The Patterns That Matter

After ten days of rest after injuring his ankle, my 17-year-old center back was back on the pitch today, wearing blue, and he's never played better. As always, he draws the biggest opponent as his main guy to guard, and today, the bulky but fast kid from Salinas put up a worthy fight.

But he never got past #16 and never got a clean shot on goal.

It's good that we iced and rested and coaxed his ankle back in shape in time for this match. While the team is undefeated in the five games he's played in, and allowed a paltry one goal per game; they were 1-2 when he was out, and allowed 2.67 goals per game.

Soccer is a low scoring sport -- the difference between 1.0 GA and 2.67 is huge.

He doesn't deserve all of the credit; no one player does. But center backs, in the Barcelona-style soccer his team plays, have a critical role, both in preventing the other team from scoring but in jump-starting their own team's offense.

So, it may a useful statistic that when he is in there, they've averaged 2.6 goals per game; when not their scoring fell to 2.0.

Overall that is swing of 2.27 for his team when he is playing -- they are up 1.6 with him in and down 0.67 when he isn't.

You know I love math so of course I love these numbers. They speak to me and tell me a story. They tell me a story that I already know, as a close observer of the sport, but one that is also gratifying as the parent of a hard-working athlete.

He probably never will get much public recognition for his skills, beyond the occasional all-city honor or press clipping. But the other parents, his teammates, and his coaches, and I know how well he plays the game.

He's an exceedingly modest kid, never wishing to bring any attention to himself, a very quiet member of the team. Just a solid performer who never stops competing and who never backs down.

If it is not too egocentric to say it, he reflects my own values in games -- he plays fair and clean, tough and relentlessly, never gives up, and is the consummate team player.

If that is egocentric, I should rush to point out these are *his* values, as well as mine, and I don't think I have had all that much influence on his athletic career.

I am his biggest fan, always there, so far, on the sideline, but I don't think that is a determinative factor in his play.

Since I am, relatively speaking, an older parent, I often wonder how my kids would perform if I were not there to witness them. Of course they are aware of me on the sideline, but the quality of their performance is based on many more important factors than what Dad thinks or is doing at the time.

Really all I am is their temporary scribe. I probably will only be able to continue to see and write about their games for a limited period in the future, for multiple reasons.

But even when I am not there, I know the way they will play.

They will play like #16 played today.

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Writing Emotions

Today was the second of three deadlines for delivering a letter to the offices of the organization that is leading my youngest on her wilderness adventure this week and next. As I composed my letter, suddenly I started missing her much more than I was aware of before that point.

That led me to reconsider the role and power of writing.

A man I know recently lost his mother, to cancer. He was with her at the end, as I was with my mother ten years ago this October.

As I composed my note to him today, I revisited the pain of losing Mom. The words, meant to comfort him, reopened a hurt for me.

I sent an ex-girlfriend a birthday message this week. As I sent it, just an ordinary email, I experienced a rush of emotions -- remembering how she looked, how her skin felt, and her hair. I remembered her sweet voice and the look on her face when she was telling a joke.

I missed her, palpably, in that moment.

My youngest son's replacement phone arrived today. I took it to him. But on the way, I stopped by the office of the girl's organization to drop off my letter. There was nowhere to park so I double-parked outside.

That turned out to be a bad, and potentially expensive, idea. The group is only one of many in that four-story building and there was no obvious place to drop off my letter.

As I debated what to do, a lovely young Latina woman offered to take me up to the 4th floor, where the group's office is located. I started to go with her, then noticed a traffic cop writing me a ticket outside.

Yikes! In SF, this would have been at least a $250 offense, I'm sure.

I raced out and prevailed upon the officer to allow me to drive the car away. He let me get away with this one.

After parking the car, next to a shop where a beautiful woman was sitting outside in the sun, I walked back to the building, found my young helper, and eventually delivered the letter.

Now I will imagine the time it reaches my daughter -- maybe tomorrow or days beyond -- somewhere out there along the Norther California coast. I tried to compose it in a way that would not trigger any homesickness or regret, but who knows what effect our words have on one another?

I'm constantly amazed when I hear from readers that my words have affected them. This has been for some time now a "closed" blog -- not discoverable via Google or other search engines, so it is a private space.

Those of you who choose to visit have probably been doing so for a long time. There must be something here you value.

I'm working on my voice. I'm telling some of my story. I'm trying to work up the courage to tell it to a much larger audience soon. Your feedback is always welcome.

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Happy Independence Day

I'm not sure when I started hating holidays, and I truly wish I didn't.

It's mostly my fault, as my second ex-wife would say. I'm incapable of planning ahead, when it comes to social engagements, and I wonder why that is.

No doubt part of it is the lingering effects of my strange, sickly childhood, once we'd moved from (socially rich) Royal Oak to (socially barren) Bay City.

I missed a chunk of my childhood completely. Lying in bed for months, with no friends and no physical activity.

Sometimes, I fear I will recreate that realty in my old age.

Then again, as I move around the city, I realize I am still blessed with good health and physical stamina, when many others my age are bent, broken or supine.

Life, at times, is a battle requiring endurance.

Then again, it is a privilege, and a joy of overwhelming proportions.

That is how I feel here today, sitting alone in this dreary flat, dreading my upcoming audit, bereft of company -- again, of my own doing.

So the boys stayed here last night. We had a plan to escape the crowds and noise and go to a movie later today. That sounded like a perfectly good way to escape the fireworks to me.

But their Mom had a different plan, so they are with her instead, out at a lovely beach far north of here. Her plan is the healthier one, the better one. But I do worry about that sprained right ankle on our soccer player.

He still is limping when he walks, and I wonder whether a day at the beach will help him be practice and game ready by this weekend.

That's one of my problems -- I worry too much. Especially about the future.

After all, I have no control over how fast his ankle heals. I've iced it and warmed it, and made him elevate it and given him Ibuprofen. I've told him what a lovely new friend told me, which is he should practice using his ankle in warm water to "write out" the ABC's -- an exercise that ensures every last ligament and muscle gets a workout.

But that ankle will get better when it's ready to get better.

As for my audit, I can't control whether I'll get a total idiot or a reasonable person showing up at my door next Monday morning. This is a "field audit," so the IRS is invading my personal space, even though I've never taken a home office deduction (mainly because my accountant said that often triggers an audit.)

I don't want to be audited. It scares me. Not because I cheated on my taxes; I didn't. But I can't disprove a negative. I've managed to pull together most of the records proving my innocence, but others were lost in those laundry room floods, the first of which happened when I was on a business trip to Tucson the very year they are auditing me for -- 2009.

That trip was when I saw my first Roadrunner. These are amazing creatures. They race along upright as if they are New York City businessmen with briefcases late for a meeting.

Most of us always seem to be racing somewhere or another. We rarely stop to reflect on what, if anything, our lives mean collectively.

I've been trying to get my mind around all of the new "collaborative consumption" startups I write about for 7x7.com.

A decade ago I was the founding editor of 7x7 Magazine. That was a different era, there was no Facebook yet, and no iPhone.

Facebook has changed things in a bad way, I fear, but iPhones may ultimately be changing things in a better way.

Having "virtual" friends is nice, I suppose. My ex-girlfriend and I are Facebook "friends" but we never meet, never talk, and never share anything important. Having her there is little more than a reminder of what existed between us.

I've long since stopped clicking on her profile. She's as lost to me as a person who died.

Death is a difficult subject for all of us. Not only do we spend much of our time living in denial of the certainty of our inevitable end, the fear of dying ironically often causes us to take less risks while we are still alive.

Physically, I'm not much of a risk-taker. Although at the moments I've chosen to push myself, I've grown and developed in ways I previously could not have imagined.

Socially, taking risks has been even more challenging, though when I've done it, even better things have happened.

It goes on and on, this line of thinking. Everything is connected to everything else. That is why I am an environmentalist.

Or maybe I'm just crazy.

The plums droop lazily on our backyard tree. They are so richly sweet and tart, much like a sexy woman wanting to seduce a new man.

I stand out there, waiting expectantly. The breeze is steady, sometimes insistent. The winds seems to be saying to me that a treat will be yours, if only you are patient.

Why should I be patient at my age?

Because death has not yet been my fate, perhaps. I am alive. And as much as I may hate fireworks, my neighbors love them.

And so this Independence Day, for me, will be an endurance test. Listening to the bombs going off around me, set by people celebrating something or another.

I celebrate words and stories. That is all I have to say about the subject (for now), but oh boy, those plums sure are juicy!

Crimes and Hopes

The lives of teenagers. My youngest son, out at a party last night, left his iPhone plugged into some speakers for a moment to go to the bathroom. When he returned, it had been stolen.

This is an utterly normal event in the world of teens. They organize parties that grow out of control; strangers turn up, including predators.

Last night, he learned that lesson.

It was painful for both of us. For him, because I react very badly to things like this, which he knows and which he had to brace himself for.

For me because it costs, even with "insurance," a painful $169 to get him a replacement phone, to be delivered the day after the 4th of July.

The 4th of July. This holiday means virtually nothing to me, not because I am not patriotic (I am), but because I have nothing to do on it, other than to prepare for my audit meeting next Monday, which is more like an Orwellian event than a cause for celebration.

One very nice thing about today, the day before the 4th of July, was lunch with with a lovely woman also a single parent, with a daughter slightly younger than mine.

It was sunny, we were on the waterfront, and I started remembering what it is like to talk with someone about the stuff that really matters. It's been a while, that...

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Words and Photos

I've always wondered about that old cliche, "a picture is worth a thousand words." It seems to be so widely accepted as gospel, at least by Americans, that I sometimes wonder why writers even try to practice our bruised and battered craft any longer.

I sincerely wonder what picture could trump 1,000 words of a great novelist, or for that matter, a great essayist, not to mention a great investigative reporter.

Not to criticize in any way great photographers. I forever remember Joe O'Donnell and his photo of a young boy carrying his (dead) little brother in a backpack, for burial after one of our atomic bombs hit Japan.

That photo indeed was worth 1,000 words, actually many more than that.

But some stories are not so visceral in nature. Take love, for example. This is a nuanced topic.

It requires great care to write (or photograph) the thing we call love.

Love is not easily categorized into any one form or type; it appears unexpectedly in all sorts of settings.

Sometimes, a young person, seeking a summer job, meets an old person who needs help walking her dog. When that works out, we can call that love.

Sometimes, two divorced people, former mates, find a way to cooperate and do the right thing on behalf of their kids. We can call that love.

Sometimes, a stranger is in need, and someone steps up to help. We can call that love.

Sometimes, on the verge of suicide, someone will call a help line. The person on the other end talks them down, helps them get through the moment, and live to see another day.

We can call that love too.

My point, probably pretty obvious, is that there are many flavors of love beond our narrow, Western notion of romantic love.

I could go on, but I won't, for now.

BTW, the above constitutes around a third of 1,000 words, so I suppose it equates to a third of a photo, right?

My question is, which third?

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Off On Adventures

When it comes to transitions, large or small, I suck. Always have, and presumably always will. Few who have ever been deeply connected with me would accuse me of disconnecting easily.

On the other hand, I do try to not impose my emotions on others, and have learned a few ways to disguise what I'm feeling at such times with varying degrees of success.

Watching your children grow up is full of transitional moments, many of which are very happy in nature. There are usually bittersweet elements of nostalgia, however, and your own awareness, as the parent, that what is being left behind will not be visited again.

That particular stage is now over.

Today, we hugged our daughters good-bye as they left on a two-week adventure in the wilderness. They will backpack, cook outside, hike many miles, rock-climb, kayak in the sea, sleep under the stars, and string up their food packs from wild animals.

For most of them, certainly it's the case for my daughter, this will be the longest they have ever spent away from their families.

The organization arranging this expedition is devoted to helping girls learn survival skills, wilderness skills, and self-esteem. It seems to be a terrific program.

The only communication method for us is to send them letters, which they will receive at various points during their adventure.

I've been to many of the points on their itinerary, which helps, so I can envision where she is camping tonight very clearly. That will be the case many, though not all nights on their journey.

Missing her is moderated by being proud of her, imagining her adventures, and sensing her growth.

They told us that when they come home, they will seem "older."

Maybe that is the reason I cried as I hugged her good-bye today.

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