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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It's Time to Notice

As she and I reached the top of the hill walking the dogs yesterday, my daughter and I saw a red-tailed hawk scream and fly toward us, not 20 feet over our heads, as it soared above from one perch to another.

I momentarily felt a shudder at the site of this predator, not out of any sense of personal danger, since what raptor would bother with an old man who is over the hill when younger, sweeter food is available nearby? (Well, not literally over the hill at that particular moment, but on top of the hill, but you get the drift.)

No, what I was feeling was what it must be like to be a mouse or other small creature, hearing that scream high overhead and sensing that wingspan, those talons, those eagle eyes, that beak that tears.

I suppose part of my instinctive response was protective of my daughter, but rationally, no bird could represent a threat to her, either. Though only 12, she is tall, strong, and athletic and could easily swipe that hawk out of the air and send it tumbling into the dirt if she wanted to.

Of course, she would never do such a thing, because she loves animals -- much more than I do -- and volunteers at the SPCA to protect them, whereas her Dad has a checkered career as a hunter and fisherman, things I should probably admit to her someday, even though it will lessen me in her eyes.

***

Out front of my house, the memorial to my fallen neighbor grows. When I got home tonight, a man was crying and wailing, as other men drank beer and bore witness. The candles and flowers continue to arrive.

The pain felt by those who loved him is palpable on this block. He has two young daughters who now no longer have a Dad. His mother sits on her porch forlorn and aging rapidly.

A guy I know well at the corner store stood outside today looking sad. I gave him a hug. His eyes filled with tears.

What can you say at a time like this?

I also watched my athletic son play soccer today -- his high school team won again, that's three in a row, and this looks to be a very promising season. He very nearly scored anther goal after getting his first the other day.

So much hope and so much hopelessness, all in the same day. The soccer coach told me that he is counting on my son to help some of the Latino kids on the team develop better study habits and improve their grades.

Every day there is a mandatory study hall for the kids who want to play soccer. This is a good thing, I think, although it extends their schooldays to ten or eleven hours most days, and causes me to have to do a lot more driving than I would want to do.

But that's a small price to pay if my son, who is an A student, can help other kids who otherwise might fail become C students. The incentive is soccer. Anyone who doesn't think race and class is still a major factor in who succeeds and who doesn't in this society isn't paying attention.

Sports are great, and it's fun to watch my kid compete and be successful. But I value his work as a fellow student helping other students do better in school far more.

Because all of these kids -- black, white, Latino, Asian -- are "our" kids. They represent our future. The kids who murdered my neighbor are, by police reports, very young Latino kids, perhaps very much like the ones my son works with in study hall to help stay in school and get their diploma.

Some join gangs, are given guns by older men, and earn their stripes by murdering people like my neighbor. Others stay in school, get better grades, earn a diploma, and get a job.

The difference between one outcome or the other can be razor thin, for teenagers.

Those who think we exist on a level playing field are delusional. This society remains deeply biased when it comes to race or class or even gender. The greatest compliment I can pay to my son is he knows that and he cares about that. He has a big heart.

Meanwhile, he's also an extremely competitive athlete, which just happens to give him credibility in the eyes of those kids who are failing in the classroom but will listen to an upperclassman about why it's important to study and learn.

We all should be studying and learning. Maybe most of all, those of us who enjoy the privilege of not being from poor, minority communities. Maybe we are the ones who finally should start trying harder to become real Americans, instead of blaming others for being poor, for turning out how our system dictates they should turn out, as failures.


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Life & Death

After I dropped my kids off at their Mom's last night, and parked my car, and walked home, something awful happened.

I was writing, as usual, in the front room of my apartment when I heard five gun blasts from a pistol out front. The blasts were so loud, I knew they were from a serious weapon, probably a 45 caliber.

The explosions set off the automated alarm at the corner store. As I ran out front to see what had happened I first glanced left, toward the store, because of the alarm. Not long before, one of my kids had walked there to buy some treats for himself and his siblings, as all three of them have done countless times over the years.

As I watched, a neighbor from across the street who works at the store ran out of his front door and headed there on the run.

But then I looked right. And there on the sidewalk lay a man face down. I immediately dialed 911, and told the operator that a man has been shot, please get here fast, come right away, it's bad, really bad.

As she took down my name and address, I saw his body heave its final sigh and collapse into an awful flatness.

"He's dead!" I screamed.

Within seconds, the first responders arrived. I watched as they tried to revive the man. Meanwhile, another neighbor, a young man, distraught and hysterical, ran up and down the street yelling: "No! Oh no!"

Yet another neighbor, much older, with hair as white as mine, also was on the scene, and looked disoriented and very disturbed. He approached the body as the emergency workers tried to revive it and had to be told to back away.

Soon the area was covered in cops, firemen, all sorts of responders. A woman ran out of her house nearby and screamed "He is my son. Can you save him? CAN YOU SAVE HIM?!" She had to be restrained, sobbing and wailing into the night, one of the most awful sounds I have ever heard.

As I watched, they gave up and laid a piece of plastic over the man. Then the crying spread as other family members rushed to the street and realized what had happened.

The dead man had been walking his dog. Over the years, I got to know him due to his friendly manner. He was a striking figure -- tall, lean, black, with a fancy hat and the kind of attitude that revealed a sense of humor and an ability to connect with others around him.

I'd say he had charisma.

Normally, I'm pretty reclusive, like most writers, and kind of shy. I don't get to know my neighbors easily, like many inner-city residents, and I am not proud of that. But this man was among my favorite people to encounter when I was out and about.

He always had a knowing smile, a greeting, a certain way of connecting. "How are the kids?" He'd ask. "They're gettin' big."

He made me feel oriented, in that way, recognized as a part of the neighborhood.

Today, I went down to his relatives' houses, took off my hat and held it over my heart, and told them how sorry I am that he has died. I told them he was a good man. They thanked me, but their eyes were filled with tears.

Tonight, a memorial is growing outside of my front window. There are many candles, flowers, and lots of empty beer and liquor bottles (I don't understand the those empty bottle gestures but pretty clearly all the men around here are getting drunk, and I fear there may soon be more incidents. Guys are yelling.)

There also have been many people gathering here all day long. And reporters and photographers and undercover police, no doubt hoping that the killers decide to revisit the scene.

I've read the press reports and talked to the neighbors. I know what the conventional wisdom is. He was a drug dealer. He had problems. He was affiliated with one of the Latino gangs that war over territory around here, the "Northerners" and the "Southerners."

But I also know he was a very friendly man in a pretty unfriendly place, a place that can be lonely and alienating and scary at times, but the place I also call home.

And I'm going to miss him.

Last night, after being interviewed by the cops, I sat alone here, shaking and scared. I didn't know what to do but I needed to "talk" to somebody. So I emailed my adult kids, but by then it was after midnight.

Then, I did something very strange. It surprised me. I emailed the ex-girlfriends who, over the eight years I have lived here, sometimes stayed here with me and know what this neighborhood is like.

Two of them responded, and one of them called me.

I feel a great deal of comfort as a result. After all, I live alone, and when this happened, I wish I had had someone here to hold onto. But I don't. But at some points in the past I did. So those people remain precious to me, and I when I needed them last night and this morning, they chose to respond.

There really is no way to express what that means to me other than to say that what one of them told me a long time ago might just turn out to be true: "Once you've loved someone, on some level, you will always love them."

Thank you, J&J. Thank you.

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