Rancho Bernardo is a small community tucked neatly insidethe top of San Diego. The always-accurateWikipedia refers to it as "...an upscale master-planned community in [SanDiego's] northern hills...".
For me and my family, it's just "home".
But, who can argue with an adjective like"upscale" when our neighborhood is home to a three-stars-on-Yelp Chinese buffet and a reputable business endorsed by Robin Leach?
Depending on your source, Rancho Bernardo's population isaround 40,000. This represents roughly3% of San Diego's 1.3 million sun-drenched denizens. And, our region never seemed smaller than onFebruary 25, 2010.
17-year-old Chelsea King -- a high school senior fromnearby Poway High School -- went for a training run at Rancho Bernardo CommunityPark along its well-known, trees-and-brush-hidden trails. Tragically, she never came home. Her disappearance led to the formation of localsearch parties -- comprised of both her peers and complete strangers -- thatorganized just down the hill from my house. Five agonizing days passed before her body was found. The victim of a horrific sexual assault wasmurdered 1 1/2 miles from my front door.
Rancho Bernardo Community Park is also home to our localLittle League's ball fields. Days afterChelsea King's body was found, the park hosted Little League's opening dayceremonies. I have no doubt that organizerswrestled with how to respectfully pay tribute to Chelsea in front of hundredsof children -- some as young as five-years-old -- without creating a pre-pubescentpanic. I remember that the ceremony wasunderstandably brief, but moving. My sonJalen asked about the large "CK" initials that were drawn on theinfield dirt, but my awkward response was lost on his ears amid calls of"Play ball!"
Since then, I've spent an ungodly number of hours at thatpark. I've watched Jalen attempt tofield everyone else's position in t-ball. I coached him when he moved up to hitting off of the pitchingmachine. I managed him in this, hisfirst year of live pitching.
Rancho Bernardo's Little League is a community all itsown. This is why I wasn't surprised toreceive a text message from my son's Fall 2010 coach. We regularly practiced together with our sons-- and several other fathers and sons -- on whichever open field couldaccommodate us on hastily-selected Sunday mornings or holiday afternoons orearly December evenings. J's old coachasked if he'd be interested in playing in a charity tournament.
Last month, the second annual Home Run for Chelsea event was held at ball fieldsacross San Diego County benefitting the Chelsea's LightFoundation. Jalenreluctantly donned the uniform of the Cleveland Indians' short-season single-Aminor league affiliate -- theScrappers. As his coach wrylyremarked, "It's a good name for a kids' team." Without missing a beat, Jalen replied, "Yeah,but, so is Rivercats! And, RockHounds!" (You'd have to be well-versed on the Oakland Athletics' minor leagueteams to get that. It's probably best if you just move on to the next paragraph.)
The tournament officials farmed us out to Encinitas -- acoastal community that sits about 25 miles northwest of Rancho Bernardo. There was some grumbling from the adults --naturally -- but, I thought it'd be fun to play on a different field and Jalenwas excited about the prospect of a real "road game".
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Iwouldn't be coaching my son. I hadn'tbeen just a spectator at one of Jalen's games since Mrs. Bootleg literallybanned me from watching from the same side of the field as her. According to my wife, I'm too obnoxious, toointense and occasionally try to coach my son from the stands. Pfft...balderdash. Besides, if Jalen would just LISTEN TO ME...
Seated down the third base line, my wife and I watchedJalen warm up with his teammates. Thiswas the only uncomfortable part of the event for me. It was all I could do to stop from grabbingmy glove (which I smuggled inside Jalen's bat bag), run onto the field and warmup my son. Part of me was hoping thathe'd see my glove in his bag and ask, on his own, for a little catch with hisold man. And, then, maybe the managerwould say, "Hey, Aaron...we need someone to coach first base. Youinterested?" Clearly, my evilscheming and nefarious planning need polish.
Before the 9:00 AM games began, the mother of ChelseaKing gave a short speech in front of the gathered players and parents. I didn't really need sucha nudge on what was already an emotional morning, but her words pushed my tearducts past their natural capacity. Itwas Mrs. Bootleg keeping the stiff upper lip for the family and her "Oh,here we go..." roll of the eyes at the sight of mytears was, admittedly, magnificent.
Jalen's team played two games that day. The first was against a travel ball squadthat was clearly the stiffest competition any of our kids had faced todate. J struck out in his first two atbats on letter high fastballs that I doubt he saw. Jalen pitched the fifth inning, tasked withprotecting a 3-2 lead. Unfortunately,J's appearance was right in the middle of his worst Little League pitchingstretch of the season. He walked fiveand gave up four runs in just 2/3 of an inning -- the two outs recorded on aspectacular diving catch by the shortstop and a baserunner who crashed into thesame shortstop just as he was fielding another ball. My son had as much success fighting backtears as I did earlier in the day.
In the sixth and final inning, though, the Scrappers(ugh) rallied and Jalen drove in the tying run. With the two-hour time limit reached, the game finished in a 6-6 tie. The second game followed 15 minuteslater. It was mostly an unwatchable slogof ball four-after-ball four between two tired teams with a discernibledifference in ability. The Scrappers won18-8 and Jalen is still talking about his bases-clearingthree-run triple in the first inning.
I didn't spend much time with Mrs. Bootleg during eithergame. When I'm managing my son, I'm atightly-wound, mocha brown bundle of nerves who receives repeated reprimandsfrom the umpire to quit pacing and stay inside the first base coach's box. It's hard to sit still while rooting forJalen. It's surprisingly harder to sitstill when you're rooting for a community.
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