The Way a Blog Ends ...

            More than eight years ago, I started writing this blog. I’ve published nearly 350 posts in that time, and it’s been a tremendous experience. I started out with the idea of connecting baseball and life, and even named the blog and the web address after that idea. One year, I even wrote 162 baseball-to-life blog posts in 162 days, choosing a different player each day as inspiration for that post’s topic.

            Eventually, I started shifting away from the baseball-to-life theme, and began writing more about life itself, with a focus on parenting. At times, I snuck in a little bit about teaching, or politics, or baseball. But whatever the topic, I tried to use the blog to explore the ways in which we might find some elements of hope and connection in this crazy world.

            At its best, the blog might have approached the writing style of Anna Quindlen, the columnist I grew up seeking to emulate. At its worst, the blog read like a cheesy greeting card. Most of the time, it was somewhere in between, with a style that read like a combination of Dave Barry, Charles Schulz and a Sunday sermon.

            Today, it is time to move on, and leave The Pitch behind. For one thing, it still bills itself as a blog about baseball and life. And really, after a month in which the Chicago Cubs won the World Series and Donald Trump claimed the White House, how can any baseball-to-life story top that drama? Secondly, I am ready to write with a bit more focus on the things I know best – education and journalism. I will continue that in my new blog, warrenhynes.com. There’s already a post there, ready for you!

            So for those who have checked out this blog over the years, I thank you so much for taking the time to read my writing. I appreciate your comments and feedback, and I hope there’s been a post or two in here that made your day a little bit brighter; that’s really all I was striving for to begin with.

            These are extraordinary times, and all of us are trying to figure it out, no matter where we stand politically. I have no interest in saying it will all turn out OK, because I don’t know that. But sometimes songs creep up on you during stressful times, kind of like a prayer. I’ve been reading Bruce Springsteen’s book Born to Run lately, and this week I’m hearing the lyrics from the final song of his Nebraska album in my head:

            Still at the end of every hard day people find some reason to believe.

            I’ve got no words to improve on that. Thanks for reading, and may we all find our own ways to keep the faith.

Frozen in Time

              Considering the fact that I have watched, played and written about sports throughout my life, you’d think I might feel more regret over the reality that I have no sons. But for the past 12 years, I’ve honestly found it fascinating to be a father to daughters. My two girls have brought me on an eye-opening cultural journey that has covered Elmo and Dora, Disney princess dresses, American Girl dolls, pretend-school lessons, pet guinea pigs, and performances of Wicked both on Broadway and in our living room. Katie and Chelsea are not really interested in sitting down to watch a ballgame with me, but they have brought a world of new experiences to my life.

                Lately, their activity has focused on some songs from a movie soundtrack. It is, of course, the soundtrack to Disney’s Frozen – the album that stands behind only Bruce Springsteen’s new record among the best-selling LPs in the nation. For the past month, children and their parents have waltzed out of movie theaters singing the songs from Disney’s latest animated feature, then quickly downloaded the album from iTunes upon their return home. The songs, which sound more Broadway-ready than the typical multiplex fare, are bolstered by the voice of Idina Menzel, the actress who originated the role of Elphaba in Wicked and Maureen in Rent. Menzel’s rendition of the song Let it Go from Frozen is one of the Oscar nominees for Best Original Song.

                In our home, the girls have been blasting the Frozen songs from our little Bose speakers and lip-synching their way through the whole show. In the car, even with no music on, they’ll practice certain lines together. They’ve seen the movie twice, and are clamoring for thirds. When our youngest turned nine three weeks ago, she asked for a cake in the shape of the film’s snowman character.

                Now I’m no cheerleader of Disney’s traditional portrayal of young female characters. The funny thing about this movie, though, is that even though all of the typical princess set pieces are there – the castle, the gowns, the big eyelashes, the handsome love interest – this film is ultimately about none of those things. It’s about two sisters, and their overriding love for each other. It’s about how far you’ll go to protect and save the best friend you have in the world. In our house, that’s a story worth some attention.

                As my girls sing along to the film’s song Do You Want to Build a Snowman?, we hear the story of a younger sister who is being pushed away by her older sister, and can’t understand the reason for it: “We used to be best buddies / And now we're not / I wish you would tell me why.” The younger sister asks once more for some play time, but after being told to go away, she hangs her head and sings, “Okay, bye.” As I hear my girls singing this together, I recognize that we’re getting close to the time when this exact scenario will play out in our home. Katie is 12, and she’s spending more and more time in her room trying on makeup, watching YouTube videos and, yes, texting. At nine, Chelsea is more interested in playing with her older sister than in spending time alone in her room. More often than not, Katie still plays with Chelsea. But those moments of rejection are nearing, like the gathering of dusk before night falls.

                When it comes to music, I find it incredibly annoying to hear the same song over and over. But as my girls sing the Frozen tunes together countless times – and, to be honest, they’ve got a third singer in their group in the form of my wife – I can’t help but feel some relief amid the repetition. Because it seems that Katie and Chelsea have found something that transcends age differences and hormonal swings. They share a love for music and performance, and that love may connect them when other things do not. My brother and I are three years apart, just like my girls are. As kids, we had our stretch of time when I needed my space from him. But we always had our sports, be it a Yankees game on the TV or a 1-on-1 basketball game in the backyard. Even when we shared few words, there was still plenty of communication in the form of a last-second jumper on the patio, or a Dave Winfield home run on the basement TV.

                My brother turns 40 in two weeks; I just turned 43. We talk about a lot of things now, as adult siblings do. But we still have a soft spot for the sports stuff. Years from now, I can see Katie and Chelsea spending an afternoon together, perhaps at one of their apartments, or maybe out shopping. There comes a point when they turn on some music. For fun, they click on the Frozen album. They smile, and start singing. Together. 

               We only have each other / It's just you and me / What are we gonna do? / Do you wanna build a snowman?

Carrying the Fire

            A tree has fallen through the fence and into our yard. Our power is long gone. And we are lucky.

            We saw, clip and carry bundles of limbs and branches to the curb. We set up the generator that Amy’s parents gave us and get it running. We share power and conversation with neighbors. We watch as workers remove a tree from a roof down the block.

            The skies are gray. There is a giant wall of wood in front of our house. The branches are gone from the back, leaving empty holes where wooden fence used to be. The homeowners behind us can’t even think about fixing those holes because there’s another tree on their front lawn, having fallen across the street amid a tangle of wires.

            Amy and I feed the girls, read with them, and do a puzzle. We watch old episodes of The Cosby Show on Amy’s laptop. As we go to sleep, the rest of the gas runs out of the generator.

            Day two begins post-Sandy, and we spend hours searching for gasoline. We come up empty. I reach out to friends and learn about the tree that fell through this one’s roof, and the tree that fell on that one’s car. But my wife and I also hear that both of our parents have power. Amy packs the girls into the car and heads up to her parents and sister in Connecticut. I stay behind, working with a neighbor to siphon gas from his car. While the gasoline trickles into our gas cans, I rake an elderly neighbor’s leaves and branches. Eventually, I get the generator going again. People walk the streets in search of wood for their fireplaces. They take some of mine. The skies are gray.  

This is all beginning to look like a scene out of Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel The Road. In that book, a father and son trudge through the desolate streets of a land that will never return to normal, searching for a way to survive. The dad keeps telling his son, “We’re the good guys” and “We carry the fire.” The son listens, and they hold onto hope. The book asks us to consider whether life is more about hope or more about despair. In this post-Sandy world, as tempers flare at gas stations and the power remains out, McCarthy’s question seems more and more relevant.

            But on Wednesday night, shortly before bed, the power springs back to life in my house. It stays on, and it seems to be just a few blocks that have it. I turn off the generator, go to sleep, and wake up to a home still powered and heated. With the wireless router now working, I turn on my laptop and begin to learn more about what’s been happening outside of my small world. As I do this, I begin to wish I didn’t know. The stories, the photos, the videos, the Facebook postings – they all feel like a high-tech recreation of McCarthy’s story. I clean up my house, return it to normal, and think about how I can help.

            The friends with the tree on the house and on the car don’t need help yet, as they need insurance adjusters and utility workers to arrive first. The neighbors down the block with no power, though – they’re happy to sleep over. Their thermostat had been down to 55, so they’re thrilled with 70 degrees and a warm bed. We chat for a while, and they go off to sleep.

            I return to my laptop and begin to realize how much despair there is on the east coast of my hometown, Staten Island, N.Y. On Friday, I pack up the car with clothes, towels, blanket and dog beds, and drive to the parking lot of a bowling alley in the Dongan Hills section of Staten Island. Burly men greet me at the car and unload the contents. I stand for a moment and look out at hundreds of bags of donated items, with makeshift signs indicating “Men’s Clothing” or “Blankets.” I see families walking around in search of items to sustain their lives, now that everything they have is gone. I feel a lot less concerned about that tree in my yard. The desperation I see here reminds me of my trip to New Orleans’ Seventh Ward this past summer.

            I decide against driving around to witness the destruction – I don’t want to be a natural-disaster tourist. I drive home, go food-shopping, and meet our neighbors back at the house. They stay over again, and we watch Bruce Springsteen sing for the suffering. We talk some baseball, too, which feels nice.

            The sun shines on the first Saturday morning in November. My neighbors get their power back. They thank me and leave with smiles on their faces. The friends with the tree on their car got it off, and it’s still driving. The friends with the tree on the roof have decided to go ahead with their plans to have their daughter christened today. My brother and I are the co-godfathers. Amy and the girls will meet me there.

There will be no party at the house after the ceremony; it’s not that kind of week. But we will be there, and we will stand beside our friends and their infant girl, and we’ll witness a different kind of water than the one that fell and flooded on Monday.

Another family of powerless friends may come by tonight, and if they do we’ll eat dinner together and talk and perhaps they’ll stay over and be warm. As for Staten Island, there are plans in the works for more drives and fund-raisers. Here in Jersey, the utility workers remain on the job, around the clock, restoring the grid one town at a time.

It’s beginning to feel, little by little, like the good guys might win this one after all. It’s beginning to feel like some hope remains after this truly terrible storm. In The Road, it’s never easy for McCarthy’s fictional father and son to “carry the fire.” In the real-life world of New York and New Jersey this week, it hasn’t been easy for us, either. But even in those gray, desperate days of our lives, it’s really the only way.

Dreaming in Diamond

            One day a few weeks ago, I had a rough morning’s sleep due to early-‘80s pop music. I don’t know why, but every time I closed my eyes I kept hearing the chorus of Neil Diamond’s song America. Just when I would settle comfortably back to sleep, it would hit me …

            They’re comin’ to America / Today!

            Then the synthesizers, then his voice again, filled with gusto: Today!

            And again, with feeling: Today!

            Once more, to complete the cycle: Today!

            I lay there and wondered, just what was this song doing in my brain? Was it a stray leftover from a Fourth of July fireworks show? Was it my subconscious voicing support for President Obama’s recent immigration policies? Was it a longing for that mediocre Jazz Singer remake from which the song came? Or was it an “undigested bit of beef,” to borrow from Scrooge’s sleepy tirade toward Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol?

            Eventually, I stumbled out of bed, conceding defeat. By now, the song had progressed beyond chorus and moved into full symphonic form. I could see Diamond in his sequined top, left hand oustretched, reciting “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” toward the end of the song. I could hear the roar of middle-aged women as they cheered on the pyrotechnic-fueled performance and screamed for the middle-aged man singing for them. I could hear that one word, over and over: Today.

And, somewhere in this image, I saw my mother.

            I’m 41 years old, which means that it’s been more than 41 years since I began listening to Neil Diamond. To me, his voice is kind of like the sound of a microwave oven beeping or a car door slamming. Which is to say it’s intimately familiar, yet rather annoying.

            Now I know there is no use in criticizing the greatness of Neil Diamond. I am well aware that his popularity is beyond reproach. No one this side of Bruce Springsteen can fill an arena so quickly – and to think that he still does it after 30 years without a hit single. The columnist Dave Barry got such a rise out of readers when he criticized Diamond’s song “I Am … I Said,” that he was able to churn out a book inspired by the experience, titled Dave Barry’s Book of Bad Songs. I have been to a Neil Diamond concert, one of the more than 20 that my mother has attended with her fellow Diamond disciples, and I have seen the passion. I know what it looks, and sounds, like.

            I respect anyone who has a passion for something, and I know that those passions vary wildly from person to person. I love baseball, for instance, but I know there are many who find plenty to dislike about it. So I don’t feel an obligation to make others’ passions my own. I simply try to understand and appreciate them. For my mom, Neil Diamond has been the epitome of the dedicated singer/songwriter, whose words and music touched a nerve inside of her and brought about an emotional connection similar to the one I have with Springsteen. She also has felt the energy of this man on stage, and has followed the blinding glitter of his sequins. I don’t know how many times he sings Sweet Caroline these days, but she has sung along with every line. She’s stood and clapped for Cracklin’ Rosie, Forever in Blue Jeans, and Kentucky Woman. She’s bought all the retrospective box sets, and the live albums, and the Christmas CDs.

When it comes to my own playlists and my own concert choices, I tend to shy away from Neil Diamond. But apparently his recordings are still so deeply embedded in my psyche that I dream in Diamond. And having heard the live albums just as much as the recordings, I actually hear the live version of America in my sleep. So to clarify, the lyrics I really woke up to were this: “They’re comin’ to America / Today, yeaaaaahhhhh / Today, yeaaaaahhhhh.” The man waves that hand out to the crowd, shouts out a big yeah, and gets the women to fall at his feet.

Sigh.

So that brings us to this week. I was on the Garden State Parkway on Sunday afternoon, driving down to the Jersey Shore at the end of a weekend. I was making this trip at such an unusual time because of my mother. She was in a hospital down the Shore, and that wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s been a tough summer for her health-wise, and there was an emergency surgery being planned. She was in pain, and I needed to be with her. The surgery, which would happen the next day, went just fine, mind you; after a long week, my mom is doing much better.

But back to that car ride. As I was driving down the Parkway, I needed something to lift my spirits and keep me focused. I remembered that recently, my friend Cullen had given me a ton of great music for my iPod. Among the albums he had given me were several years’ worth of Billboard Hot 100 hits. I’m a sucker for the 1980s. So for this particular car trip, I scrolled down the album list and punched in “1988.”

Two hours never went so fast. There was the obvious George Michael, INXS, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, and Guns N’ Roses. But that was only the beginning. There was Rick Astley. Terence Trent D’Arby. Taylor Dayne. Robert Palmer. Debbie Gibson. Breathe. Belinda Carlisle. Def Leppard.

By the time Billy Ocean’s “Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car” flowed from my speakers, I was singing and swaying, my hands patting the steering wheel as if I were a member of Mr. Ocean’s percussion section. When The Escape Club’s “Wild, Wild West” followed shortly afterward, I was truly 17 again.

When I had reached the hospital, I paused whatever Richard Marx song was playing at the time, turned off the iPod, and went inside to see my mother. She was glad to see me, and we sat together and watched the Olympics’ closing ceremonies. George Michael was there singing. So were a bunch of other ‘80s pop stars. My mom said they didn’t sound so good. I couldn’t really argue with that.

And then it all came to me. It had taken several weeks, but I’d finally unlocked the secret to my unfortunate Neil Diamond dream. I had figured out the moral – that  whether it’s our friends, our children or our mother, there are always going to be passions we don’t fully understand. But before we knock those passions, we might want to check out the man in the mirror first. In my case, I chose the mirror on the driver’s side.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Steve Winwood is calling my name. Just roll with it, baby. Today. 

Fatherhood, D.C.

One of my favorite Bruce Springsteen lines comes from a lesser-known song from a few years ago, titled “Long Time Comin’.” At one point in the song, the narrator tells us at that he is expecting another child. As he lies beside his partner and feels the little one “kickin’ inside,” he promises himself, “I ain’t gonna f--- it up this time.”

When my wife and I saw Springsteen perform this song in concert a few years ago, he told the audience that his older son, Evan, was in the audience. Springsteen said his son had suggested that he tweak this particular lyric. The younger Springsteen felt the narrator should instead say, “I ain’t gonna f--- it up as much this time.”

It was a beautiful story to hear, as I thought about my own journey ahead with two daughters. Here was one of the most successful men in America, sharing an anecdote that carried with it two messages: One, that you can never get it completely right as a parent; and two, that when they’re old enough to size you up as a parent, your kids will probably forgive your flaws.

I’m nine and a half years into that parenting journey now, and it never gets easy. But it remains the most fulfilling and amazing thing I have ever done. This past weekend, Amy and I took our girls to Washington, D.C., for the first time. In a whirlwind three days that featured a ton of walking and a lot of memorable first for the girls, I also caught a glimpse into the ways I am both struggling and soaring as a parent.

We begin with a time when Daddy did, indeed, f--- it up a bit. When we arrived at the U.S. Capitol early Saturday morning, we were told that we had to throw out all the food we’d brought along for the day. Visitors cannot bring any food or drink into the Capitol, no matter how early you got up to make those sandwiches. I thought about all the money we were wasting, and grew flustered. The girls saw this, and they watched as Daddy sweated the small stuff. Then they watched as Mommy got mad at Daddy for this.

I come from a long line of small-stuff-sweaters, and I want Katie and Chelsea to know that there are times when you just have to let things roll. I want them to live the serenity prayer, and accept the things they cannot change. But they’re not going to do this if I don’t model it. As we move forward together, it’s an area where I know there’s work to be done. Eventually, I dropped our food and drink in the trash can, and we walked inside the Capitol to marvel at the rotunda. And for further proof that things do work out when you let the small stuff go, our need to buy lunch brought us to the most diverse and delicious museum cafeteria I’ve ever visited, at the Smithsonian’s Museum of the American Indian.

So losing our lunch at the Capitol will not go down as my most impressive moment as a parent. However, there were other times during our Washington weekend when I faced fatherhood with a positive spark that even Teddy Roosevelt would admire. As we sat in the upper deck of Nationals Park yesterday to watch the Washington nine take on the Philadelphia Phillies, the mighty Phils took a one-run lead into the bottom of the ninth inning. I sat beside Katie, and told her about the different paths that the Nationals and Phillies were on – for Washington, the goal is to build a winner; for Philadelphia, the mandate is to win now. As Phillies reliever Antonio Bastardo mowed down the first two Washington batters in the ninth, I told Katie about some times in baseball history when teams have tied games with two outs in the ninth. We watched as Washington’s Ian Desmond flailed at the first two pitches from Bastardo, and noticed as tens of thousands of visiting Phillies fans stood up and clapped.

And then, somehow, Ian Desmond found a pitch he could hit hard. Very hard. As the ball rocketed off his bat and into the left-field seats, Katie and I leapt to our feet. We exchanged high-fives. She jumped up and down, then took my new Nationals hat from me and put it on her head. The Phillies fans quietly took a seat. One inning later, as the Nationals won the game on the very rare walk-off hit-by-pitch, Katie cheered again. One sunset later, as we took I-95 northward through the dusk, Katie was still asking me questions about baseball. About the Red Sox, Yankees and Babe Ruth. About the Cubs and the billy goat. About the intense allegiance of Phillies fans.

“Daddy,” Katie said before drifting off to sleep in the backseat, “at your high school, you should teach a class on the history of baseball.”

My girls may not end up loving baseball like I do; I hold no expectations either way. But in a ballpark in Southeast D.C., I offered Katie a glimpse of what it’s like to feel passionate about something. And it was contagious. She felt the vibe, and left Nationals Park on a high.

Maybe for Katie and Chelsea, the passion will be art, or swimming, or engineering, or chess. Whatever it is, I just hope it’s there. And when I see that glimmer in their eyes, and hear the thrill in their voices, I’ll hope that my own love for things like baseball and writing has helped make their own passions possible.

When that happens, it’ll be a long time comin’. And it’ll be one of those moments when I’ll know I didn’t f--- it up as much this time.

Summer (One Sixty-Two: Day 74)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Seventy-Four: Billy Butler, Kansas City Royals

There’s a Springsteen cover band playing “Thunder Road” on the pool deck of a hotel called the Montreal Inn. From eight blocks away, we can hear the music as we roll our bicycles out of the garage for the short ride to the beach. Inside the house, I walk my dog into her crate, and turn on the TV so she’s not frightened by the sound of all those fireworks yet to come. I choose “Sunday Night Baseball,” and Billy Butler of Kansas City is up at bat against Joel Pineiro of the Los Angeles Angels. Pineiro strikes Butler out just as my dog takes a seat in her crate.

Down at the beach, the crowds are thickening, as adults and children lay out their blankets and unfold their beach chairs. Once we’ve claimed a spot, I grab our baseball gloves and have a catch with my girls for a few minutes. Nearby, a group of kids light some sparklers. The cover band has moved on to “Rosalita.”

As the sun sets, the thin clouds streaking across the darkening blue sky take on brilliant tints of pink and orange. Across the bay, we can see the fireworks beginning over in Delaware. As the sky darkens just a bit more, the grandparents sit down in their beach chairs, while the parents and kids huddle together on a blanket.

As the fireworks begin shooting up from an offshore barge, the oohs and ahhs commence right away. Explosions of green, red, pink, white, yellow and purple fill the sky above us, and the beach crowd is captivated. The 8-year-old calls out names of holidays that match the colors of each firework: “Christmas!” she shouts to the red and green sparkles above her. “Easter!” for the bright pink shimmer. “St. Patrick’s Day!” for the green field of lights.

The fireworks last for 15 minutes, ending in a scintillating rainbow of colors and pops and applause. When it ends, we rise from our comfy seats in the sand, roll up our blankets and make our way back to the bicycles. The crash of ocean waves reclaims its place of prominence among the sound effects here. The moon and stars once again direct our visual effects.

It is summer, as ripe as a fresh peach. As bright as a fireworks display. As reassuring as a Springsteen song. As alive as a baseball game.

I breathe deep, take it all in, and pedal home slowly through the gathering darkness. There’s no rushing this.