LET YOU CRY

Dear Spike:

You cried a lot last night. And I let you.

It wasn’t that it didn’t break my heart to hear you cry. It does. But it warms it, too.

You were silent when the doctors pulled you into this world. It could have been for a few seconds. It probably didn’t take longer than a few minutes. But God, it felt like I was waiting for the next millennium.

And when you finally cried, I did too.

Today you are one month old. You cry a lot. Sometimes I try to sooth you, to quiet you.

But sometimes I simply let you cry.

God, I love that sound.

God, I do.

Love,
dad

The Number 29

Dear Spike:

I turned 29 a few weeks ago — happy, for the first time in a long time, to accept the gaieties with which we celebrate birthdays in our culture. Thank you for giving that back to me, by the way.

The symbolism of 29 was not lost on me in the jocularity of the occasion, however. In our nation, 29 is the age people say they are for many years after turning 30 — and for some, many years after turning 40.

It is the last year of youth — or at least it is the last year in which you can get away with “being young.” According to some, it is the last year you can be trusted. And partial to all of that, it seems, it is the last year you can dream.

Truth be known, I turned the figurative corner on 30 a long time ago. I hope you inherit the same sense of responsibility and early maturity that your mother and I both possess. But I also hope you learn to balance those traits with a desire to maintain a sense of youthfulness in your life.

To put it another way: Don’t grow up too soon. For if you do, far sooner than it should, the world will get small. People will become predictable. And though your path may be richly scenic, as mine has been, it will feel worn.

Reality will set in. And dreaming will be relegated to sleep time.

So it goes.

A few things struck me this week — realities I’ve known to be realities for quite some time but seem to have been calcified by the number 29.

As it turns out, I’ll never be an astronaut. I’ll never be a professional soccer player. I’ll never be president of the United States.

I won’t be an airplane pilot. Or a steamboat captain (there are not too many of those left anyway, but no one bothered to tell me that when I was first introduced to Mark Twain.)

I won’t win an Oscar. Or an Emmy — not even a “Daytime” one.

I’ll never be 6 feet tall. I’ll never be built like Lou Ferigno’s Incredible Hulk. And I suppose I’m never going to get my hair back.

Let me tell you: It doesn’t matter.

Maybe I won’t visit Antarctica. Maybe I won’t discover a new planet. Maybe I won’t sail around the world.

And yet, I don’t think I’m done dreaming. And I don’t think I’m done being young.

Thank you for that, by the way.

Love,
dad

SURE I FINISHED

Dear Spike:

When one of the players on my team made a string of a lazy passes during a scrimmage this week, I let him know (perhaps a bit loudly, as I am prone to do) that I wasn’t happy with his performance.

So when, just minutes later, I made a poor pass that the very same player stole away, he was quick to remind me that everyone makes mistakes.

“Fair enough,” I told him. “I’ll run a few laps after we’re done.”

I’d forgotten about the promise by the end of our practice. Ian had not.

“Don’t you have something you need to be doing?” he asked me with a haughty smile.

“Right,” I said with a sigh. “So how many will it be?”

“Ten.”

“How about one?”

“Seven”

“Three?”

“OK, five — but I’m not going any lower,” he said.

And so I started my run. And with that, Ian jumped into his father’s car and they drove off.

“Well,” I thought as I watched them drive away. “I guess I got out of that.”

Except that, as I slowed my run to a jog, I could see another of my players hiding behind a tree on the far end of the field. He was watching to make sure I finished.

I picked up my pace. By the time I was done with my second lap, Gio’s family had arrived to pick him up.

“Well,” I thought as I watched the second car drive away. “I guess I got out of that.”

Except, when I began to slow again, I found I couldn’t stop.

There are going to be plenty of times in your life when no one is going to know whether you did the right thing or the easy thing. And when no one is looking, the easy thing can be very easy indeed.

It’s likely you’ll take that road a few times. We all do — at work and school, with our families and our friends. We cut corners. We take shortcuts. We stop short.

If Ian and Gio had stayed to watch me run, I would have completed my laps but would have felt indifferent about having done so. It was, in fact, because no one was watching that I finished my fifth lap with a small smile on my face. I even felt a little bit proud of myself.

Most of the time, doing the right thing is a bit more difficult, complicated, painful or arduous than doing the easy thing.

But most of the time, that’s the very thing that makes it worthwhile.

Love,
dad

SPIKE'S FIRST TWO WEEKS

Dear Spike's friends:
This is a slide show from Spike's first two weeks on Planet Earth. I'm sure you'll notice that at one point she was down to 4 pounds 6 ounces. Not to worry: By her two-week appointment with Dr. Schriewer, the little screamer was up to 5 pounds and we think she's put on a few more ounces since then.
Love,
spike's dad

ABOVE THE LEAVES

Dear Spike:

When I was a little boy, my father would read “Go, Dog. Go!” to me and my siblings, always slowing slightly, toward the end, as the canine cast climbed a tree and then crescendoing in a rapid-fire fit of glee as they surfaced, above the leaves, to reveal...

A dog party!
A big dog party!
Big dogs, little dogs,
red dogs, blue dogs,
yellow dogs, green dogs,
black dogs, and white dogs
are all at a dog party!
What a dog party!

We all loved it.

Not only because P.D. Eastman’s story was such an amusing — and absurd — tale, and not only because our father’s reading of the book was so entertaining.

No, I think we loved it most because we got to see our father — normally so stern and serious — having fun.

For my first Father’s Day, you and your mom gave me a copy of the book I so loved when I was a boy. I immediately turned to the dog party scene, trying to invoke my father’s tone as I read...

A dog party!
A big dog party!
Big dogs, little dogs,
red dogs, blue dogs,
yellow dogs, green dogs,
black dogs, and white dogs
are all at a dog party!
What a dog party!

I’m not sure I have it down, quite yet. But I suspect I’ll have plenty of opportunities, over the next few years, to work on it.

Meanwhile, I’ll be trying to emulate my father in other ways, striving to balance my dedication to work with my devotion to family; trying to teach you to make principled decisions; and hoping to be a righteous example for you.

To be authoritative and yet compassionate. To be strict and yet yielding. To be serious and yet fun.

At times amusing. At time absurd. And always — always — letting you know that you are the most important thing in my life.

Love,
dad

THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

Dear Spike:

Tonight, we took you to your first soccer contest.

It was a heartbreaking ordeal. The referee was lousy. The home team’s coach got red carded. And then, with less than a minute to play in what seemed destined to be yet another scoreless draw for Real Salt Lake, the team gave up a goal to lose the game 0-1.

A woman after my own heart, you showed your displeasure by screaming all the way home.

We humans are passionate about our professional sports clubs. Teams are a point of identification, community and culture — another place to find one’s place in our all-too-frequently placeless world.

But with all the joys, be warned: At times your team will play lousy. And at times they’ll make you wonder why you spend your money to watch them play.

And even for the fans of the best teams in the world, most seasons end with disappointment. There is, after all, only room for one World Series Champion, for one Super Bowl winner, for one Stanley Cup holder.

And so you may simply decide to be a connoisseur of sports: To watch and enjoy and appreciate a beautiful game being played beautifully. To marvel at the endurance, finesse and resiliency of the human body. To be staggered by brilliant performances, regardless of the color of the performer’s uniform.

I found myself in Germany last summer as the World Cup was being played. Wedded to only one of teams in the tournament (and alas, the U.S. side played poorly and quickly was eliminated) there was plenty of time left to simply enjoy “the beautiful game” being played on its grandest stage.

And yet, as I entered the stadium at Kaiserslautern to watch Trinidad against Paraguay, I felt compelled by the drums, singing and costumes of the Trinidadian fans and by their passion for the “Soca Warriors.” And when, a week later, I found myself in the middle of the Saudi Arabian cheering section for a Saudi-Spain match, I was enchanted into cheering for the Middle Eastern underdogs.

Yes, there will be heartache — nights like tonight. And lots of them.

But you cannot dream in neutrality. So it goes in sports. So it goes in life.

Accept the heartbreak and the hurt. Choose. And cheer.

Love,
dad

PROBLEMS IN COMMUNICATION

Dear Spike:

I don't know all of your sounds yet. And so sometimes I change you when I need to feed you. And sometimes I feed you when I need to hold you. It can be frustrating for me and, I'm sure, for you as well.

Would you believe that the basic problems in communication we have now will continue on for as long as we're together? That sometimes you will tell me, in your way, what you need and I will hear you saying something completely different?

In those times, please remember that I love you and that yes, I do want — more than anything — to help you. Try to be patient with me and I will try to be patient with you.

And together, slowly, we will learn to communicate. To hear one another. And to be there for one another.

Love,
dad

TIMES WE SHARED

Dear Spike:

This is fast becoming my favorite time of the day. I’m in the rocker. You’re on my lap. Your mother’s in bed, next to us, fast asleep.

Every few minutes, I nod down to kiss your head and whisper that I love you. Every hour, you wake up to cry.

I rock you and sing to you. If that doesn’t work I change you. If that doesn’t work I fix you a bottle.

We get to hang out this way until 3:30 or 4 a.m. — maybe two feedings and two changings — and then your mom will get up and I’ll go to sleep.

I know our relationship will change as you grow.

Sooner or later you won’t need me to feed you. Sooner or later (please, God, let it be sooner) you won’t need me to change you.

One day you’ll no longer need me to rock you to sleep. And one day, I know, I won’t be able to rock you at all.

I imagine you’ll let me sing to you for a few years to come. But someday you’ll find someone else to sing to you. That’s just how it goes.

But maybe, from time to time, you’ll let me kiss your head. Maybe you’ll let me whisper that I love you.

Maybe you’ll let me remember these times we shared, late at night, rocking the nights away.

Love,
dad

BASE TO BASE

Dear Spike:

My father likes to tell people that I was just three days old when I attended my first baseball game.

We waited a bit longer to introduce you (mostly because the local team has been on the road since you were born) but I’ll still be proud to tell folks that we took you out to the ball game when you were small enough to fit into my mitt.

The home team won, 7 to 3. You saw your first home run and your first 6-4-3 double play. And when the visiting batters were retired in the top of the seventh, you stretched out your arms as if, by instinct, you knew what to do.

And in doing so, you participated in a noble ritual.

There’s something religious about baseball. Maybe its the strict adherence to an ancient liturgy, to rules and seance and tradition. Maybe it’s the communion of peanuts and Cracker Jack. Maybe it’s the hymns.

You don’t have to love this game the way I do (and your grandfather does, and your great-grandfather does) but I hope you’ll understand it and respect it. It’s as important a part of our country’s heritage as our national anthem and our flag.

Maybe more.

Yes, I think more.

That might be patriotic sacrilege in these days of bumper-sticker nationalism, but I think it’s true.

Like our nation, the game was born of British stock. And like our nation, it quickly and hubristically came into its own, maturing during our country’s darkest hours as men gathered in Army camps and war prisons — officers with enlisted men, side by side.

When the Civil War ended, baseball survived — though like our nation it remained soiled by racism and segregation for generations upon generations to come. And like our nation, it ultimately righted itself of that evil.

It still remains segregated in one sad way: At some point along the line, women were relegated to the derivative game of softball. And with very limited exceptions at the higher levels of the game, they do not play alongside men.

Maybe you could change that. Like our nation, baseball is ever-changing.

Much as our Constitution has proven both supple and resilient, the game has proven able to evolve and yet remain affixed in ordinance and tradition.

Much as our government has proven stronger than any President, Congress or court, baseball has proven stronger than its players, its owners or its fans.

And much as our nation has increasingly come into the possessorship of corporate interests, so too has the professional arm of the game.

And yet it survives.

Three strikes, four balls, three outs. Nine innings, nine players. Ninety feet, from base to base.

Peanuts and Cracker Jack. The seventh-inning stretch.

Rules and seance and tradition. Suppleness and resilience.

No, you don’t have to love this game the way I do.

But I do hope you’ll let me take you again. And again. And again.

Love,
dad

YOU'RE (STILL) SO SMALL

Dear Spike:

You're so small I can catch you in my baseball glove...



You're like a little pinapple...



And your tiny feet...



... are the size of my thumbs...



It's going to be a long time before you fit into my sunglasses...



You're the size of a wine bottle...



And smaller than a decent chuck roast...



But you're the biggest thing that's ever happened to me.



Love,
dad