Mission Accomplished

It wasn’t quite like inviting a Red Sox fan to Yankee Stadium.

Or Michele Bachmann to an ACLU convention.

But I got quite the invite on Thursday night.

Let me take a step back.

So there we were.

At a neighborhood gathering.

When one of the dads came up to me.

I've known this dad for about five years.

And we’ve spoken many times.

About life.

Parenthood.

Bob Dylan.

Religion.

Not necessarily in that order.

Sometimes we've even mixed two of those ingredients.

Like the time I sang him the lyrics to Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited:

Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"

Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"

God say, "No." Abe say, "What ?"

God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but

The next time you see me comin' you better run"

Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done ?"

God says. "Out on Highway 61".

We both love that song.

For different reasons.

I love Dylan.

He loves the Bible.

I love the band Genesis.

He loves the book of Genesis.

Hey whatever works.

He is what I would call a VERY religious man.

Notice the CAPS.

His choice of religion is Christianity.

Now just in case the CAPS didn’t convince you.

Here’s some backup.

Every Sunday morning he teaches a class.

A Bible class.

Attended by about 500 people.

Sold yet?

Well he is well aware of my Jewish heritage.

And my Korean Catholic wife.

And he is also aware that we have taken the fifth when it comes to raising our kids under a certain religion.

What's the rush -- my oldest daughter is only 14.

Now growing up I went to synagogue every Saturday.

Went.

Past tense.

I don't go anymore.

In fact, the last time I was in a house of worship was April 15, 2009.

It was the L.A. Sports Arena.

For a Bruce Springsteen concert.

Now don't get me wrong.

I believe in God.

And I love religion.

Or at least the idea of religion.

Any religion.

As long as it works for you.

But it really caught me off guard when my friend threw this proposal at me: 

“What do you think about coming to our church sometime?”

Say what?

Considering the time and the place of the question, it came more out of left field than Matt Holliday.

Now before my sarcasm leaves you with the wrong impression.

Let me say that not only did I truly respect what he was saying.

But I honestly appreciated the thought.

Now I'm not big on being preached to.

None of us are.

But I think waiting five plus years to ask that question.

A question he probably wanted to ask on day 1.

I think he waited long enough.

But still the question caught me way off guard.

Did he just ask a Jewish guy to join a Christian church?

At a BBQ?

By God he did.

No pun intended.

But I took a deep breath.

Gathered my thoughts.

And fumbled my way through the answer.

Like I was Wendell Tyler.

I certainly didn’t want to come off as being disrespectful.

And while attending a church is not important to me.

It is to him.

So I said things like.

“My wife and I have never really put a major emphasis on any one religion in our house.”

Duh?

“And we approach faith from a different perspective.”

Whatever that means.

“And I don’t think that’s for us right now.”

Oh, that was a good one.

Based on my brilliant answers, I think he got the idea that his offer was one I could refuse.

At least for now.

He made one last ditch effort.

Saying that not only could I bring my own Starbucks into the church.

But there is actually a Starbucks in their church.

Now he’s getting dirty.

He really knows that straight line to my heart.

But somehow I resisted the offer.

For now.

But it definitely made me think.

And maybe just for that reason, asking the question served its purpose.

For now.

The Letter

When I was a little kid, my mother use to leave me notes in my lunch box.

That’s how the letter started.

The letter came my way 8400 days ago.

Exactly.

On August 8.

1988.

8-8-88.

Not only a great poker hand.

But a really important date in my life.

That was the day my college roommate.

My brother from another mother.

Reminded me that I was loved.

The notes would say things like “good luck on your test today” or “Hi, just wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you.”

I basically grew up as an only child.

A lonely child.

My parents divorced when I was 12.

I had a half-brother.

But he was 14 years older than me.

So no matter what age I was.

He was always at a different place in his life.

Fortunately for me, that hole was filled when I got to college.

Our friendship is one that I really do cherish.  I am really happy and proud for you with this tremendous opportunity that you have.

That tremendous opportunity was going to the 1988 Olympics.


In Seoul, Korea.

Not as an athlete.

You are funny.

As a TV producer.

It was the trip of a lifetime.

Especially for a 21-year old.

And my friend wanted to make sure that as I headed to the other side of the world.

For three months.

I was well aware of what I was leaving behind.

So he wrote me the letter.

I know that you’ll be busy, but I will be thinking of you constantly while you’re gone.

It’s one thing for someone to say nice words.

It’s another thing to write them.

In a letter.

A 178 word letter.

Talk about a lost art.

Nowadays you are lucky to get 140 characters.

Not 140 words.

It meant a lot that the message was coming straight from his heart.

But it meant even more that he took the time to write it.

These notes meant a lot to me and would help give me confidence if I was having a rough day.

We met at freshman orientation.

And hit it off right away.

We both liked sports.

We both liked girls.

He was good with girls.

I was good with sports.

We graduated 20+ years ago.

And we still talk almost every day.

In fact we spoke today for quite a while.

Well I’m 22 now and my mom no longer makes my lunch, but I still have those notes.  I even keep one of them in my wallet so it is with me all of the time.

He's not 22 anymore.

And neither am I.  

Double that.

But my kids still call him Uncle.

Even when he is not twisting their arm.

And he has always treated them like one of his own.

Something he didn’t have.

Until last week.

Last Saturday morning.

3:39 in the morning.  To be exact.

That's when his wife delivered a child.

Their first.

A boy.

A beautiful boy.

Nobody is happier for him than me.

Do me a favor, keep this in your wallet, so when the chips are down you know that I’ll be there rooting for you.

23 years later.

To the day.

The letter is still there.

In my wallet.

It is tattered.

And torn.

But now it carries a new meaning.

To a father and son.

Getting Schooled

High School was a wild ride for me.

Not in the Spicoli sense.

More in a revolving door kinda way.

9th Grade.

I graduated from a private Orthodox Hebrew Day School with eight classmates.

10th Grade.

I spent the first semester at a 3,000 student public high school in San Diego.

Midway through the year, we moved to New Jersey.

Where I became the new kid at Fort Lee High School.

11th Grade.

It was back to California.

And back to a 3,000 student public high school.

This time in Los Angeles.

That’s the school I eventually graduated from.

Eventually graduated... ha.   

That sounds funny.

Yes, I graduated on time.

Barely.

I wouldn’t say I was the greatest student.

But I did what had to be done.

Monday is a big day for my daughter.

It’s her first day of high school.

That officially makes me old.

But I don’t think I’ve seen her this excited in a while.

And this nervous too.

The unknown can be quite the mystery.

We spent most of Sunday talking about this next stop of her journey.

Hey, high school is a big deal.

Everybody wants to be popular.

And these grades actually do count.

Remember all that nonsense in elementary school.

“This will go do on your PERMANENT record.”

Hogwash.

There is no such thing as a permanent record in 4th grade.

(Hey don’t tell that to my two younger kids.)

But High School.

That’s a different story.

Being that Sunday was her last day before becoming an adult.

Or whatever high school students become.

I decided to take my daughter to my place of worship.

The place where I clear my mind.

The place where I have all good thoughts.

No, not church.

Silly.

The grocery store.

I really LOVE grocery shopping.

Always have.

Not sure what the exact appeal is.

But anytime anybody needs anything.

I am more than happy to go.

Although my wife has certainly learned that whether she needs one onion or 35 things.

It always takes me two hours.

Or more.

Hey I love the grocery store.

And Sunday was no different.

I think we arrived shortly before two.

And left ten minutes after four.

Yep, two hours.

Or more.

Now the fact that my fridge needed some food.

And my daughter needed some love.

This was the perfect opportunity to mix church and steak.

We walked up and down every aisle.

Reading labels.

And talking about her life.

Every time I asked what she feared.

She had no answer.

And what was it that she was most excited about.

No answer.

And what was it...

Well, it didn’t matter the question.

She didn’t have the answer.

But at one point she did announce.

“This is my last day as a real kid.”

At which point I became teary eyed.

And speechless.

No small feat.

I can remember entering my new high school.

Three different times.

And every time I was thinking the same thing.

“When is lunch?”

Ok, seriously.

Yes high school scared the hell out of me.

But I certainly had no idea the things that I would be learning.

Especially outside of class.

My San Diego high school was the first time I saw my peers smoking.

My New Jersey high school was the first time I was offered drugs.

My Los Angeles high school was the first time I had a drink.

High school was a growing up experience for me.

To say the least.

And that was 19 years ago.

I can only imagine what she will learn these days.

The good news is that unlike me, learning is very important to her.

And she is a great student.

If you don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe her schedule.

• Honors Biology
• Honors English
• AP Human Geography
• Geometry
• Spanish

With P.E. and Ceramics mixed in there.

The only Honors I got in high school was when I was voted Most Zany.

In my Senior year.

It certainly makes me sad that my little girl is not so little anymore.

But I am equally excited about her taking this next step in her life.

I know that this night before Day 1 will be tough.

For her.

But once they start talking about Isosceles trapezoids.

I'm thinking everything will be just fine.

Black Diamond

A few months ago my 12-year old son and I went to a Major League Baseball game.

We got there early.

For batting practice.

We both brought our gloves.

Just in case.

As soon as we walked into the stadium, my son sprinted directly into the right field pavilion.

He locked in on one of the visiting San Diego Padres and yelled.

“Hey Adams, throw me a ball.”

My son knew him as Adams.

Because that was the name on the back of his uniform.

I knew him as relief pitcher Mike Adams.

Because he’s on my fantasy baseball team.

But either way.

Adams picked up a loose ball and threw it our way.

The throw was a little short.

But my son short hopped the ball.

As it hit the ground.

Like he was playing first base.

And presto.

He had himself a souvenir.

The goal of every young boy.

To go home from the game with a souvenir.

That was the same goal for Cooper Stone.

A six-year old fan of the Texas Rangers.

Cooper and his dad Shannon went to a Rangers game a few weeks ago.

They sat in the front row.

Behind the left-field scoreboard.

One of the best seats in the house.

On their way to the game, they stopped at a sporting goods store.

To buy a glove.

Just in case.

Or perhaps they had a feeling that this would be the night.

The special night.

The night that Cooper would head home with a ball.

The night he would never forget.

The Rangers took a 1-0 lead in the top first inning.

Courtesy of a Josh Hamilton RBI.

Cooper’s favorite player.

At the end of the first inning, Hamilton headed out to his position in left field.

Right in front of Shannon and Cooper.

As their luck would have it, moments later a foul ball caromed off an empty seat.

And landed next to Hamilton.

So he picked up that loose ball.

And tossed it into the stands.

Like he had done.

Countless times before.

Hamilton said he had heard a fan scream earlier to throw a ball his way.

So he threw it that way.

The fan was Shannon Stone.

Cooper’s dad.

The throw was a little short.

So Shannon reached over the railing.

To catch the ball.

For his son.

But the throw was shorter than Shannon expected.

And when he reached out to catch it.

He leaned too far forward.

And lost his balance.

Falling over the railing.

20 feet down.

Head first.

Onto a concrete floor.

When the paramedics got to Shannon, he was conscious.

At least conscious enough.

Conscious enough to be heard saying:

“Please check on my son.  He is up there by himself.”

Even in his worst moment.

Before anything else.

Shannon was a dad.

The emergency personnel checked on Cooper.

And took him from the front row.

To the front seat.

Of the ambulance.

That drove his dad to the hospital.

But on the way there, things took a terrible turn.

A tragic turn.

The trauma from the fall sent the 39-year old father into “full arrest.”

He was pronounced dead an hour later.

The story shocked the world.

The baseball world.

The Texas world.

My world.

How could this happen?

Why did this happen?

The answer to these questions didn’t matter.

The only thing that did was that a father was gone.

And a son was scarred.

Forever.

I don’t know the Stone family.

But I’m a dad.

I’m a human.

And I can’t help feeling for what they must be going through.

Even though I can’t even come close.

To feeling what they are going through.

A father and a son head to the ballpark.

For a night of perfection.

And what transpired was anything but.

The best of times became the worst of times.

In a matter of seconds.

Recently I visited the Ballpark in Arlington.

For a game.

My friend and I bought the cheap seats.

But snuck into the good ones.

Right behind home plate.

To see a game.

But from the moment I got there.

I couldn’t stop staring.

Staring at left-field.

Right above the scoreboard.

Where the game didn’t matter.

Where a boy lost his dad.