Tuesday, October 7, 2008
20 Years...
Friday
I took Friday off. My mom has escaped the 909 and found green pastures in the city we called home for about 10 years. It’s where my appreciation for girls formed by way of Jessica’s mad teather ball skills, Wendy’s cute but emotionless expressions, Veronica’s adult like sexuality, Magaly’s Arabic and totally inappropriate for a 5th grader Halloween costume and Deanna’s aggressive “do you want to me my boyfriend?” approach. What’s greater, I fell in love with baseball and the Dodgers.
After several attempts at getting a rent free moving truck we opted to postpone driving the 35+ miles and not use my trusty but limited Chevy S-10 as an actual moving truck. I figured I’d bite the bullet on Saturday and rent a U-Haul. At least I’d have a Bud Light drinking moving crew to help while providing Cantinflas comical value. We’d wake up early, bust ass like the Mexicans we are and make it to Dodger Stadium in time to pound two Arrogant Bastard Ales and catch the 1st inning. What, didn’t you know the Dodgers are in the post-season? Pssshhh!
Saturday
A smashed thumb, a sweaty t-shirt, a 20 case of Bud Light and five hours later, mission accomplished. We jet set from Fontucky to West Covina to Baldwin Park to El Monte to Highland Park like the soul rich concrete jungle Angelenos we are, ate, showered and rolled out to the Ravine.
There was an electricity and atmosphere even on our way into the parking lot. Dog eat dog L.A. driving gave way to cat eat cat. Fathoms of sea couldn’t jump into the ocean of blue that is Dodger Stadium fast enough. 10 year olds from 1988 reemerged and hurried up and down the hills of Chavez with chicas/wives/lovers in tow. From the moment we got to our Loge 146, Row N, Seats 1 & 2 we dialed in to every pitch as if it were the last. We, meaning each and every inhabitant of Dodger Stadium that wasn’t working the concessions and even some that were. Without giving a play by play, there were highs and highers that caused the usually calm and collected narrator to lose all sense of self the way Disneyland makes 8-year olds go apeshit. When Jonathon Broxton threw that final pitch and Alfonso Soriano nearly checked his swing Dodger Stadium went nuts. Strangers hugged strangers, old women high-fived teenagers, gypsy’s rejoiced, etc. etc. etc. The Dodgers swept the Cubs.
8 wins to go
Here’s the funny part of the story. The Dodgers merely won a Division Series; they haven’t even made it to the World Series. Big woot right? Well, they accomplished something that hadn’t been accomplished around here in 20 years, 20 long frustrating years. To give you some perspective, Reagan was president and on his way the fuck out and into the twilight of his life that included dying in a soot of his own shit while having no idea who the person in front of him was. If karma plays out as it should, I hope George W. Bush and the Dodgers find the same fate. Joe Torre said it best, “We have 8 more wins to go.”
Sunday
All was back to normal on Sunday, I watched football, Saturday night’s TiVo’d MMA event and some baseball. The chica and I ended the night with the usual five minute drive to The York for a grilled cheese and a Craftsman OctoberFest brew and back home to veg before the thought of Monday morning crept in and sleep kicked in. All in all the curtains came down on a great weekend.
The National League Championship series begins on Thursday and like every Dodgers fan, I pray for the best but expect the worse. The magic of Saturday night aside I’m still realistic, more so a skeptic but I’d be lying through my teeth if I wasn’t prematurely dreaming of a World Series victory. 8 wins away. It doesn’t seem like much but it’s what separates today from 20 years. Let’s hope Kirk Gibson continues to live through that James Loney grand slam in Chicago. Let’s hope Russell Martin has a Mike Scioscia moment. Let’s hope Chad Billingsley sits alongside Orel Hershiser in the palate of Dodger history.
Let’s hope a glossy eyed kid loses his voice again.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, Los Angeles
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
White Tank Tops
My Friday evenings usually begin at 5:30PM with a bee line from Koreatown/Silver Lake to the big brown comfy couch at home for an hour nap and some psychological debriefing. This Friday, it began with a 6 week old but always familiar route through downtown L.A. and into the S.G.V. I’ve yet to find a barber in my neighborhood; actually I haven’t even looked for one. I’ve been going to the same barber since I was 16 (that’s 14 years for those keeping score) and have no intention of changing that. Why make the every two week trek to El Monte? I’ve got a dozen reasons. Besides, my barber has become an extended member of my friends. He doesn’t just cut my hair; he’s a sports analyst, movie critic, philosopher, comedian, political pundit, El Salvadorian ambassador, automotive expert, black market broker and psychologist/family therapist. The $9 + $3 tip = $12 price tag is a small price to pay for 15-20 minutes with such a multi-faceted human being.
I had tickets to the Dodger game on Friday. Having sprung a last minute invitation on my friend Sofia, I wasn’t sure if she was going to come through and figured I’d go see my little nephew and sister if Dodger Blue wasn’t in my immediate future. A confirmation and haircut later I jet to my sister’s place to get a quick Noah fix. “First pitch be damned” bounced off the walls in my cranium. I got home just in time to shower and dress seconds before Sofia called and said she was out front. We got to the Ravine, threw back a couple of Dos XX and made our way to our seats only to get a serious hook up from our friend Nicole. We went from Reserve Level seating to sitting three rows from the field and about twenty yards from Manny Ramirez. ‘Twas the start of a beautiful night on the last Friday of summer ’08. Somehow we ended up with club access to some bar/restaurant in the stadium I had never even seen. A few brews and a hunting vs. vegetarianism conversation later, Sofia and I found ourselves in a damn near empty parking lot. We decided to cap the night off with a stop at a bar two blocks from my place.
Now, my neighborhood is relatively safe. Trust me, there are white folks named Todd and Bea that live in my building. There was a freakin’ bunny in my yard last night, a bunny! But damn. I was feeling a bit adventurous and thought we should go to Dusty’s Sports Bar on Figueroa. As I had mentioned in my last posting, I walked by last Friday and saw a handful of questionable characters. What do I mean by that? Tattoos on a couple of bald heads and old men in flannel shirts. Get my drift? Anyway, I had consumed at least five beers at this point and was pretty damn spirited to say the least. As I’m walking to the entrance I see a group of guys standing out front just kinda hanging out. I approached the group and saw wet drops on the concrete leading up to a pool of blood as large as a small doormat. To this I said aloud, “What the fuck is that!?” I hadn’t noticed there was a guy holding his side and on a cell phone, who reluctantly said, “It’s my blood homes, I just got stabbed.”
Now I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life and have yet to see a person that was currently involved in a stabbing one way or the other. All of this guy’s cholo buddies were just standing around puffing away on their ciggies as if their bleeding friend was lining up a 2AM booty call and not on the phone with a 911 operator. I looked at an astonished Sofia and said, “Dude, want to go somewhere else?” I’m not sure if the absurdity of it all of or the osmotic desensitization caused her to say, “Let’s have ONE drink.” An hour later I was in my living room watching Family Guy as I waited for my chica to bring me some late night drunk grub; precious bodily fluids intact.
Saturday was as boring as any ‘ol kid-pretending-to-be-an-adult work less Tuesday. My living room played host to a vegetarian burrito breakfast, a couple of naps and a pant less afteroon until the shower bug bit, the chica arrived and sushi hunger struck. Them belly full, but they sleepy.
Sundays are almost always all good. Except when you wake up early to check the latest NFL injury report, confidently update your fantasy football line-up, watch your favorite transplanted football team cock tease you worse than Laura Cipres did at your last 8th grade dance at Potrero. What’s worse, both of my relevant fantasy football teams lost; my main team losing by one unforgiving point. All I could think was, “Gee, did I just wake up to the filming of Radiohead’s music video for Let Down?”
Anyway, it’s already Wednesday. I woke up today to a surreal summer morning at the start of fall. The beautiful girls from my teenage years will wean themselves off those marvelous white tank tops, the Hollywood Bowl has downgraded its mystique, the stream of cars outside my window no longer sound like concrete waves but like desolate piano keys trying to get home one frustrated driver at a time. The Fall is here.
I had tickets to the Dodger game on Friday. Having sprung a last minute invitation on my friend Sofia, I wasn’t sure if she was going to come through and figured I’d go see my little nephew and sister if Dodger Blue wasn’t in my immediate future. A confirmation and haircut later I jet to my sister’s place to get a quick Noah fix. “First pitch be damned” bounced off the walls in my cranium. I got home just in time to shower and dress seconds before Sofia called and said she was out front. We got to the Ravine, threw back a couple of Dos XX and made our way to our seats only to get a serious hook up from our friend Nicole. We went from Reserve Level seating to sitting three rows from the field and about twenty yards from Manny Ramirez. ‘Twas the start of a beautiful night on the last Friday of summer ’08. Somehow we ended up with club access to some bar/restaurant in the stadium I had never even seen. A few brews and a hunting vs. vegetarianism conversation later, Sofia and I found ourselves in a damn near empty parking lot. We decided to cap the night off with a stop at a bar two blocks from my place.
Now, my neighborhood is relatively safe. Trust me, there are white folks named Todd and Bea that live in my building. There was a freakin’ bunny in my yard last night, a bunny! But damn. I was feeling a bit adventurous and thought we should go to Dusty’s Sports Bar on Figueroa. As I had mentioned in my last posting, I walked by last Friday and saw a handful of questionable characters. What do I mean by that? Tattoos on a couple of bald heads and old men in flannel shirts. Get my drift? Anyway, I had consumed at least five beers at this point and was pretty damn spirited to say the least. As I’m walking to the entrance I see a group of guys standing out front just kinda hanging out. I approached the group and saw wet drops on the concrete leading up to a pool of blood as large as a small doormat. To this I said aloud, “What the fuck is that!?” I hadn’t noticed there was a guy holding his side and on a cell phone, who reluctantly said, “It’s my blood homes, I just got stabbed.”
Now I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life and have yet to see a person that was currently involved in a stabbing one way or the other. All of this guy’s cholo buddies were just standing around puffing away on their ciggies as if their bleeding friend was lining up a 2AM booty call and not on the phone with a 911 operator. I looked at an astonished Sofia and said, “Dude, want to go somewhere else?” I’m not sure if the absurdity of it all of or the osmotic desensitization caused her to say, “Let’s have ONE drink.” An hour later I was in my living room watching Family Guy as I waited for my chica to bring me some late night drunk grub; precious bodily fluids intact.
Saturday was as boring as any ‘ol kid-pretending-to-be-an-adult work less Tuesday. My living room played host to a vegetarian burrito breakfast, a couple of naps and a pant less afteroon until the shower bug bit, the chica arrived and sushi hunger struck. Them belly full, but they sleepy.
Sundays are almost always all good. Except when you wake up early to check the latest NFL injury report, confidently update your fantasy football line-up, watch your favorite transplanted football team cock tease you worse than Laura Cipres did at your last 8th grade dance at Potrero. What’s worse, both of my relevant fantasy football teams lost; my main team losing by one unforgiving point. All I could think was, “Gee, did I just wake up to the filming of Radiohead’s music video for Let Down?”
Anyway, it’s already Wednesday. I woke up today to a surreal summer morning at the start of fall. The beautiful girls from my teenage years will wean themselves off those marvelous white tank tops, the Hollywood Bowl has downgraded its mystique, the stream of cars outside my window no longer sound like concrete waves but like desolate piano keys trying to get home one frustrated driver at a time. The Fall is here.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, fall, fantasy sports, Los Angeles, nightlife
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Banderas, Banderas
If waking up to bright sunlight shining through a blanket of stratocumulus clouds while pockets of wind carry 68 degree temperatures through large 82 degree sections of earth isn’t a clear sign of the apocalypse OR further proof of climate change, I don’t know what is. How on earth (literally) can it be sunny, cloudy, hot, cold and windy at the same time? This is Los Angeles not Kimberly, Australia and the weather should reflect as such. Those new Prius hybrids can’t get here soon enough can they?
Disclaimer: This piece is mostly about sports, basketball being the main character. I know a good portion of you don’t follow sports all that much. How do I know? Well, you’re reading a blog aren’t you? Speaks volumes kid. Anyway, I tried the best I could to make this concoction of words as attainable as possible to the non-jersey wearing, non-MLB Extra Innings subscribing, non-ESPNEWS watching, non-Bill Walton hating, non-Marv Albert Cleveland Steamer joke making readers of this here blog. Try to Enjoy.
Basketball is not my favorite spectator sport; it’s not even my 4th favorite. I’d rank my Top Five favorite spectator sports in this particular order (here I go with my lists again):
1. Baseball – Contrary to what people say, baseball is not boring. Sit in the Left Field Pavilions for a Dodgers vs. Giants game or fly to Boston for a Red Sox game (I know, that’s a bit of a stretch, but still) and you’ll know why millions upon millions of fans look forward to spring the way ten year olds look forward to Christmas every year. My little sister, her boyfriend Carlos and I spent a good chunk of our Saturday night reminiscing about little league baseball like a couple of old fogies talking about how they used to sit around the radio listening to Amos ‘n’ Andy, ah, the good ol’ days. Side Note: With all the distractions by way of technological advancements, be it the internet, iPod’s, Xbox’s, 24 hour satellite/cable programming et al can you even fathom having radio as your only source of entertainment? I can’t. On to two.
2. Football – I can’t stress SPECTATOR enough here. What I love about football, the NFL actually, is that they’ve taken Sunday, the weekly end all be all of fun days and turned into a day I actually can’t wait for. It’s kind of like having to go to an engagement party with your girlfriend only to find out the engagement party GODs have mandated all parties must include a gambling component in addition to a continuous flow of Lagunitas I.P.A. on tap. You can call that a platinum lining. Top that off with the drudgery killing Monday Night Football game; psychologists can learn a thing or two from NFL execs. Who said men were complicated beasts? We’re just beasts.
3. Boxing – Yes, despite the escalating popularity of Mixed Martial Arts fighting I still love boxing. The sweet science, as it’s been dubbed is still at the core of my sports regimen. The thing about MMA, you get to kick and wrestle, I don’t know man but that’s just not my cup o’tea. Think about it, when was the last time you saw two dudes wrestling on the ground and thought, “Wow, those guys sure look tough, I’d hate to jump in on that display of aggression?” Plus, in MMA, fighters can tap out. You know how boxers tap out of their boxing matches? By getting knocked the fuck out! Anyway, when one grows up watching Julio Cesar Chavez destroy guys bigger and faster than him all while carrying a flag symbolizing the hopes, dreams and aspirations of your parents, yourself and everyone around you, you have no conscious choice.
4. Futbol (soccer for the gabachos) – Like Victor Vargas’ affinity to Pimpdome, it’s in the sangre kid. I cannot think of a greater joy outside the joy love bears than watching the Mexican National Soccer team participate in the World Cup, let alone succeed. Can you think of anything on this planet (sports related), more unifying AND polarizing than the grandeur of the World Cup? It makes the Super Bowl look like a pencil fight between two needle dick nerds in their corduroys. Wait until the year 2010 when the Tricolor sends to the pitch, undoubtedly, the best National Team they’ve ever assembled. I’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Fo’ real... or is it fa' real? I dunno.
5. Basketball – Again, I revert back to the SPECTACTOR description of this list mainly because I love playing basketball, more so than any other sport, even baseball. Baseball is like geometry, once you’re away from it for a long period of time it’s hard to be as good as you once were; not that I was any good at geometry or anything. But I digress...
Back to basketball. As most of you are Angelenoes, I’m sure you’re aware that the Lakers are in the playoffs and are actually kicking ass AND actually have a legitimate shot at winning the championship. I’m not here to spew negative about Kobe’s person, not the player. I could mention how the PETA activist in me hates his fur coat wearing ways, how the fraternizer in me hates how he’s thrown teammates under the bus, how the brother of 2.5 sisters still speculates and wonders about the Denver, Colorado incident but I’ll leave it at that. I love playoff basketball.
As SoCalifornians a good majority of us have been lucky enough to live through some amazing Lakers teams, whether you follow religiously and hold an abstinence shrine for A.C. Green, watch come playoff time (like me) or are annoyed by the whole fiasco and the car flags associated with Lakers greatness, it’s a force to be reckoned with. The thing about basketball is that it’s such a dramatic sport, like HBO’s The Wire dramatic. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve sat in front of the television in agony as Chick Hearn, whom I’ve never met yet love and dearly miss, would do the play-by-play as if life and death were on the line, as the city Los Angeles held their collective breath for .4 seconds as Derek Fisher sank a three-pointer that eventually resulted in another trip to the NBA Finals, as Robert Horry sank game clinching three's topping off (at the time; funny thing is the Lakers pulled a similar comeback last night) the greatest comeback in playoff history and pandemonium ensued at Staples Center. I remember my sister Mayra and I, even my mom, even Cloddy for crying out loud, glued to the TV as the 2000 Lakers hung on to their season as the Portland Trailblazers rode into Staples Center and played the 1st half like they were playing pick-up ball in their own backward only to watch the Lakers come back and win in (again) dramatic fashion; here’s a video of said game, check minute 5:15 as the Kobe/Shaq era sank their first significant dagger: look at Shaq’s face, look at Staples Center, look at the sheer chaos.
So we’re back with a new and old cast of characters and a story that’s yet to unfold; we’ve had a taste as in last night’s incredible comeback, we’ve had defining moments as in a Game 6 win in the barb wire comfy confines of Utah. The Lakers have been insignificant since Shaq left but how things have changed this season. Back are the sleepless nights, tossing and turning thinking about tomorrow’s game as if I were donning the purple and gold myself. Back are the days of it being okay to say you hate a whole municipality and its citizens even though you don’t really mean it. Back are the Lakers. But what is most important... back are those Lakers car flags.
Labels: baseball, basketball, nostalgia
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Opening Summer
About 50 percent of what I write somehow relates to baseball, the Dodgers, summer or the city of L.A. in one way or another; simply because these things are eternally interconnected in my world. Baseball reminds me of my childhood, which was by all means close to perfect. As an adult, the Dodgers provide a high level of happiness to my everyday spring/summer life. L.A. runs through my veins like freeways run through the city. And summer, well summer is just summer and there isn’t enough that can be said about it. I can tap Kanye West, Billie Holiday, Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley and everyone in between and find countless references to why summer is like heaven on earth. Summer in L.A. is heaven. Dodger games in the summer up in Chavez Ravine are another beast altogether.
Monday was the home opener at Dodger Stadium; the first of 81 home games or as I like to call them, 81 opportunities for bliss. 81 opportunities to shape the collective lives of a city. 81 opportunities to combine the love of my friends, over priced beer, baseball, a blue uniform into more sh*t to think about as I lay in my deathbed, eons (hopefully) from now.
It’s hard to describe Opening Day at Dodger Stadium to the casual fan but it’s reminiscent of the feelings one would get on the first day of school in elementary school, mixed with going on a date one’s actually excited about (not excited, like “I’m gonna get some ass” excited, more like “She could be the one” excited), add to that running into an old friend that one actually misses, throw in that nine year old feeling of playing with one’s friends all day until one’s chest started to hurt from all the biking, swimming and/or running topped off with a long cool drink from the water hose.
-
This year was exceptionally sweet; my roommate and cousin turned bros and I managed to snag some tickets at sorta the last minute. As of last year’s Opening Day my cousin has had a child (well not him, his wife) & married. In sum, we hardly see the mo’fo and times like these have become rare. We did the usual thing: BBQ’d at Elysian Park, fraternized like drunken dumb asses, watched a small rumble (right on par with the festivities), made a lot of fat guy jokes, big head jokes, testicular fortitude deficiency jokes, dark skinned Mexican jokes. We drank way too much beer, toyed with the idea of toking an odoriferous blunt, made fun of each other’s fantasy baseball teams and talked about the Dodgers. All this before a baseball had even been pitched.
The fraternizing continued in the stands. The drunk cholo behind us provided the comedy, the white boy directly in front of me was treated like a younger brother by me and my peeps (wedging and head taps included) and the entire left field pavilion was our playing field. "Choooows," and "F the Giants!" rang like Liberty Bell, all in good spirit of course. Hey, if you can't make fun of your brothers and sisters, who can you make fun of!?
The fraternizing continued in the stands. The drunk cholo behind us provided the comedy, the white boy directly in front of me was treated like a younger brother by me and my peeps (wedging and head taps included) and the entire left field pavilion was our playing field. "Choooows," and "F the Giants!" rang like Liberty Bell, all in good spirit of course. Hey, if you can't make fun of your brothers and sisters, who can you make fun of!?
Dodger Stadium was in its pure element. Thousands of Angelenos from all walks of life graced the summer-like landscape like blue petunias at Hearst Castle. The grass appeared greener than most days, the uniforms were a tad brighter, the crowd was two degrees above exuberant. To top it all off, there were beer sales in the left field pavilion! I can go on, I really can but the only way to truly understand what Opening Day is like, one simply needs to be there. On the top 5 list of things born and bred Angelenos must do at least once in their life, going to Opening Day ranks right up there.
Oh yea, and the Dodgers won.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, summer
Friday, March 28, 2008
Noah Noah
There are only a handful of things I’d rather see more than my little sister Mayra at the age of five running at me full steam ahead, jumping four feet short of her designated target (me), ferociously punch the air above her head and scream, Hiiiiiiiiii-YA!
I know you don’t know me yet and I don’t know you. I don’t know what you look like, what your favorite food is, what kind of music you like, if you’ve ever even been in love, but we need a sit down. How rude of me… words won’t do my appearance justice – that’s not necessarily a compliment, I like pizza and sushi, I love all music (except country music; no worries, I’m sure you’ll understand why as soon as your ears pop) and I’ve most definitely been in love.
On the first day of spring in the 2nd grade year of my Michael Ende educational life I remember raising my hand and saying the following, “Ms. K, today my mom had a baby and it was a girl, so I have another little sister now.” I always wanted a little brother but you rarely get what you wish for so what I ended up doing was turn my littlest sister into the little brother I never had. Cloddy never had it in her.
Today, she is the rock of our immediate family, by far. Yet, she’s the youngest. I’m too immature and inconsistent for it. Your tia is too blah! for it, your grandma (good grief!) is too emotional for it, your grandpa is too uh, well let’s save that for another time kiddo. People say to me, “Man, you should be proud; you raised two amazing women in your sisters.” I can never take full credit, I really can’t. Four reasons. One: your grandfather was still around… I mean, we only saw him on weekends but we saw him nonetheless and his presence was always felt. Two: your grandma was kinda there too. Three: they practically raised themselves. Your tia taught your mom how to read, write and speak English before most kids even understand the concept of learning. I just co-opted the whole thing. She’s the student, the mother before becoming one, the voice of reason when all reason was thrown out the window; See Mini. Which leads me to Four: Your great grandma probably had the most significant effect on all three of us; there aren’t enough superlatives in the English language to paint an accurate picture so I won’t even try. I’ll leave it up to your mom. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what superlative means later.
You gotta be careful, she can be feisty, brutal & unapologetic:
Like Miles Davis' All Blues,
night swimming in the cold,
Arizona's rising sun in the dessert,
an Ozomatli show in the summer,
Pablo Neruda midnight lines,
a K-12 childhood in El Monte,
Junot Diaz short stories,
a Los Angeles summer,
back-to-back 12 hour bus rides through Mexico,
Stanley Kubrick's humor,
a Dodger fan at (insert latest phone company name) Park,
Ciudad Juarez, Mexico,
taking a Saturday morning drive to Beverly Hospital and leaving your soul with a tiny old lady
As brave and scared as we've been; your mom, aunt and me. We've faced the biggest of fears, the greatest of triumphs, the most beautiful feelings human emotion can offer. I'm sure you'll add to that and I couldn't be more excited. I can't wait for you to meet the incredible women you've been blessed with. From the elusive old lady that lives on our hearts to the littlest girl that couldn't catch a wink of sleep without her rag doll monkey and/or koala bear. Those manzanitos have been replaced by thoughts and dreams of you.
I realize there is no way I can summarize who your mother is because I'd have to tell you everything about me, everything about your tia, everything about your grandmother, everything about your grandfather, everything about this straight up g, everything about our past, current, and future loves. Don't worry, we have time.
Sadly, I can't tell you the world will be a better place by the time you get here and much later in your life; it's destined to get worse. We have our problems and you'll learn soon enough. Having said that, despite racism, despite the exploitation this machine produces, despite the ignorance and arrogance of our world leaders, despite the fact that we don't live in John Lennon's world, my world, our family's world will be a much better place with you in it.
I can't wait for you to experience the urban escape that is Dodger Stadium, the magnificence that is baseball. I can't wait for you to get your first base hit, hit your first home run, steal your first base. But I also want you to experience your first strike out, your first error, your first lose because simply put, that's the way life is. Life is just like baseball. There will always be critics, naysayers, haters but you'll also have your enthusiastic cheerleaders, a lot of them. You don't always win but when you do it's oh so sweet; when you shine it's oh so glorious, when you lose it hurts. But the most important thing to remember is to not take it too serious, have fun while you're playing, while you're living. Make sure to always stop and smell the fresh cut grass, learn from the loses, forget the strike outs and always remember there's always the promise of tomorrow, the possibility of redemption, there's always another at bat and another game. Shoot, I haven't pitched off a mound in about 15 years but I haven't stop playing and my messy haired cheerleaders are still clenching their sweaty hands on the metal fence and they haven't stopped cheering.
So look for me when you get here okay? I'll be the one with the heart on his sleeve.
As Los Angeles returns to the sun... we wait for you.
I know you don’t know me yet and I don’t know you. I don’t know what you look like, what your favorite food is, what kind of music you like, if you’ve ever even been in love, but we need a sit down. How rude of me… words won’t do my appearance justice – that’s not necessarily a compliment, I like pizza and sushi, I love all music (except country music; no worries, I’m sure you’ll understand why as soon as your ears pop) and I’ve most definitely been in love.
On the first day of spring in the 2nd grade year of my Michael Ende educational life I remember raising my hand and saying the following, “Ms. K, today my mom had a baby and it was a girl, so I have another little sister now.” I always wanted a little brother but you rarely get what you wish for so what I ended up doing was turn my littlest sister into the little brother I never had. Cloddy never had it in her.
Today, she is the rock of our immediate family, by far. Yet, she’s the youngest. I’m too immature and inconsistent for it. Your tia is too blah! for it, your grandma (good grief!) is too emotional for it, your grandpa is too uh, well let’s save that for another time kiddo. People say to me, “Man, you should be proud; you raised two amazing women in your sisters.” I can never take full credit, I really can’t. Four reasons. One: your grandfather was still around… I mean, we only saw him on weekends but we saw him nonetheless and his presence was always felt. Two: your grandma was kinda there too. Three: they practically raised themselves. Your tia taught your mom how to read, write and speak English before most kids even understand the concept of learning. I just co-opted the whole thing. She’s the student, the mother before becoming one, the voice of reason when all reason was thrown out the window; See Mini. Which leads me to Four: Your great grandma probably had the most significant effect on all three of us; there aren’t enough superlatives in the English language to paint an accurate picture so I won’t even try. I’ll leave it up to your mom. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what superlative means later.
You gotta be careful, she can be feisty, brutal & unapologetic:
Like Miles Davis' All Blues,
night swimming in the cold,
Arizona's rising sun in the dessert,
an Ozomatli show in the summer,
Pablo Neruda midnight lines,
a K-12 childhood in El Monte,
Junot Diaz short stories,
a Los Angeles summer,
back-to-back 12 hour bus rides through Mexico,
Stanley Kubrick's humor,
a Dodger fan at (insert latest phone company name) Park,
Ciudad Juarez, Mexico,
taking a Saturday morning drive to Beverly Hospital and leaving your soul with a tiny old lady
As brave and scared as we've been; your mom, aunt and me. We've faced the biggest of fears, the greatest of triumphs, the most beautiful feelings human emotion can offer. I'm sure you'll add to that and I couldn't be more excited. I can't wait for you to meet the incredible women you've been blessed with. From the elusive old lady that lives on our hearts to the littlest girl that couldn't catch a wink of sleep without her rag doll monkey and/or koala bear. Those manzanitos have been replaced by thoughts and dreams of you.
I realize there is no way I can summarize who your mother is because I'd have to tell you everything about me, everything about your tia, everything about your grandmother, everything about your grandfather, everything about this straight up g, everything about our past, current, and future loves. Don't worry, we have time.
Sadly, I can't tell you the world will be a better place by the time you get here and much later in your life; it's destined to get worse. We have our problems and you'll learn soon enough. Having said that, despite racism, despite the exploitation this machine produces, despite the ignorance and arrogance of our world leaders, despite the fact that we don't live in John Lennon's world, my world, our family's world will be a much better place with you in it.
I can't wait for you to experience the urban escape that is Dodger Stadium, the magnificence that is baseball. I can't wait for you to get your first base hit, hit your first home run, steal your first base. But I also want you to experience your first strike out, your first error, your first lose because simply put, that's the way life is. Life is just like baseball. There will always be critics, naysayers, haters but you'll also have your enthusiastic cheerleaders, a lot of them. You don't always win but when you do it's oh so sweet; when you shine it's oh so glorious, when you lose it hurts. But the most important thing to remember is to not take it too serious, have fun while you're playing, while you're living. Make sure to always stop and smell the fresh cut grass, learn from the loses, forget the strike outs and always remember there's always the promise of tomorrow, the possibility of redemption, there's always another at bat and another game. Shoot, I haven't pitched off a mound in about 15 years but I haven't stop playing and my messy haired cheerleaders are still clenching their sweaty hands on the metal fence and they haven't stopped cheering.
So look for me when you get here okay? I'll be the one with the heart on his sleeve.
As Los Angeles returns to the sun... we wait for you.
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