Barry Bonds             44 Willie McCovey   

11 Carl Hubbell             27 Juan Marichal           XX Christy Mathewson     

20 Monte Irvin              30 Orland Cepeda         XX John McGraw

22 Will Clark                 36 Gaylord Perry           XX—did not have numbers

** Former SF Giant beat write Henry Schulman writes about Terry who wore number 59 when throwing batting practice for the Giants.  And by the way, he threw great batting practice to the teams he coached and freely dispensed all manner of hitting tips and instruction!

https://www.sfgate.com/sports/article/GIANTS-CLUBHOUSE-He-ll-Be-Pitching-In-At-3008893.php

*** Before aluminum there was wood and since wood would break, we would seek to fix them with nails and glue.  This was one of Terry’s bats that met that fate   It serves as a great reminder of some very fond memories.

I originally wrote this back in January of 2015. It is posted below with a few revisions. My dad would have been 95 on July 15 of this year.

Stu Miller, former relief pitcher for the San Francisco Giants died yesterday at the age of 87.  Giant fans of a certain vintage, as well anyone familiar with the lore of Candlestick Park and its infamous winds will remember Miller.

I often gauged my age in relation to my heroes on the field.  It seemed for so long that these baseball heroes were older guys like my dad. Stu Miller and my dad were both born in 1927; the year that Babe Ruth hit his 60 home runs.  Occasionally a young player would come on the scene and I’d be reminded of someone I knew who was in college, but even that seemed pretty old for an elementary school kid.  When I reached college, I still marked time by comparing my age to the current players.  The grizzled veterans, who were approaching age 40, were either amazing that they could still play, or were obviously just hanging on too long.  The youngest players were now my age and their abilities stood in stark contrast to mine.  I was happy to have been able to play at Biola College.  We did not enjoy a lot of success but I did have the opportunity to play against several ballplayers that made it to the big leagues.  I would later point with pride to Paul Moskau (Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Chicago Cubs) and mention that I had gotten a double off of him when he pitched for Azusa Pacific.  I usually added that it had been a double down the right field line off a fastball. I was your classic contact hitter who managed to get the bat on the ball most of the time. On this occasion the pitcher generated most of the power and I ended up with one of my rare doubles.  

Hall of Famer Ozzie Smith played at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and our paths crossed for one game at Biola.  As long as Ozzie Smith was acrobatically holding down his position as the shortstop of the St Louis Cardinals, then age must not matter all that much.  After all, I had played against him in college and if he was still playing, then by extension I was still young enough to play too, though more likely in a lively game of wiffle ball.

However, even Ozzie Smith retired, as did all the Giants of my boyhood.  Watching Willie Mays in his declining years is one my sadder recollections and yet I am so glad that he is still with us; along with Juan Marichal, Orlando Cepeda and Gaylord Perry.  (We sadly said goodbye to Willie McCovey in October of 2018).

And then I read just yesterday that Stu Miller had died.  You see, I can’t think of Stu Miller without thinking of my dad.  Miller who was an outstanding relief pitcher with the Giants in the early 60’s and was on the All Star team in 1961.  For all his exploits, he is mentioned most for supposedly being blown off the mound at Candlestick Park during the All Star game.  He was not actually blown off the mound, but the strong wind did cause him to lose his balance and he was called for a balk. And how does my dad figure in to all this besides being the same age as Miller?  Well, he went to that All Star game and he brought me home a program which I still have to this day.  

Dads never really know for sure what it is that will have a lasting impact on their kids. My dad was no different.  Yet he knew me well enough to know that holding on to that program and giving it to me would be a good thing.   For me it was the next best thing to being there at the game.  My dad did one better the following year when he took me to Game 1 of the 1962 World Series between the Giants and Yankees.  For a guy who didn’t passionately follow baseball, he cared enough about his young son to appreciate his love for baseball.  It was a great way to say I love you.  Thanks Dad and I’m glad the wind didn’t blow that program out of your hands!

If my 93-year-old mom’s life is any kind of foreshadowing of what my final years will look like, then I will still be watching baseball and following the San Francisco Giants.  Mom switched her allegiance some time ago from the Giants to the Seattle Mariners.  When questioned on this, she notes that she lives in the state of Washington and rooting for the Marines seems like the thing to do.  It’s where I’m from.

Although my mom grew up in Wenatchee, WA she spent a chunk of her adult life on the peninsula, close enough to San Francisco to experience more fog and wind than she cared for.  She left Wenatchee in 1953 and did not return until 2000.  The wife of a heavy construction nomad meant lots of moves along the way.  My dad retired in the mid 1980’s and my folks moved to the Portland area before finally moving back to Wenatchee in 2000.  They had returned to where they had first met.

Baseball came relatively late to my mom.  She did occasionally see the Wenatchee Chiefs play when she was growing up, but the San Francisco Giants were her first rooting interest.  She tells the story that I came home from first grade one day and it was all about baseball and baseball cards.  She was a good mom and joined me in my love for the game.  It was never a problem to have the game on the radio or on TV (although those opportunities were limited back in the 1960’s).  We would go to several games each year courtesy of season tickets that my dad got from his employer.  I think my mom enjoyed those times as much as I did.  With some prompting she recalls vaguely that she and my dad were` at Game 7 of the 1962 World Series that ended on a heart-breaking line drive off the bat of the Giants Willie McCovey.  On contact it looked like a two-run walk off single and World Championship for the Giants over the Yankees.  Alas it was just a line drive out gloved by Bobby Richardson.  Recovering from a tonsillectomy, I was home watching on our black and white TV and experienced the first of my Giant disappointments.  I have written this down so that as my memory fades my boys can remind me like I have done for my mom.  Some memories cannot be allowed to fade.

Now days mom lives here in Wenatchee at Highgate Senior Living.  My dad passed away back in 2011.  She rarely complains, but I know she is not thrilled with assisted living, but one of the joys of her day from April through October is baseball and particularly the Mariners.  If there is a game on, she is watching unless somehow the TV channel has been changed and then that’s another issue.  Technology is not her strong suit, and the remote is an unfriendly devise.

Since she is still quite mobile (with the aid of a walker) I took her to a Wenatchee AppleSox game.  The AppleSox play in the West Coast League comprised primarily of college age players hoping to gain some wood bat experience and take another step towards their ultimate dream of playing big league baseball.  This year, 33 WCL alumni were on big league opening day rosters.  The AppleSox have enjoyed an enthusiastic following and play at the local community college field.  I didn’t have to break the bank to buy the premium tickets that put us in seats that were salvaged from the Kingdome where the Mariners played for their first 33 plus years.  

It was in a pair of those nice seats only about 100 feet from home plate that my mom and I sat earlier this summer.  I thought that after watching all that baseball on TV she ought to go see a game in person or at least part of a game.  She last attended a Mariner game back in 2016.  Just as an aside, my niece Jennifer worked for the Mariners selling tickets, so she coordinated a bunch of us going to see the M’s play the Giants.  The Giants won that game.  My youngest son and I along with much of my extended family went home happy.  My wife, oldest son and of course my mom would have preferred a different outcome.

Back to the AppleSox game.  It was an enjoyable time.  The baseball was good and the ice cream we ate perhaps even better.  I love Blue Bunny ice cream!  The Sox ended up winning although we violated one of my childhood maxims by leaving the game early.  Some of those rules must now be applied more liberally.  We only stayed three innings with hopes for more next time.  (I’m a believer in the “leave them wanting more” strategy).  Probably my best memory was before the game even started.  A men’s acapella group was singing the National Anthem.  My mom joined right in.  Her voice has lost a little, but it was cool to hear her singing. Music like baseball gets into your head and brings back all kinds of memories long after other things have faded.

Perhaps the subconscious reason I took my mom to the AppleSox game is because I want my sons to take me out to a ballgame when I can no longer get there on my own.  I’ll probably want some cracker jacks and for sure ice cream.  Most of all  I will share with them a mutual admiration and attachment to the game.  The memories will include the Mariners “Refuse to Lose” 1995 miracle season, the Giants amazing run of three World Series Championships in five years, Wenatchee Youth Baseball and backyard wiffle ball games.  Perhaps I will sit there as quietly as my mom without much recall of the past, but at some deep level the game will work its magic and maybe I will be singing along too.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

I’ve been meeting with a small group of guys on Thursday mornings since late 2002. None of them are big baseball guys, but they are gracious and good listeners. I don’t always talk baseball, but I couldn’t contain myself this morning. I had three great baseball moments that had to be shared.

I’ve been waiting since opening day for a game like last night’s 4-3 Giant win over the Dodgers. Granted it was not a game for the ages, (it’s only April) but it was the best game yet this year. Obviously there is a lot of baseball left in this season, but this game might well end up being the game I remember most when I think of 2017. In my youth, I might have viewed this game as perhaps the moment when a disappointing season turned around. What I have seen from the Giants thus far makes it hard for me to believe that, but I will savor the memories until they fade.

Three players and three moments helped to wash away some of the frustration of the previous 14 losses in 21 games. And if six games out of first wasn’t bad enough, add to that a series of costly injuries. Stuff happens in baseball, I just wasn’t aware that stuff included dirt bike accidents involving your best pitcher. But I digress…

I was listening on the radio last night while helping my wife Brenda move some furniture. With a Giant Dodger game on TV, listening to the radio, and moving furniture are both indicators that the season is not going well. After five innings the futility appeared to be continuing. The Dodger led 3-0 and the Giants were hitless. At the end of six, the only change was that the Giants had picked up a hit. Then came the first of the three magical moments. In the seventh inning rookie Christian Arroyo, playing in just his third big league game, hit his first home run, driving in Buster Posey to make it a one run game. His mom, in the stands, celebrated while deftly hanging on to her plate of nachos. Athletic skill must run in the family.

Enter Michael Morse, of 2014 Giant lore. His dramatic eighth inning pinch hit home run to tie the game with St Louis in the NLCS, helped to propel San Francisco to their third World Series in five years. (Of course you can’t mention that game without a salute to Travis Ishikawa and his walk off game winning home run). That post season may well have been the high water mark of Morse’s career, which included his, go ahead RBI in Game 7 of the World Series victory over Kansas City. He was out of baseball last year and almost on a lark, accepted an invitation to the Giants spring training camp. The invite to Morse came from the Giants General Manager Bobby Evans while both were attending the wedding of former Giant teammate Hunter Pence, (more on Pence later). Morse was close to making the team when he suffered an injury. He decided to stick with it and was playing in the Giants minor league system when he got the call on Monday past. In an appearance strangely similar to his 2014 post-season heroics, Morse again pinch-hitting in the eighth inning, crushed a home run to tie the game at 3-3. It was his first at bat since being called up and the results were as thrilling as they were improbable.

So after fireworks in successive innings, the game remained tied into the bottom of the tenth. With the bases loaded and nobody out, up came, unquestionably the Giants most unique player. What Hunter Pence may lack in artistic grace, he more than makes up for in character and intensity. If you have played the game, you will know how difficult it is to handle a high fastball and if you are prone to offer at such a pitch, the strategy is to keep throwing the ball in that location and even a little higher each time. Dodger pitcher, Ross Stripling was fully committed to that approach. After a swinging strike and a foul ball, Pence had fallen behind in the count. He would work Stripling to a 3-2 count, fouling off four more high fast balls, and then on the tenth pitch of the at bat, he hit a sacrifice fly to give the Giants an amazing come from behind win.

Three players, three memorable moments; for a rookie who will tell his grandkids about his first home run, for an aging veteran who now knows why he decided to try it one more time, and for the wild eyed, emotional heart of the Giants who showed all of us one more time that being conventional might be overrated and that’s why he absolutely never gives up. As one friend, a former college teammate of mine said of this game, “It had everything that I love about baseball.” I know what Jim means, this game made me smile.

And thanks to my Thursday morning group for letting this Giant fan relive these three moments. Perhaps it is fleeting.  The Giants lost today 5-1 in ten innings, but that’s okay. This one was good enough to enjoy just a little longer.

Monday past started with some unexpected rain. At least it was a surprise to me, but it seemed like a good way to start the workweek. People moved a little slower, the coffee shop felt a little warmer and the hard edge of a workday was softened just a little. I had just returned from a weekend in Portland, where I’m quite sure that my Rose City friends would have preferred a bright sunny Monday morning. Here in North Central Washington, where the sun is much more the norm, rain can be an excuse to reflect a bit, to listen a little more closely to others, or a reason to dream, if only about what it will be like when the sun returns.

Granted, rain can ruin well-crafted plans, but gray skies really are a good backdrop for contemplation. Even a few minutes of silence can be a gift to embrace in our crazy, digital, always on, 24/7 existence. Changing plans enhances our ability to flex, adjust, and modify, which I’m sure are all good practices.

In the best of all scenarios, the rain showers are brief; long enough to catch our attention and refocus the mind, but then the clouds begin to part. Suddenly great swatches of blue appear, steam starts to rise from the warming ground. Perhaps you can even revive previous plans, but if not, you have cleared your mind and you are ready for whatever the day will hold. A little quiet is a good idea, maybe even on a sunny day.

Ok – I admit it. I am forgetful. This has been evident to others for some time. I played baseball through college and have managed to lose three really good gloves. How does a ball player lose a glove? Simple – forgetfulness. I could make up some lame excuse but my wife Brenda would never buy it. Nor would my friends in Portland where I have left enough things, that if they had not returned them, would have made packing unnecessary the next time I visited. Brenda is a good sport. She only chuckles when I invariably come back in the house, at least once, usually twice, to get something I forgot. I do contend though that it’s not technically forgotten until you actually leave.

The other morning, ten minutes into my thirty-minute drive to our local ski area, I realized I had left my gloves at home. My first thought as I turned back was I should have left that extra pair of mittens in the truck like I had thought about doing. Next, I looked down and saw my “Ski Checklist.” Of course intentions not acted upon, and checklists not consulted yield no value. I was lucky. My buddy, who I was planning to ski with, got all the way to parking lot before he realized that he had forgotten gloves, helmet and ski pants.

As I rode the chairlift, waiting for Scott to arrive, I thought more about checklists and particularly my failure to look at mine. Why is that? After all, I had gone to the trouble to create the list, print it out and even place it where it would be easy to use. The answer is that I had not built the habit that would make it second nature to take a quick glance at what I needed to have with me for a good time on the mountain. I failed to follow the maxim from David Allen, (author of the book Getting Things Done), “The mind is great place to have ideas and terrible place to keep them.” (For more on the value of checklists read The Checklist Manifesto, by Atul Gawande).

Speaking of checklists, I have two friends that are pilots. One is probably more skilled than the other, but the less skilled pilot is a stickler for using his checklist. If I knew that a flight would end in a crisis, then I’d choose my more talented friend. However, it is quite possible, that the very reason for the crisis was that he somehow forgot to check the fuel gauge. The checklist is only one example of the “external brain,” but there are many ways that we can work to off load stuff from our minds in order to free up space for higher and better uses of those brain cells. I am a huge fan of the aforementioned David Allen’s book Getting Things Done. It is all about developing a trusted system that will enable you to accomplish more with less stress while using your mind in way that fosters creative thought in every area of your life.

Yes I am forgetful, and I must acknowledge that I did not heed my own advice, but I am resolved to make it habit to consult my Ski Checklist and I vowed not post this until those mittens are in the truck! Here’s to all kinds of good ideas with minds that are freed up to think!

Everything rational tells me that disappointment should be reserved for important things. I’ve had my share of legitimate disappointment. Parenting ensures large doses of it, not to mention the regrets attributable to my own poor choices in life. Knowing all that full well, I must admit that my most consistent experience with disappointment has come because I am a baseball fan. Every serious fan will resonate with the low grade level of sadness that accompanies the every day twists and turns of a baseball season. If your team is even above average to quite good, you will still have to face the reality of plus or minus 70 losses. Those losses can take the spring out of your step, turn a partly sunny day into partly cloudy and make every glass look half empty. Of course when your team wins or better yet strings together several wins, the opposite may well be true. Yet barely below the surface lurks the gnawing memory of past disappointments and the knowledge that they will return.

A loss, a losing streak, even worse, a season that is written off by Memorial Day, are all part of every baseball fan’s experience. There are still deeper baseball disappointments, and if you’re fan of the San Francisco ball club you might well call them “Giant Disappointments.”  The 2017 season got off to an illustrative start, producing baseball’s unique version of emotional pain. The Giants blew three separate leads,  but still were within one out of starting the year on a winning note.  It was not to be, and the sad fact is that it will happen again and again in varying ways throughout the season. It should be noted that San Francisco’s starter, Madison Bumgarner became the first opening day pitcher to hit two home runs in a game, yet the loss takes much of the shine off even that.

My first lasting memory of this kind of disappointment was the final out of the 1962 World Series between the Yankees and the Giants. Game seven came down to the bottom of the ninth with the Giants trailing 1-0. (The Yankees had scored their only run on a double play). With two outs and runners on second and third, Willie McCovey scorched a line drive. Before I could exhale, much less jump off the couch, the ball found the glove of Yankee second baseman Bobby Richardson and it was over.

The Giants had great teams in the1960’s but managed to finish second four years in a row from 1965 through 1968. (Dodger and Cardinal fans celebrated without regard for my pain). In 1969, the first year of divisional play, it looked like the Giants could make it to the post season. I purchased a ticket to the play offs, which arrived in the mail. There in my hand was my very own playoff ticket. It looked so official because it was – nobody even thought of counterfeit tickets back then.   I was cautiously excited, only to return my ticket for a refund when the Braves reeled off a streak of ten wins and the Giants finished second for the fifth straight time. *

Perhaps the most crushing defeat in my many years as a Giant fan came in 2002. San Francisco, led by Barry Bonds, was back in the World Series taking on the Anaheim Angels. The Giant’s offense was prolific and their pitching more than adequate. They took a three games to one advantage into Game 6. I was watching the game at my parent’s condo, which was quite fitting. They had been at Game 7 back in 1962. My folks were actually out of town, which as things played out, meant they would be spared sharing another Giant meltdown with their oldest son.  With the Giants leading 5-0 in the seventh inning, it all unraveled in a most inglorious fashion. I won’t go into the painful details and I won’t assign blame. There has been plenty of that over the years. (I must say though that my high school coach never did anything that resembled a pre mature celebration). For those who want to relive the pain, you can search the internet, but once San Francisco lost Game 6, I knew what Game 7 would bring. It did, and when it was over I was still waiting for the Giants to win their first World Series since 1954, the year I was born. The team had been in San Francisco for 45 years and been to three World Series, without bringing home the big prize. When they lost in 2002, I was almost 50 and I began to think I might not ever see the Giants win a World Series. Of course there was that one in 1954 but it was hard to enjoy since I was all of six months old. I know it is often popular to say that something is not a zero sum game, but any way you slice it, baseball is a zero sum game. One teams wins it all and everybody else loses. In that respect, there is plenty of disappointment to go around.

Speaking of more disappointment, the Giants had also been in the 1989 World Series in which they lost four straight to the Oakland A’s. It was painful to watch them struggle against their cross bay rival Oakland, but this was tragically overshadowed by the Loma Prieta earthquake and joyfully eclipsed by the birth of our second son Luke. Even a hard core fan like myself, at least when looking back, can see the relative insignificance of my dismay in the face of what was quite literally life and death. It is all about perspective.

With perspective you begin to look outside of your own pain, experience, sadness and disappointment. You take a wider view and see what is truly important. Baseball is a great game, okay, the best game, but even baseball pales in light of true suffering like many experienced in the earthquake back in 1989.

The birth of a child also lends perspective. Even the childlike joy that would I later experience when the Giants went on to win three World Championships in the space of five years, (2010, 2012, and 2014) is nothing compared to holding your own newborn baby. I am glad that we live in a day when major league players regularly leave their teams to be at the birth of their children. The bright light of perspective has done its illuminating work and lots of baseball families are the better for it.

I’ll probably always have that low level experience of sadness when the Giants lose, (like after this season’s opener), but I’m thankful for perspective. It is a gift in the midst of both pain and celebration. Bring on that next game.

*Cubs fans received all the sympathy in 1969 as Chicago managed to blow a mid August lead of nine games and fall to the Amazin’ Mets.

In 2016, I’d like to say that I whole heartedly celebrated with Cub fans this past season when they won their first World Series since 1908.   The truth is my congratulations were tempered by the fact that the Giants lost to the Cubs in true disappointing fashion in the Divisional Series. 

Perspective says a team should win at least every 100 years or so.  Go Mariners!

The following was in response to a question posed by a sports columnist in our local paper, The Wenatchee World.

What can lay claim to your love and passion for the better part of a lifetime? There is family, perhaps your faith in God and maybe a friend or two.  I add to that short list, baseball. My fervor as a sports fan has narrowed over the years and now focuses primarily on baseball and specifically the San Francisco Giants, with a nod to the Seattle Mariners. It’s all rather simple. I grew up about 10 miles south of the city by the bay, just a few years after the Giants had left New York for the west coast.  Until their recent success, the 1960’s had been the golden age of the Giants. Their lineup card was a glimpse into baseball’s Hall of Fame. A Giants box score showed names like Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, and Orlando Cepeda; all in their prime and all destined for Cooperstown. That they only appeared in one World Series during those years is still a mystery and a confirmation that baseball is fundamentally about pitching. Still, it was a wonderful time to come of age as a baseball fan.

Why do I root? As a boy, it was the joy of seeing men playing a kid’s game, my game, a game that I loved. It made me dream; dream that I could some day play at Candlestick Park. The notion that you could actually get paid to play baseball was almost beyond comprehension. That I would have played for nothing goes without saying.  It was more a question of how much would I have paid to play. The dream of wearing “the black and orange” took a long time to fade, but fade it did under the reality of my own limitations.

The dream may have ended, but the fond memories of falling asleep listening to Russ Hodges and Lon Simmons on the radio, or watching a televised game, (there were only nine each year) against the hated Dodgers, endure to this day. I was at Candlestick with my parents on the last day of the 1962 season when a Willie May home run and a Dodger loss to the Cardinals meant San Francisco and Los Angeles were tied after 162 games, and would play three more to decide who would meet the Yankees. These and other Giant moments are some of the most vivid memories of my formative years.

Yet over half a century later, why do I still root? Simply put, there are few better ways to connect to the joys of my childhood and the memory of my dad, (who took me to Game 1 of the 1962 World Series).  Baseball remains a great way to share life with my entire extended family, siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews, but most of all, my 88 year old mom who watches the Mariners faithfully. My nod to the Mariners goes back to that magical 1995 season when my wife and our two boys experienced the unique thrill of a pennant race. We all watched together, as Edgar Martinez hit that double down the left field line, to give the Mariners the win over the Yankees in Game 5 of the Divisional Series. In the final analysis, I root because as Ken Griffey Jr. looked up from the dog pile at home plate, in that iconic Mariner moment, he smiled. And baseball makes me smile.  Yes, that’s why I root.

PS  I was supposed to be at that game, but we were watching at home.  That’s a story for another day!

Spring, what’s not to like? The very sound of the word should put a bounce in your step as you shake off the lingering effects of winter and embrace the warmth, light and promise of spring. This year, I did not see the grass in my yard from December 6 until after President’s day. And then it snowed again and covered it all back up, albeit the melting has started in earnest now that the calendar shows March. Don’t get me wrong, I love snow and I am actually one of those who would like winter to last till at least April. I never complain when the white stuff is falling. Bring on the snow blower and the shovels. Grab the snow brushes and scrapers for the car windows and don’t forget to buy the ice melt before everybody in town runs out. Winter is my favorite season and I’m convinced that everything looks better covered with a blanket of snow. I haven’t even begun to talk about my passion for all things skiing; downhill, cross country, (classic and skating), alpine touring and ski shoeing on my Altai Hok skis. (see YouTube video on Hok Skis https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDkigQJegcc)

I have been on some type of ski almost 70 times since late November of last year. It started with skiing into the woods to cut our Christmas tree. I should be able to ski well into April or even early May. However, come this time of year, I do start to pay attention to news coming out of Arizona. This is the season when my passions collide. In the words of John Fogarty, “there’s new grass on the field.” I love baseball and my allegiance to the San Francisco Giants goes back to 1961, pre dating my first skiing experience by about eight years. Fortunately, these pursuits only cross paths in the early spring and although memorably one time in late October. In 2012, we had an early snowfall in the mountains and I was cross-country skiing on the morning of October 27. I was home in plenty of time to watch the Giants beat the Detroit Tigers to take a 3-0 lead in the World Series. They would wrap it up the next night, completing a four game sweep. How often can you enjoy the best of both your favorites? I got the cake, the icing and an extra piece that day. It’s a great memory that comes to mind each year as the snow starts to become visible on the ridge tops and baseball enters the post season.

Of course the snow will melt this spring like it does every year, and that’s a good thing. My good bye to winter will be easier because I will have settled into the promise and hopes of a new season. Opening Day overshadows everything, and even though I’ll still be skiing for a little while longer, I’ll probably be listening to the ball game as I ride the chair lift or explore one of my favorite trails on my skinny skis. Spring will give way to summer and the rhythm of baseball will replace the rhythm and magic of skiing in all its forms. The crack of the bat will pierce the silence of winter and the joy of the crowd will draw me in. I will apply the last coat of wax to my skis before storing them away, undoubtedly with a Giant’s game on in the background. I will find renewed and familiar pleasure in the drama of another season, but come September I will begin to look to the hills. Winter can never come soon enough. Play ball!