Victory!

Coaching his first game today, this was a 17-year-old with a plan. His players had only one practice under their belts -- and that was late yesterday -- and they were neither in game shape yet, nor used to winning soccer games.

But, as they say, you could throw away the history books today. This didn't look like the same team that had won only six of its previous 43 games. The defense was terrific, and the midfielders and strikers kept getting to the ball first and punching the ball into the other team's zone.

When he saw they were bunching up too much during the scoreless first half, he told them to spread the field in the second. A few other adjustments and about fifteen minutes into the second half his team scored the first goal of the season.

That was all it would take.

After their 1-0 victory, the girls all high-fived their new coach, whom some of them have taken to calling Mister Coach Sir, with a smile.

It's just one game, of course, but this might be a pretty good story beginning here...

One other detail -- the player at right defense, his little sister, played with a sore ankle and a bad cold. And, she played her best game ever.

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Game Day

Watching your young sons grow into men and your your young daughters grow into women is part of the deal, of course, with parenting, and it's easy to detect the combination of lament at lost childhood and pride at emerging adulthood in any parent's voice.

This is a very quiet and hot Saturday morning in the city. The fan's on overhead; the back door is open, and I can hear a few birds in the back garden. A lazy, slow-moving haze lightens what would otherwise be our bright blue Northern California sky.

Neighbors rush around, getting ready for their weekend routines. I remember back in the years when I was employed the stark difference between weekday and weekend -- a difference for me that has largely evaporated.

Now every day has a great deal of sameness to it. Every night as well, which is not a good thing.

But today is one I've been anticipating for a while. My 17-year-old starts his formal coaching career. His U13 girls' team held their first practice last night and they were energetic but definitely rusty. He had them running and passing and receiving and defending for an hour and a half.

They listen to him, which is a good thing. But afterward, he said to me, "The thing about girls is they talk so much. And not about soccer. It's hard to keep their attention on the game."

Nevertheless that is his job, to keep their attention on the game. He's not taking over a winning franchise, since in previous seasons these girls have won six, lost thirty-five and tied two games. So that's a .163 winning percentage.

But he seems up to the challenge, which includes coaching his little sister, who plays defense on the team.

A few hours from now, I'll be standing on the sidelines with many other parents out at the Polo Fields, all rooting for our kids. But I'll probably be the only Dad with both a player and a coach in the game.

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Spiders, Webs, and Striking Back

One of the main topics of conversation on the street out front lately has been spiders. You might think that a group of neighbors hanging around, drinking beer, mourning the brutal death of a man we all knew to varying degrees and liked, would talk only about that, about him, but that's not how this works.

In the end, there is nothing much to say about him. He is gone; most of us don't have much of a clue why, and those that do aren't talking. Who knows how many other secrets may reside in the hearts of those who visit this shrine. And who knows how many more may die before this latest wave of gang violence subsides.

But one thing we can all agree on is that we don't like spiders. Oh, there is the occasional one among us who will defend them, either a romantic (a fan of Charlotte's Web), or a pragmatist ("they kill flies.")

The problem for us humans is that they bite us. One of my neighbor's 3-year-old sons is allergic to spider bites. He had a huge red welt on his arm the other night as he ran around out front.

His dad said the doctor said not to worry unless he develops a fever.

Quite a few of us have noticed the invasion of a breed of strange yellow spiders that have proliferated around here in recent years.

***

Yesterday, as I was standing in my bathroom, peeing, at the back of my building, I noticed something weird. First, it was just one, then another, than a countless number of tiny yellow spiders spiraling down from the top of the back window to the bottom below.

It was a mesmerizing scene, as if I were witnessing an invasion, a military action.

That got me to wondering where military leaders first got the idea of parachuting soldiers behind enemy lines, because this sure looked like something like that.

My job, I decided on the spot, was to protect my kids from these invaders. But to learn about that counter-action, you'll have to tune in another time, because that's another story altogether.

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Alone and Together Again

How to ever capture the emotions of a day? So many ups and so many downs. So many lonely moments and so many warm, intimate moments?

The most important thing about today, and this date, is it is one of my kids' birthdays. I remember the day he was born. It had been 13 years since I'd had a child, and when he arrived, he became my second son.

But he wasn't my youngest for long. Within a few short years, he was the oldest of three. A middle son, with two older sisters and one younger sister.

This weekend, he will become the head coach of his younger sister's soccer team, even though it will be another year before he will no longer be classified as a "minor" himself.

Tonight, at our little family birthday party, his oldest sister and her two young children came to celebrate at his Mom's house. We decided it would not be safe to gather at my house, where tensions on the street out front remain high, amidst a string of retaliatory gang-related murders that took the life of one of my neighbors last week.

While playing with his nephew and niece, the birthday boy also received an energetic call via Skype from his other two nephews in Sacramento, the children of my middle daughter.

This all gets confusing sometimes, this family story. Yes there are a lot of us, which is ironic, given my status as paternal head of the family tree. After all, I live alone, am single, and am a writer -- the epitome of a lone wolf.

Check out my career as an investigative reporter, and the improbability of all of this becomes clear.

Yet nothing I've ever done, or no label ever applied to me has ever felt real to me. I'm none of the things others ascribe to me. I am, have always been, and always will be a complete outsider, except in one very special sense.

And that is when it comes to my family.

But this is not about me. This is about my son's birthday. I picked him up from a friend's house after school and drove him to the Haight. We bought a few items of clothing from the stores he likes best there. As we walked back to my car, I showed him the flat where his older three siblings grew up, just half a block from the corner of Haight and Ashbury.

Back at Bernal, we ordered pizzas. His Mom brought cupcakes, like she did when he was small. We lit candles and sang the song. He smiled and played happily with his three-year-old nephew, who was in a rambunctious mood.

When it was time for the little guy to leave, with his Mom and baby sister, he looked out of the window and saw the strange night sky of lights twinkling through the fog of Twin Peaks.

His eyes got huge and he started to feel scared.

His uncle gave him a big hug and told him he would be fine. His Grandpa scooped him up in his arms and carried him out into that dark night, to secure him in his seatbelt.

"We have to be careful in our car," he told his Mom.

His uncle jogged back up the stairs, as his Mom drove him off into the night. After one more round of hugs, I did so as well.

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Comfort for the Afflicted

The mourning goes on out front day after day. The police drive by. Kids play. people light candles and burn sage. Guys drink beer. Neighbors stop by while walking their dogs or carrying home laundry, groceries.

As the light fades, and the chill of night starts driving us inside, people trade stories of the little things in life -- spider bites, the Giants' disappointing collapse, kids' soccer, people moving in, people moving away.

The crowd out front is so mixed -- black, white, Asian, Latino -- that it well represents our community. All different kinds of people; all concerned with the same kinds of things.

In the aftermath of this tragedy, the best we can do is connect with one another, share thoughts, and try to act more like a community than isolated groups of individuals hiding in fear behind closed doors.

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