My eight-year-old son Jalen turns nine in less than aweek.
Earlier this week, while driving J to school, he BEGGEDme to stop singing along with Michael Jackson's Billie Jean whenit came on Sirius XM's '80s station.* "You're embarrassing me!", heshouted from the confines of the back seat. Jalen's "no singing"edict followed his unilateral implementation of a temporary restraining orderagainst me – an unwritten, unspoken agreement that requires ten paces ofseparation between my son and I when I'm walking him to his classroom in themorning.
* -- Recently, while we watched"Ghostbusters II", Jalen was similarly (and inexplicably!)unimpressed as I sang along with Bobby Brown's "On Our Own" anthem. I couldn't believe it. Nearly 25 yearsafter its release, I was still able to nail EVERY lyric. That's better thanBobby Brown could claim roughly oneyear later at the 1990 MTV Video Music Awards.
I first remember feeling a bit of figurative separationwith Jalen late last spring. I'd meticulously planned a father-son weekend inSan Francisco with two tickets to a ballgame in Oakland as the admittedlypredictable main event. Seats directly behind the Athletics' dugout! When Iexcitedly broke the news to Jalen, he responded with the equivalent of a verbalshrug ("OK") and quickly returned his attention to our living roomtelevision.
Leading up to our flight on the first Saturday in July,Jalen seemed unaffected by all of the things that usually elicit inquisitive6:00 AM wake-up calls from him, like "Who do you think the A'sstarting pitcher will be?" or "When we get on theBART train, can we ask the driver to go 100 miles per hour?"or "Do kids still get to run the bases after thegame?"
And, Jalen has flown so many times that he's no longereven awed by airplanes. Instead, like the cynical beaten-down businesstraveler, he reserves what little emotion he can muster for expressing contempttowards his perpetual placement in the middle seat.
We arrived in the city on one of San Francisco'stypically frigid summer afternoons. And, like clockwork, I managed to lose mybearings on the two-block walk from the BART station to our hotel. At4'4", Jalen is a full four inches shorter than my wife, but he inheritedevery ounce of her "know-it-all-ism".
"Can't you use your phone to find thehotel?"
"Mom's phone has GPS to find places. Do you want meto see if your phone has GPS, Dad?"
"[Exasperated sigh] What's the NAME of the hotel,Dad? I'll just look up at all the buildings until we find it."
After a few minutes of relentlessly walking in circles,we found our hotel. That evening, we met one of my oldest friends and hisfamily for dinner at Farmer Brown – a nouveau soul food spot in UnionSquare. I'm pleased to report that I didn't regret one drop of thefour Mason Street Manhattan cocktails I sucked down. Notuntil 12 hours later, at least.
Jalen: "Dad? Are you throwing up becauseyou had too much to drink last night?"
Me: "Probably."
Jalen: "Should we call mom?"
Me: "DON'T TELL YOUR MOTHER."
I had hoped to sober up with the terrific breakfastserved at the Taylor Street Coffee Shop, but by 8:00 AM, therewas a line out the door. Thankfully, two bacon, egg and cheese biscuits fromBurger King cured what ailed me. Our only full father/son day in the Bay Areawas off to a rocky start – which is to be expected when you promise your sonthe platter-sized pancakes that only a greasy spoon can produce and deliver aconvenience store chocolate donut, instead.
So, it was up to the A's game. An entire weekend builtaround enjoying each other's company hinged on theoccasionally tedious style that'soccasionally associated with the American League. A's versusMariners! Two teams that finished a combined 42 games under .500 the previousseason!
Out of the corner of my eye, I sized Jalen up for anysign that indicated he was having a good time. As we traversed the overpasstowards the ballpark, J exuded the indifferent aura of "high schoolcool". In years past, I watched him nearly knock people over as hespeed-walked his way into a Spring Training game. Now, with the A's showingsigns of life in the mid-season standings AND a throwback Oakland Oaks capgiveaway, J's gait reminded me of mine on a Monday morning after a three-dayweekend.
Our oddly detached day even extended into the grotesquelyoverpriced team store. After one lap around the suffocating, shoebox-sizedshop, Jalen has usually asked for $500 worth of merchandise – that's up toTHREE things! – but, nothing caught my kid's eye. What I would've given to havemy old, excitable eight-year-old back. If he and I could no longer irrationallybond over baseball, I don't know what I'd do. Yes, it'smelodramatic. But, it's also my favorite thing in the world to share with myson.
As we trudged off towards our seats, I silently hoped forat least an entertaining game. Maybe that would reanimate the pocket-sizedchocolate-brown corpse beside me.
"Dad! I think Ryan Cook is signingautographs!"
For those of you who don't know, Ryan Cook was the A'slone All-Star representative last season and, briefly, the team's closer. Hewas stationed at the end of the A's dugout and dutifully signing for anyone inthe vicinity. Personally, I was just glad to see Jalen finally…
"Dad! Did you bring a baseball that I canget signed?!"
In the blink of an eye, J had worked his way towards thefront of the small mob that had formed in front of Cook. And, from a distancenot much farther than your computer screen is from your face, J politely askedthe All-Star, "Ryan Cook, could you please sign my ball? I'm a pitcher,too!"
Whew. Now, I could exhale.
But, wait! The Mariners were starting Felix Hernandez onthe mound – one of the best pitchers in the game and a notorious Athleticskiller. The Cook autograph would keep J happy for a few innings, but areappearance of Oakland's somnambulant offense could quickly ruin the mood.
With the score tied 1-1 in the bottom of the eighthinning, Oakland's Chris Carter tapped a foul ball down the third base line thatwas scooped up by third base coach – and my 37th favorite Athletics player of all time –Mike Gallego. Jalen stood up and leaned out over the dugout roof in Gallego'sdirection, but Gallego's underhand toss towards J's outstretched glove wasshort by about three feet. The ball ricocheted away and rolled into the sectionof seats on our left.
I was more bummed than my son, but there was no time tofeel sorry for him. I'm not being callous. It's just that I really had to use the bathroom. There was a young woman and herfather sitting next to us who I'd been chatting up throughout the game. Theyoffered to keep an eye on Jalen while I was gone. Hey, if you can't trust twostrangers in the fourth most dangerous city in America…
When I returned, Jalen was holding what I thought was thebaseball that he'd gotten autographed earlier in the afternoon.
Me: "Be careful with that ball, J. Youdon't want to smudge the autograph."
Jalen: "This is a new ball. Mike Gallego gave it tome."
Me: "Mike Gallego gave it to you? When? Justnow?!"
Young Woman Next to Us: "Yep! He came out of thedugout and tossed him a ball! I had to get your son's attention, but the coachtossed it and your son caught it!"
The A's and Mariners remained tied until the bottomof the 13th inning when Josh Reddick drove home Jemile Weeks after fourhours of great baseball. It had been a l-o-n-g afternoon, but any time with myson is a good time – even if he IS getting older and won't be a child forever.
Jalen: "Do kids still get to run the basesafter the game?"
Me: "You wanna run the bases?
Jalen: "Yeah!"
Me: "Let's go."
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