Just Like a Rattlesnake

Even if you don't follow baseball, you might have heard of Tim Lincecum, the diminutive starting pitcher and ace of the San Francisco Giants. He's won two Cy Young Awards already in his young career and helped lead the Giants to their World Series title in 2010.

This season, inexplicably, Lincecum has fallen apart. He has the worst earned-run-average in baseball, a terrible won-loss record, and it seems like every game he hits an inning where everything explodes against him.

Last night started out as the most painful game of a perplexing season of painful games for Timmy. The first six batters all reached base against him, three had scored already, the bases were loaded, and it looked like the game would turn into a blowout.

But somehow Lincecum dug deep and struck out the next three batters. After that he never gave up another run and the Giants rallied in the 9th inning to win the game.

What was touching was after the first inning, while he sat in the dugout, Lincecum was approached by his fellow starter Ryan Vogelsong, who's about a decade older but who until last year had never been successful in any comparable way to Lincecum.

Last year Vogelsong became a consistent winner, finally, late in his career, and was selected as an All-Star. They are contrasts physically -- Vogelsong is a big guy. Last night he put his arm around Lincecum and talked with him, perhaps trying to boost his spirits and encourage him to perdure.

You rarely see that in baseball, everyone stays away from starting pitchers between innings. That is the norm.

This was different. Maybe it made the difference, who knows. In any event, maybe Lincecum's slump has finally ended.

***

I watched all of this through the eyes of a father of athletes, not as a player. Last weekend, as we drove to and from the National Cup, my 17-year-old center back talked with me a lot about his emotions on game days.

He said he gets nervous on behalf of his teammates -- "I don't want to let down my team, and I know if I make a mistake, I will."

That's because he is the last line of defense between the big, fast talented strikers streaking toward his net, except for the keeper at his back.

The cardinal rule is to stay between the net and the opponent. You also have to keep your eye on the ball, not oh him. There's a lot going on, including pushing and shoving and jockeying for position.

He has to either run backwards as fast as the other guys is running forward or turn and outrace him before turning again to face him from a crouch. It's an amazing set of moves to execute, and fascinating to watch.

When the striker finally makes his move, i.e., commits to try a shot with one foot or another from one angle or another, it's the moment for the defender to strike -- like a rattlesnake.

(This is why you stay focused on what is happening to the ball rather than getting potentially distracted by how the striker is moving his body, which involves a lot of faking and feigning moves.)

***

Whenever my kids are away, given what a big part of my life they are, I get the opportunity to reflect about things like this. It's the combination of the emotional connection with them, and being witness to their growth and work -- in school, in sports, in life -- that connects up my experience as a parent.

People say parenting involves a lot of work, and it does. But way out beyond the work is the connectedness and the witnessing.

And, when we dare, sharing the story.

I always worry about breaching my kids' privacy, but at the same time, I sometimes think families can remain too private. I'm aware that some who read these words are not parents, although everyone has at least had a parent of one sort or another.

Maybe the hope is that by sharing my experiences, some piece will resonate with that part of all of us who have been children.

The risk with being a deeply involved parent is that you won't know how to let them go when the time to separate arrives. You've become every bit as dependent on their love as they are on yours.

This can pose a real problem, especially as we age, and our alternative options for emotional connections start to narrow.

A friend recently called to ask if I was single (I am) and if so would I like to meet somebody. She proposed a dinner so I could meet a person who sounds like a lovely woman, a bit younger than I am, deeply engaged with young children as her profession.

I said sure but later I got cold feet.

***

Every range of emotion I write about as a parent could be extended to love between adults, and then a bit more. But those relationships, if they are to work for long, cannot be asymmetrical as the ones we have with our children.

Lovers do not literally need to be equals, but we need to complement each other in ways that enhance our strengths and reduce our weaknesses.

One of my grave social weaknesses is I hate to go to events alone. I've always been like this, I'm congenitally shy, and it is hard for me to endure the awkwardness of being alone in a room full of strangers, or of people who all seem to know each other better than they know me.

I usually flee at the first opportunity.

This is not a prescription for ever being able to meet someone new.

Then again, the freedom of not being in a relationship has some rewards that I've gradually grown to appreciate. Nobody feels neglected as I watch my beloved Giants on TV, or feels that I am not focusing enough on her when I attend my kids' games or school functions.

There are no power struggles, or arguments over where to go, what to do, who to see, and so on.

But I do miss the intimacy of having a partner, not just to go to events with, but to share life with.

My last real relationship allowed me to learn so much about another culture, and to watch my friend grow into a new American, learn the language and customs, learn how to drive a car, and explore new types of work.

I was able to share four years of my hopes and dilemmas with her.

But she left and never returned. All that was shared, from her perspective, has probably been forgotten by now, or buried and denied, because that is what allows people to jump from one relationship to another -- denial.

By contrast, I've chosen to not move on.

Why?I don't know the answer to that question. I don't know what is holding me back from moving on. I've moved on before. Maybe, as a professional acquaintance, herself a lovely woman, suggested gently to me recently, "You're just not ready yet."

***

As a man, somewhat traditional by nature, in other ways, radically unconventional, I always like to be able to provide for my partner, just as I provide for my children. Hell, I enjoy providing for my ex-partners!

No single accomplishment has given me more joy this year so far than defending my ex-wife from the IRS in her audit. We succeeded -- I succeeded! She could breathe more easily, and feel free to take the kids on a vacation.

Yesterday, for the first time in years, I glimpsed a new path to the future, one not growing narrower and weedier until it ends in Deadend Meadow, homeless, helpless, and poor, but one graced with comfort and yes, even wealth.

The fact that I planted the seeds for this better future years ago reminds me how much all of us, whether we realize it or not, remain farmers at heart. Almost none of us work as farmers in the U.S., but all of us are descended from farmers, in my case just a generation+ back. (My paternal grandfather.)

It may be only a vision at this point but it's a viable alternative to the rather grim future I've been contemplating in my down moments, alone and fearful.

What will I do with wealth when I have it? Let me count the ways. First, eliminate all of my children's debts, including their educational loans. Second, set them up with investment funds for their future needs.

I'll also pay off anyone I owe anything to, and give the nonprofits I love donations.

Then, I'll buy a condo near the ballpark, with a view of the Bay, sell my car, and buy season's tickets to the Giants games. I'll also get a press pass and begin writing several books in my old age.

One about baseball. It is a terrific metaphor.

One about parenting. My favorite topic.

One about love. My most toxic topic.

And, finally, the long-brewing memoir.

If you wonder what the memoir would read like, reread this post. This is my memoir speaking.

Striking at your own heart, teeth bared, just like a rattlesnake.

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