THE BACK SEAT

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I were in the car's front seats, engrossed in a conversation about something or other, when we suddenly became aware of a song, coming from the back seat.

"The Care Bears love me... but not my friends

The Care Bears love me... but not my friends!

The Care Bears love me, they love me, they love me...

But nooooooot..... myyyyyyyyyyy... frrrrrrrriends!"

Love,

dad

A LIFETIME AGO

Dear Spike,

I woke up this morning from one of the worst nights of sleep of my life. And I only say that I "woke up" because I did manage to doze off just enough to have several nightmares, all of which involved a deranged gang of killers that was chasing me and, to my greater horror, a teen-aged version of you.

I rarely remember my dreams. But this one was pretty vivid. Strange.

You don't look bad with purple hair, by the way, but I wasn't so happy with the tattoos. Pin-up girls? On your forearms? Really?

There was a soundtrack, too. A John Phillip Souza march, of all things. I'm not kidding. It was the craziest thing.

But in the early moments of the morning, when I was still trying to separate the dream world from reality, it was at least something to laugh at. I wasn't comfortable talking about the other parts of the dream, at first. Too real. Too early. But the Souza stuff? That was something I could tell your mother about when she asked.

And as soon as the words fell from my lips, I realized what had happened.

Souza. Military marches. Terror. Ten years.

I know lots of people are saying today that it seems like it was just yesterday. But that's not the case for me. It seems like a lifetime ago.

The last decade has brought, in no particular order, an end to my military service. A marriage to your mother. A move to Utah. Three trips to Iraq, among a half-dozen other international reporting assignments. Your mom got her master's degree. Then I did. And then, a few months ago, I got a brand new career.

We've lost your mother's Gaga. My grandmother and grandfather, too. My sister married, divorced, remarried, had a beautiful baby boy. My brother moved in with us. And then he moved out.

And, of course, there was you.

Sure, I remember that day like it was yesterday. But it doesn't seem like it was yesterday.

It was a lifetime ago. For me. For you. For our broken nation.

Guantanamo. Abu Ghraib. Predator drones. Endless war. Black ops budgets bursting at the secret seams. All the while, more debt, more debt, more debt for our nation.

What a fucking legacy.

This is just a date. No more and no less important than any other, despite all of the attention. But I will say this for Sept. 11, 2001: It is the date by which I count, forward and backward, to nearly every other event in my life.

So in that way, I suppose, a decade is meaningful.

I wonder and worry at what the next decade will bring. By the time it passes, you'll be about as old as you were in my dream last night. (But please, dear God, not with those tattoos.) You'll be old enough, by then, to understand what happened on that terrible day. And you'll be old enough to know what has happened ever since.

What a nightmare.

But here, in the spirit of optimism, is to the next decade. May she be a damn sight better than the old one.

Love,

dad

YOUR BIG TOE

Dear Spike:

It was bound to happen.

What, with all this, bull-ridin', half-pipe jumpin' and professional soccer playin' you've been talking about lately, it was clear you weren't going to be leaving this home without a few bumps and bruises to show for it.

But we didn't really want those bumps and bruises to come so soon.

I was in my office, up north, when I got the call from your mother.

"Calm down" she told me.

"I am calm," I said. "Why wouldn't I be calm?"

"Because of what I'm going to tell you — which is why I said you need to calm down."

"But..."

"Promise!"

"Promise what?"

"That you'll be calm."

"Um... OK."

You were exploring our basement — a veritable death trap, to be certain — when you came upon my weight set. Somehow you wrestled one of the 10-pound barbell weights off the rack.

It fell on your foot, crushing your big toe.

For the record, I'd like to point out that I took the news rather well. And I'd like to think that I would have done so regardless of whether or not your mother first made me pinky swear to stay calm.

She, for the record, was doing an admirable job of holding it all together. And she did everything right to keep you calm and get you the help you needed.

She (quite wrongly) blamed herself. (This is definitely more my fault than hers — and you get some blame, too, for touching things you shouldn't be touching). But in any case, your mom didn't dwell on any of that until well after I'd arrived (two hours later) to find you both sitting calmly in an examination room, waiting to look at the X-rays.

There were dark circles under your eyes and you chin was trembling, but you did your best to wear a brave face.

"I tried to hold it up, but it was too heavy for me," you explained.

The doctor came in and looked at the pictures. There was a distinct line down the middle of the distal phalanx of your hallux.

Or, in other words: the little piggy that went to market had a boo-boo.

It could have been a lot worse. Still, the doctor sentenced you to three weeks in a hard boot. Looks like I'll only be coaching a bunch of other parents' soccer players for a while. Sorry kid, but those are the breaks...

... um ...

... no pun intended, really.

As you know, I try really hard to find lessons in all of life's little adventures. Sometimes, I'm sure, I try too hard.

So I won't serve up some platitude for you to consider. Not today. You've got enough to worry about right now.

So I'll just say this: You'll be better soon. I promise.

Love,

dad

THROUGH THIS STORM

Dear Spike,

The sky is falling in great wet sheets. Above the clouds, an angry voice screams. The night pulses with electricity.

But you are asleep in your bed. And you do not stir. Not as the lightning strikes. Not as the thunder booms.

On the eve of your second week of preschool, I think you are still exhausted by the first.

You made us proud. You didn't cry or protest when we dropped you off that first day — truth be known, there was little we could do to hold you back when that door swung open.

On the second day, a little boy said mean things to you. You resisted any temptation to respond in kind. So proud.

Yes, you are learning things there that we could not teach you here at home. Still, it comes at a cost. The days are long. And you haven't yet figured out how to use nap time for its intended purpose. You're so very tired.

I'm glad you're sleeping through this storm. You need your rest. Another week of school begins in just a few hours.

You're doing great.

Love,

dad

IT IS TIME

Dear Spike,

It is time.

Not just because you are now four and this is what four-year-olds do. You are. And it is. But you do not do things just because others do them. If you did, you would not be you.

But it is time.

Not just because I have taken a new job and, as such, will be unable to stay home with you. Indeed, my life is changing. And indeed, that will change yours. That is not the reason for this change.

But yes, it it time.

Not just because you have decided it is time. You have, of course, done just that. But you are, of course, only four. And four-year-olds — for all that they do — do not get to make decisions like this.

But yes, my dear and beautiful and brilliant daughter... my tiny little friend... my most important thing... it is time for you to go to school.

And why is it time? If not because you are four? If not because our lives have changed? If not because you really want to?

It is time, my child, because it is time. Because you are ready.

You are ready to learn things that your mother and I cannot teach you: How to make yourself heard above the din of a crowd. How to be yourself, even as you are surrounded by others who want and expect you to be like them. How to follow and how to lead.

These are not always easy lessons to learn. There will be some who do not like you, do not treat you well, do not value the things that you value. There will be some that you will follow, wrongly, into trouble — and you will be held accountable as though you did it all yourself. There will be some that will say and do things that make you angry — and you will be expected to show them kindness and compassion.

Yes, I expect much of you. Yes, I recognize that you are only four.

But you are the best parts of your mother and the best parts of me. And I don't mind saying that we're not half bad people, as people go.

In any case, the privileges you have in this world make you royalty. Much has been given to you; much is thus expected from you. No matter that some have more and do less. You are not those people.

You are you. And your mother and I have done everything we can do, to this point, to make you the best you possible.

Now, increasingly, it is up to you. And, of course, the rest of the world — for we do not learn and change and grow in a void.

I do not fear that influence. Yes, the world can be a very terrible place. But even before you arrived, we knew that we would love you more than anything in the world, and we would not have brought you into this world if we didn't believe that, in the great balance, there is always more good than bad.

There is always more hope than fear.

There is always more faith than doubt.

And there is always more love than hate.

For four years, we have been the ones who have led you to these lessons. Now, increasingly, the world will take your hand.

We are proud of you. We are excited for you. And we will always be here for you.

It is time.

Love,

dad

OF YOUR CHOICE

Dear Spike:

Look, it's true: We named you — your real name, that is — after a professional soccer player. And yes, it's true: You were at your first professional soccer game before you even tipped the six-pound mark on the scales. And yes, it's true: I've got a soccer cleat tattooed on my right arm.

So it was much to my great joy that you slipped on your very first soccer jersey last week. You wanted number 4 — the same number as your father wore on nearly every team on which I played as a kid (although I think you simply wanted it because you are four years old.) The team roster had you assigned to number 3, but somehow you wound up with the digit of your choice. Score.

Skill wise, you've got this game down. But alas, pre-school soccer isn't much of a skill game. And bunch ball upsets you — as well it should.

But every time I see you on the field, looking hesitantly — and from afar — at the crush of boys and girls around the ball, I feel a bit panicked. What if, on the basis of this experience, you decide that soccer's not your thing?

Today I asked you what your favorite sport was. You said it was basketball. You've never played basketball. You've never watched basketball.

But there it was.

"How about soccer?" I asked you later on.

"Yes," you said. "Soccer is fun."

I guess that's good enough for now. As for the future, I suppose we'll see.

And if you do decide that it is not for you, I will not love you any less.

But no, you cannot change your name.

Love,
dad

IN THOSE SHOES

Dear Spike:

I last saw Tim DeCristopher at the Salt Lake Hilton, where the Utah Democrats were holding their annual convention and he had just given a nominating speech for Bill McDonnell, a candidate for the vacant seat of the House district where our family lives.

Afterward, I pulled him aside.

"I guess Bill didn't mind the idea of being nominated by a convicted felon, eh?"

Tim looked down at his shoes. And I worried that my joke might have been ill-timed and insensitive.

"Nah," he said finally with a smile. "Funny thing is I've been asked to give two speeches today."

When we were done chatting, I shook his hand and — as I sometimes do — reached over with my free hand to squeeze his arm. I was surprised to feel his bicep bulging underneath his shirt and then, upon quick reflection, realized that it made perfect sense.

Tim has long said that he's prepared to go to prison for what he's done. He's also made it clear that he'd rather not. I'd be trying to bulk up, too, if I were in his shoes.

Of course, I'm not in his shoes. Couldn't fill them if I tried. I'd like to think that I'm a brave person, but I'm not that brave.

In recent weeks, some people have compared Tim to the Rosa Parks of the environmental movement. I don't know if that's true or not. If it is, it's safe to say that you'll one day understand the context for all of this. If not, a little background:

It was back in December of 2008 that this all began. George W. Bush's eight-year presidency was coming to an end, and some environmentalists believed his administration was rushing to sell off oil and gas leases before the next president could order a more thorough legal and environmental review. It was in the midst of this that Tim walked into a U.S. Bureau of Land Management auction in Salt Lake City and began to bid for a few plots in an attempt to keep energy developers off the land for a few precious weeks.

He won one. Then another. And before suspicious BLM officials suspended the auction, Tim had the rights to 14 leases in eastern Utah — and no way to pay for the $1.8 million he'd bid to get them.

Our government was not amused. And although his supporters quickly raised the money to pay for the leases, Tim was charged with disrupting the federal auction. The case went to trial earlier this year. The judge wouldn't permit Tim to argue that his actions were a necessary step in the battle to prevent climate change. He was convicted on all counts, but permitted to remain free on bail until his sentencing.

That happened today. Tim was sentenced to spend the next two years in prison.

We're a nation of laws. And I've only known a few people in my life who would dispute that those laws aren't a vital part of what hold us together as a society.

That doesn't mean that every law is just — or that the law is always justly applied.

They aren't and it isn't.

But Tim knew that when he walked into that auction. And while he understood the consequences, he believed the stakes were much, much higher.

In a non-violent way, he raged against something he believed to be unjust.

I stand in awe.

Now, I should make something clear: I've always felt that as entrenched and corrupt as our system can be, there are still ways to effect change meaningfully within the system. That is, after all, what eventually brought the oil leases to a halt — a lawsuit was filed against the government, a judge issued a restraining order and President Obama's administration ultimately suspended the leases.

But Tim could not have know any of that was going to transpire. Seeing what he thought was his last, best opportunity to disrupt the sale, he acted.

Illegally? Yes.

And bravely, too.

Our actions often have consequences. And when you accept those consequences as a cost of doing what you believe is right, you're walking in the footsteps of some very amazing people.

My God, I'd hate to see you in those shoes. But I'd be very proud, too.

Love,
dad

GOING TO CHINA

Dear Spike:

We're going to China.

Love,
baba

SECONDS TO GO

Dear Spike:

You're four. That makes you a little bit squirmy. And even though you love soccer, 90 minutes is a long time to sit, to watch, to wait, to wonder. The beautiful game gives us an opportunity to practice our patience. And sometimes it tests our patience.

It did today. The U.S. national team was up 1-0 over Brazil with 25 minutes to play in the quarterfinals of the Women's World Cup when Marta — the most dominant player I've ever seen in any team sport — darted into the box, beating two U.S. defenders before Rachel Buehler caught up to her. Marta took a handful of Buehler's jersey. Buehler had a handful of Marta's. The referee called the American for the foul and gave Buehler a red card, to boot.

Penalty kick. Brilliant save. Jubilation. The Americans were down a player, but they were still up a goal. But the referee ruled that goalkeeper Hope Solo had left her line before the kick and ordered the shot retaken. The replays show otherwise, but what does it matter? Marta converts. One-one. Back down to earth we came.

Overtime. Marta again. Brilliant finish. Damn.

Your countrywomen spent the next 30 minutes knocking on Brazil's door. Were they still down a player? I couldn't tell. They were determined. They were ferocious.

And then, with seconds to go, it happened: Megan Rapinoe sends a cross to the six. Someday I'm going to teach you about this spot — the perfect spot — that forces a keeper to commit forward and pulls her dangerously off her line. The cross sails over Brazil's defenders. It sails past the outstretched fingers of the keeper. And it sails perfectly into the path of Abby Wambach, who heads it firmly into the back of the net.

Seconds to go. Seconds to go. I've been watching the replay for the past two hours and I'm still getting shivers. Seconds to go.

Kicks from the spot are a horrible way to resolve a soccer contest, but at least there is resolution to be had. I called you over to me and held you before the television screen.

"Watch this," I said. "This is history."

The U.S. converts its first shot. Brazil too.

You squirmed a bit. You're four, after all, and you'd never seen this strange game-after-a-game before.

The U.S. converts again. Brazil too.

You ran off for a moment and I called you back, pulling you onto my lap and whispering into you ear.

"Trust me," I said. "You don't want to miss this. You really don't."

The U.S. converts another.

And then ...

...

...

...

... Hope Solo.

The shot came in hard and left. Solo, arms outstretched like Superwoman, punched it away.

We leaped together in joy. You chanted with the crowd, half a globe away: "USA! USA! USA!"

After that, you squirmed no more.

The U.S. converted its next shot. Brazil too.

Up 4 goals to 3 in the shoot out, it all came down to Ali Krieger, who put her shot in the lower corner to give the U.S. women a victory.

We screamed and hugged and jumped up and down. You watched the women celebrate on the television and — for a moment, I think — you pretended to celebrate alongside them.

We watch a lot of soccer in this home. I don't think you'll remember this moment above any other. But I've got a sneaking suspicion that it'll stick with you in other ways.

For a moment you were able to clearly and concretely see the way that patience can pay off. And that is one of the most beautiful parts of the beautiful game — because it's one of the most beautiful parts of life.

Love,
dad

AT WARP SPEED

Dear Spike:

I start teaching full-time in August. Between now and then, I've been working for a school dedicated to helping high school dropouts re-enroll and re-engage — a job that I hope to keep, part time, after my professorship starts. Meanwhile, I've got a half-dozen freelance projects up in the air and have been doing some copy writing for a friend's business.

Oh yeah, and today I helped start a newspaper.

OK, well, it's not really a newspaper. It's more what you'd call a "hyper-local" website. Our good friend Alex and I began working on it a few months ago hoping for an excuse to be curious now that neither of us is getting paid, any longer, to stick our noses in other people's business. It's not much, yet, but we've got high hopes.

I suppose all of that makes me a bit of a busy guy, but I assure you that I wouldn't have it any other way. Sometimes I feel like one of those sharks — the kind that have to keep moving to keep oxygen running through their gills.

Yeah, that's me.

I do try to slow down, though, to enjoy the things in life that can't be savored at warp speed. Today you and I took a bike ride through the park and stopped at our favorite cafe for breakfast. Tomorrow I was thinking we might make some pancakes and smother them with fruit.

It's good to keep busy, but it's wise to take breaks, too. I hope you'll learn how to effectively do both. And when you can find the things that make you feel like you're doing both at the same time, you've hit the jackpot.

Love,
dad