Everything *Does* End

As the sun set over San Francisco this late autumn night, I walked alone to my car, got in and turned on the radio. It was set to my kids' favorite station ("Live 105") and the song playing was by Death Cab for Cutie, "Meet Me on the Equinox."

It's quite a beautiful, haunting song on the alt-rock circuit these days. The chorus for that song is "Everything Ends. Everything Ends."

All of which feels quite appropriate today, a day when quite a few important things in my life came to an end. My calendar, however, which I have been roundly criticized for, anticipated only one event -- my son's playoff soccer game, the first his high school has had in anyone's memory.

This season has been more like a fairy tale than any of his other sports successes over the years, if only because the odds seemed so long against them.

At the first "home" game, I was the only spectator as the game started who was not booing their own team! Mainly, the others in the stands were kids, calling out insults to their classmates on the field.

Later, I started learning that these observers were the kids who wished they could play on the team, but they "didn't have the grades." So they showed up to yell insults instead.

This is not a very promising start to my son's high school soccer "career," is all I could think to myself. But, on the pitch, he was doing fine. Even though a freshman in this inner-city high school, he became a starter and -- except for about ten minutes in the first game -- started and played every minute of every game until he injured his ankle, and had to miss last Thursday's season finale.

Game by game, this particular group of kids were visibly coming together as a team. A real team. They won games, lots of games.

Gradually, I began recognizing that there were other parents attending the games, and a small group of us, the regulars, bunched together, where by shouting loudly, we could imitate a real crowd.

The new principal of the school started showing up, plus a few teachers, counselors, and a small but more loyal group of students.

The cheerleaders started coming to certain games. More kids started coming.

The team kept winning, crafting an unlikely 8-game streak where they won seven, tied one, scored 31 goals and allowed 3.

During all of this, I started looking beyond my own kid and his story to empathize with the parents of seniors on this team. They had been the long-suffering attendees of games oozing with low morale for over three years.

The school's record over those three years was 12-30-4, and they never came close to making the playoffs, which in the San Francisco Public School System is dominated by huge schools like Mission and Lowell.

Balboa, by contrast is a third the size.

Nevertheless, today, as the team with the fourth-best record in the league, they finally got their chance. Their opponent was the team with the top record.



This game was to be a very different experience. Not only were us regulars out in force, we brought family members. Not only did the principal attend, he arranged for teachers to change their meeting schedule and attend.

The cheerleaders were all there. And many, many students were there. The girls' soccer team was there. (Note to self: Attend at least one girls' soccer team game next spring.)



As the team prepared for their showdown, the loudspeaker kicked in. We were in the City's professional soccer stadium, the nicest venue any of these kids have ever played in.

Those of us in the crowd sat in stands so large we assumed they could never be filled for a mere afternoon (2:30 pm start!) public high school battle. But the kids kept pouring in, and by the time the action started, we had a loud, boisterous contingent on hand for both schools.



This is my favorite photograph from this season. This how a team looks. You rarely see people of so many races, cultures and classes together in this way, except in some of our proudest national institutions: The military, first and foremost, but also in our sports teams.

We are a rainbow nation, and this school happens to be the most diverse in San Francisco, which in turn is one of the most diverse in all of America.

In our common future, this is the face of America.



My son did not start. It was not about his ankle, which we had successfully healed. It's because he is a freshman, and this, potentially, was the last game the seniors on the team would ever get to play wearing their high school's colors.

Plus this season, with its tremendous and unexpected successes, really belonged to them -- and their families.

I was very nervous all day today getting prepared to watch this contest. As all of the other regulars, one by one arrived, they confided the same feelings. As a parent, while you watch your kid play a violent sport like soccer, you are always on edge.

First, you pray (s)he will not get hurt. Second, you hope they do well. Third, you hope don't feel bad afterward, no matter what happens.

Somewhere, down the list, you hope they win, too, because winning is and always will be by far more fun.



Although he didn't start, before the end of the first half, one of our seniors got injured, the first of many sad injuries today, so my son ran onto the field to a raucous cheer (he says that is only because he is friends with all the cheerleaders.)

He quite obviously had not gotten the team memo (cut your hair to a Mohawk) because his floppy red mop stood out, as always, in sharp contrast to everyone else out there on the pitch.

But he played very well. The first injury was to a midfielder, so he played midfield. When he was on the field, his team scored the game's first goal. It was very near the end of the first half, and our giant and very rowdy crowd went utterly crazy as result. We were besides ourselves.

I hope I didn't hurt anyone's hand as I jumped and screamed and slapped high fives in the stands. But even as this was happening, I knew, way deep inside, that this is as good as it ever gets, in this very brief life of ours.

It doesn't really matter what happened after that, although I will of course tell you. That moment was the kind of peak moment we all live for, I suspect.

Think about it. To succeed in any field in this world you have to work, unless of course you are born to privilege, in which case nothing I can write here will make any sort of sense at all.

There is no kid on the Balboa High School soccer team who was born to privilege. These are not a bunch of boys likely to be headed for Harvard Law School, either by class or by grades, with a few possible exceptions.

These are athletes, and many of them also have good grades, but they are not considered elite material by those who continue to dominate (and profit from) our economy and the political order that remains in place in this country.

(This, despite the efforts of our idealistic young President, himself a victim of hanging around too long, IMHO, with the elites.)

Nope, these are regular guys. And at halftime today they were on top of their world. They had the top team in their league on the ropes.

But we all knew that a second half had to be played. More injuries ensued, and my kid was rushed back in, now at center forward. Are you kidding me? He's never played offense, so how will he know what to do?

But his coach, who clearly cares a lot for these kids, was off the field helping his latest senior recover from a vicious blow that, for unknown reasons, was not called a foul. For a while, the injury looked quite serious, but I think he eventually was able to walk on his own again.

Meanwhile, the tall freshman was back to where he belonged, on defense, and he continued to play well until the final whistle.

What else can I say? They lost 2-1. Perhaps with better referees, they would have won. Perhaps, if the other team hadn't flopped and fouled less obviously, they would have won. Perhaps, with a few better bounces and a few other breaks, they would have won. Maybe the best team didn't win.

But that's the way life goes.

You know what I like best? After the game, walking with him to his mother's car, my son told me that he was happy about this game. "I didn't expect to play. It was the seniors' last chance. I only got in there when they got hurt. That's how it should be. We did very well. I played well."

And that is the lesson of sports. Someone has to lose and someone has to win. Afterward, you shake hands and move on.

Too bad the rest of life doesn't always work like that. Although I am very proud of my son, as I returned to my flat alone, I wondered what it is I have to be that proud of...

Have you ever felt that way?

-30-