Making A Difference

One of my high school classmates, now a successful biologist, is the subject of nice feature in the local newspaper, detailing the work he is doing to battle brain diseases. He and his father, a chemist, are working together to develop a drug that may prevent the progression of brain damage.

It is fun to say I went to school with professional sports figures, but I am particularly proud to say I know people doing things like this. Wreck the curve all you want, Paul. Having seen two grandparents-in-law succumb to dementia, any progress toward beating brain disease is most welcome.

UPDATE: Paul earned himself an interview on local TV.

Wrecking The Curve

We spend our days doing the best we can with whatever gifts, talents or insight we have been given. We strive to make our little personal world, and the people who inhabit it, as pleasant as possible. We succeed daily, in greater or lesser measure, and move on to the next day with the general expectation that we will rise to the challenge of whatever comes next. That challenge is usually pretty moderate on the Grand Scale Of All Things: will I have enough milk to go with my Cheerios? Will I make someone at work laugh with me and not at me? Will I trigger the 30-second fast-forward button on the DVR this evening so perfectly that I skip the commercials in the show I recorded without going even a nanosecond into the show itself (which, if not done correctly, will trigger a back-and-forth with the rewind and fast-forward buttons that takes longer than the original commercial break)?

Then there are the people that make us all look like chumps.

This article tells the story of a fascinating kid who just happens to have figured out how to create nuclear fusion. In a garage. The really interesting kicker is that he has come up with a way to adapt his work to create a bomb scanner for cargo containers. I don't think I would want to be this boy, or his parents; his brain seems to work at speeds and levels that are scarcely recognizable. If he can harness his frighteningly powerful mind to work for good in the world, and he doesn't become a bizarre hermit along the way, more power to him. From my perch on the couch, I will gladly raise my TV remote to him in tribute.

And then there is this guy (video link). Unless you are a tall, tanned, muscular Adonis-type who could make Renaissance sculptors weep at the perfection of your abs, with a peerless sense of drama and timing, you cannot approach the sublimity of his marriage proposal.

Thanks, pal. Now I'll have to pick up an extra dozen roses at my next anniversary just to retroactively make up for not proposing marriage with such awesomeness.

Freddie Solomon, R.I.P.

Freddie Solomon, who died this week of cancer at the too-young age of 59, was an essential yet understated pillar of the first great San Francisco 49ers Super Bowl teams. Less celebrated than Dwight Clark (the player who gained immortality for making The Catch) and less renowned than Jerry Rice (the transcendent player who is considered by some to be the best NFL player ever), Solomon was the veteran presence that the budding dystasty Niners teams of the early '80s headed toward greatness. Anyone who followed the Niners in those exciting days knew that Solomon was a dependable and indispensible part of that team. Unlike so many wide receivers over the last 15 years, who preen, mope and strut all over the field, Solomon was a team-first player who, it seemed, was always where Joe Montana needed him. He earned two Super Bowl rings with the team, and then quietly tutored Rice to take his job and usher his exit from the league.

Solomon went on to enjoy a fruitful career of service to the Tampa community, where he is as beloved for his post-football career as he is in the Bay Area for his expoits on the field. Solomon is the sort of sports star we heard about too seldom: supremely talented yet humble and dedicated on the field, and equally diligent, talented and sacrificial when his playing days ended.

Local Hoopsters Making Good

Jeremy Lin, late of Palo Alto High and Harvard, has been a minor local sensation for several years. Lin led his high school basketball team to a highly unlikely state title over a nationally ranked foe. After generating no interest with west coast basketball programs, he took his talents to Harvard, where he led the Crimson to new successes and notable victories over traditional hoops powers like UConn.

No NBA drafted Lin, but the Golden State Warriors signed him as an undrafted free agent, and he made his professional debut for the home-town Warriors last season. It was a big deal for the local community, and particularly the local Asian-American community, as Lin is of Taiwanese descent. Lin was very popular, but still raw and a bit overmatched by the situation. He bounced between the Warriors and their developmental team, and was released in December as the Warriors geared up to make a run at trading for more accomplished players. Those deals never materialized. Lin ended up with the Houston Rockets briefly, without making much of an impact, then moved on to the New York Knicks, where he again shuttled between the big club and the developmental team.

On the verge of being released yet again, injuries forced the Knicks to play Lin. What he did in the five games became a matter of instant legend. Immediately averaging more than 20 points a game, his court vision, toughness and athleticism envigorated a Knicks team that was swiftly sinking to the bottom of the league under the weight of disinterest. As the media frenzy built, the LA Lakers came showed up in Madison Square Garden last Friday night for a game televised on ESPN. Always a prime draw, the Lakers arrived to find themselves supporting players in what had become a national story.

By chance, we were in a restaurant that was showing the game. I rarely watch NBA games, and won't go out of my way to turn one on until the playoffs, but I gladly turned my attention to this mid-season game. Like something out of a sappy Disney sports movie, Lin lit up the Lakers. He was involved in the Knicks' first 15 points (scoring or assisting on all of them) as the Kicks jumped out to a big lead. He made spectacular passes. He drove the lane for crazy layups. He stole the ball. He made three point shots. He did everything you could possibly ask one player to do, under the biggest spotlight imaginable for a non-playoff game. The joy with which he played, and which his teammates returned, was palpable. Kobe Bryant eventually brought the Lakers close, as he always does, but Lin stepped up yet again, sealing the game with two three point shots, two free throws, and a tremendously alert defensive move to take a charge and generate a turnover (he is a Harvard grad, after all). From my vantage point in the dining area, I could not always tell who had made the play to send the Knicks fans into unbridled joy, but over and over, inevitably, it was Lin.

Lin's rise from NBA obscurity, after rising from the obscurity of schools with no basketball tradition, all while commentators try to explain the significance of his Asian-ness, marks the best way that sports can elevate a community. That community may be defined by geography, educational institution, league, the sporting world in general, or race. The "experts" remain skeptical that he can keep up the pace he has set, but just about everybody is delighted that he made so much of the opportunity he was given.

At the other end of the basketball food chain, Michael's basketball season came to an end this weekend. His team also played with characteristic enthusiasm, but in this case with a pronounced lack of success. We went winless this season, and it wasn't even very close. Nobody on the team could shoot the ball reliably, so the offense suffered in all ten games. Michael was the primary point guard and played well at that position. He was near the team lead in points, he reliably ran the offense (to the limited extent that the team could be said to have an offensive system), and played tenacious defense with a lot of steals. The boys, to their credit, never showed any ill effects from losing games. They seemed to accept the fact that they collectively and, for the most part, individually lacked basketball instincts, and simply enjoyed their time on the court doing the best they could. Michael got a chance to play on a team with his best friend for the first time, which was a treat for both of them, and they both played better as the season progressed.

The most fun game, certainly for me and, I think, the players, was when we were matched up against the other team from our parish (I think that is the right term). That team, which was mostly the team Michael had played on last season, had killed us in scrimmages and a practice game. Our regular coach was gone (along with his son, who was our leading scorer), so I stepped in for my basketball coaching debut. I said a few motivational things, reminded them of some basic offensive and defensive principles we had worked on in practice, and turned them loose. When the other team immediately dropped in two baskets, I thought we were in for a long evening. I kept barking instructions, though, and they kept listening (amazing!), and we toughened up.

The only special play I put in was to match up Michael one-on-one with the other team's best player to keep him from dominating the game. I warned Michael I was going to do that earlier in the day, and understood immediately why, and how to do it. While the rest of the team played zone behind him, Michael shadowed the other team's star, denying him the ball, harrassing him into turnovers, and basically taking him out of the game. By midway through the fourth quarter, Michael was called for his fifth foul and I had to sit him to keep him from fouling out. He was devastated that he had committed so many fouls, but the fouls were a measure of how tough he played and that intensity was exactly what we needed. The other team rested their star at the same time, and I was able to return Michael to the game before the end without our guys losing ground. The game hung in the balance, 10-9 (yes, after 38 minutes of play, that's all that had been scored) until the last minute, when the other team put the game away with a single basket. Despite the loss, the boys came off the court excited by their effort. It was their best game of the year, and they knew it. For me, it was an opportunity to try on the coach's mantle for another sport, one I do not know well. It is always gratifying to see the boys respond to coaching, advice and encouragement, and that game is one I will remember for a long time.

It would have been nice to win some games. I am not a fan of valuing participation medals on the same plane as championship trophies. Character building through adversity is a delicate thing in youth sports, though. The older they get, the more competitive the competition, and the more losing hurts. Fortunately, these boys never lost their joy of the game and of competing, and their coach always kept them focused on their own improvement rather than how they compared to others. We can hope for better results next year, but we will not regret the games we played this season.

The Point Guard In Action

Time, It's All Relative

Today's Mindblowing Fact of the, um, Day:

Two grandsons of President John Tyler, who was born in 1790, are still alive. In just two generations down the line, that family touches four centuries.

This interesting article offers a few interesting examples of these "human wormholes" in time. In a week in which the world's last known veteran of World War I passed away, it is incredible to think that widows of American Civil War veterans were still collecting government pensions as recently as 2004, nearly 140 years after that conflict ended.

A New Day

One of the timeless beach-trip pleasures for small children is to cover dear old dad in sand using colorful plastic pails and shovels. It is all fun and laughter, but when dad has finally had enough, he may be surprised to find that the sand, applied in child's-toy increments, is heavy enough to make movement difficult.

The last month was like that. (Metaphorically only, sadly enough; it has been far too long since I have spent any time on an actual beach.) The last week of January was one of those weeks that, in retrospect, I realize I spent more than a month aiming toward. Monday was a showdown with a federal judge. Wednesday was a mediation starting in the late afternoon and running late into the evening, the third straight Wednesday mediation for that case. Friday was the ruling on a motion in yet another case. In hours in between, there was a motion to write and a massive client report to prepare. It was a week heavy on firm deadlines and big outcomes, after a month full of similarly time-sensitive or otherwise significant activities.

The accumulation of a multitude of burdens snuck up on me. I usually do not appreciate how much weeks like that weigh on me until they are over. This weekend felt like that part of a hike when you finally crest a hill and see the next valley spread out before you. You have been so focused on each footfall on the way up the trail that you forgot about even the possibility of a summit, let alone what might lie beyond. It was a time of great relief and lightness.

I'm still busy, and there are no indications that I will be anything less than busy for the foreseeable future. However, it is a relief to be through that particular set of rapids. I will be content to merely paddle with the current for a while.

And perhaps pull up on a beach every now and then.

Silent Putridity

Along with deer and wild turkeys, skunks make up a significant portion of the wild animals that roam through the neighborhoods in our semi-rural neck of the woods. A few times a month, it seems, a skunk will make its way into our backyard, probably seeking refuge for the night under our backyard deck. We know this, of course, because we wake up with our eyes watering from the acrid smell that follows skunks around like Pigpen's cloud of dust.

Last night we experienced a new chapter in human-skunk relations. Around 3:30 a.m., we heard a scuffle between small animals on the deck just outside our room. We don't know exactly what happened, but we know with absolute certainty that one of the animals involved was a skunk, and that it was not a friendly encounter. Whoever was involved in the altercation was on the receiving end of a heavy dose of a skunk's essential oils.

I got up to investigate the fight just as the initial cloud began to silently infiltrate the house. Closed windows and doors are no match for the skunk smell under ordinary circumstances. With our bathroom window slightly ajar, we never stood a chance.

I have frequently smelled the aftereffects of a skunk in the area, but I do not think I have ever been in close proximity to the immediate aftermath of an actual spraying. There's something quantitatively different about a skunk's spray deployed in anger compared to the skunk smell we all know and love. The noxious stench smells like burning plastic, and spreads quickly and thoroughly into every corner and crevice of your house, clothing, and nasal passages. It is astonishingly strong, an assault on the senses. Our candles usually employed to neutralize doggie indigestion were powerless against the skunky onslaught. The plug-in scent dispensers that we previously banished to a storage closet after less than a day because they made our eyes water and skin itch were welcomed back with heartfelt apologies. Their chemical approximation of smells were are supposed to find inviting, ordinarily obnoxious and fake, was now like rosepetals and jasmine compared to the forces of evil we were battling, but gained territory against the skunk offensive only within a pitifully small radius. We could hardly get back to sleep, and both kids woke up recounting dreams revolving around horrible smells.

Today was our normal morning to run. We were more eager than usual to get out, if only to gulp in as much fresh air as we could. After clearing our senses for half an hour, opening the front door and entering the foyer was like getting smacked across the face with a 2 x 4. We can almost accept and deal with the normal skunk smell, but the ultra-repellent burning plastic smell was simply intolerable. We sprayed Lysol everywhere, opened windows, and bundled up against the pre-dawn chill. Unfortunately, we discovered that stench had made its way into every corner of the house, including closed closets. Our clothing and towels bore the unmistakable aroma of eau de skunk.

Our weekend will involve washing clothes nonstop, cleaning the carpets and spraying the drapes with Fabreeze.

And cooking with lots of garlic and basil.

We Have Been Assimilated

Automakers report that sales were up industrywide. In 2011 in something of a surprise, we contributed to that uptick. We added to Volvo's 25% increase in sales for the year by taking delivery of a 2012 XC90 just before Christmas.

We can now say we are fully assimilated to life in Moraga, because if you had to pick one automobile as the official town car, the XC90 would be it.

On the way home from the dealer
Over the last few years, as Michael grew too big to be carried on a lap, it became impossible to travel anywhere in one car, even for short trips, whenever we had visitors (i.e. grandparents in town). The need for 6+ passenger capacity forced us to consider the possibility of acquiring an SUV or [shudder] a minivan.

For a long time, some portions of our family have lived in Oregon, which requires travel through a snow zone during the winter. We met that challenge once, with chains on the Passat familymobile. In general, however, traveling through snow is something we would prefer to avoid, so we usually limit our Oregon trips to the summer. For some time, we knew that Cheryl's parents had thoughts of moving to the Lake Tahoe area. Once that finally happened this past year, and we visited to play in the snow in November, it became apparent that, with our proximity to Lake Tahoe, traveling through snow would become a regular consideration for our future. If we were to get any sort of new vehicle, all-wheel-drive became a necessary consideration. Thankfully Sadly, that ruled out minivans.

There are a ton of SUVs in the market, but many are no larger than a station wagon. They are just taller, heavier, less capacious and more thirsty than the wagon we already had. We needed something a little bigger, with the third row of seats to allow for more passengers. We were very systematic in our approach in evaluating larger SUVs, spending focused time at the San Francisco Auto Show for the last two years, dispatching the kids to clamber in and out of the third row seat of a variety of vehicles. At the show this past November in particular, we were ridiculously thorough at my direction, sampling each of the likely contenders twice so that we would not be swayed by either first or last impressions. Although they rolled their eyes a bit, the kids played along and contributed significantly to our evaluation.

Ease of ingress to, egress from, and stowage of the third row seat was a high priority. Each manufacturer handles that engineering task differently, some with more success than others. We looked at a Buick that required near disassembly of the flimsy second row seat. The Ford Explorer operated the third row by pushbutton, giving me visions of expensively failed servomotors at some post-warranty moment down the road. The BMW X5 (never really a serious contender), which really is not big enough to have a proper third row seat, awkwardly pivoted its second row forward, leaving the third row traveler with an gymnastic squeeze into the back. The Audi Q7 (also not a serious contender) was enormous, enormously expensive, enormously comfortable, and not nearly as large inside as its exterior dimensions would suggest. The Toyota Highlander, as could be expected, did everything well, albeit with a deficit of style. Our collective consensus settled on the Volvo, which had a third row that was easily accessible and stowable, wrapped in a package that was very comfortable and attractive inside and out, and priced at the low end of that particular niche of the market.

Over the Thanksgiving break, Michael and I slipped out for a morning of test driving of some of the contenders. My interest was not so much how the vehicles drove, but how useful they truly would be. Testing my theory that most SUVs below the Suburban class are little larger than midsize station wagons, I took measurements of every useful dimension of our Passat wagon's luggage compartment I could think of: width, depth, height, height below the window (i.e., space below the cargo cover) and how much the slant of the rear window intruded on the cargo space. The cargo areas in the SUVs proved to be wider than the station wagon, but, for the most part, were no longer or taller, with a much greater intrusion from the slant of the rear window. The Volvo was the big winner, larger in every dimension, particularly width, then the Passat. It also had more room behind the third row than any of its competitors.

Having concluded that an all-wheel-drive SUV satisfied our semi-critical needs that have developed within the last couple of years, it became a simple matter of timing: if we were going to do this at all, when would we do it? The sad reality is that Kelly will be leaving home to go to college in less than four years. If we were going to do this at all, we decided should do it sooner rather than later in order to enjoy the benefits of the greater passenger capacity and ability to drive through snowy mountain passes.

It hit me the Sunday before Christmas that we could take advantage of favorable lease terms offered by Volvo during December and get started on this adventure right away. I flirted with marital Armageddon for couple of days, thinking I would re-create a Lexus commercial by parking the new car in the driveway with the big red bow on it. Wisdom most certainly comes with age, apparently, since I came to my senses and brought Cheryl into the decision-making process. Not until after I had worked out the outlines of a deal through CarsDirect.com, though (I regard that as "marshalling all of the facts"). After getting over her shock, Cheryl offered smart counsel. Over the course of our discussions, I reversed course and decided we shouldn't get the vehicle now, while she transitioned at the same time from being opposed to it to being excited about it. It didn't take anything more than that for me to be enthusiastic about the idea again, so we went ahead with the deal. We managed to keep it a surprise for the kids for Christmas, which was every bit as fun as I thought it would be.

(While I am generally a buy-and-hold person, the abundance of electrical and electronic gizmos on modern cars, especially Volvos, frightened me. Until proven otherwise, I see most modern cars as rolling storehouses of expensively-failed-silicon-brains-to-be. Hence, the three-year commitment, with free service for everything but gas and tires, will help me sleep at night. The much more modest initial financial outlay of a lease was absolutely necessary for us to pull this off nice, too. We have been able to hold onto the Passat, a fact that did not slip past the delighted aforementioned high schooler.)

The experience of actually acquiring the car is a story unto itself, and the subject of a future note. Having now had the vehicle for a couple of weeks (I have a hard time calling it a car, especially because I grew up with an International Scout that we always called "the truck"), including a shakedown cruise to Los Angeles and back for Christmas, we're very pleased with it. It is roomy, comfortable, versatile, and meets every expectation we had for it. The design is a little long in the tooth because the sale of Volvo from Ford to China's Geely delayed the development of a successor model, but it has aged well and remains attractive and useful.

The only real trick is figuring out which Volvo is ours in the local supermarket parking lot.

Not Found On Expedia

The truly intrepid traveler can now book passage online to anywhere on earth, or beyond. Virgin Galactic is now accepting reservations (directly or through a "local accredited space agent") for its upcoming flights into space. Just go to their booking website to schedule your voyage.

Make sure your AmEx has a credit limit of $200,000, though. And bring your own peanuts.

Charge Of The Forehead Light Brigade

We have discovered a strange phenomenon in our neighborhood. In the hours before dawn, around 5:30 a.m., week after week, season after season, there are people who voluntarily roust themselves from warm beds not only to go outside into what are currently below-freezing temperatures, but to run for an extended amount of time. Of course, running in the pre-dawn darkness carries certain hazards, given that there is actually no light in the sky and little useful light from irregularly-placed streetlamps. That means anyone daft enough to be outside at that hour needs to bring their illumination with them. The generally accepted means of doing so involve strapping a light to your forehead. It may be a fancy set of LEDs that puts out more light than the typical 1960s-era automobile headlight, but in the end, it is still a getup not far removed from a minor's torch.

I know all of this because I am one of those people. So is Cheryl. In fact, she is to blame.

Back in July, one of our friends convinced Cheryl that a successful exercise regimen did not have to mean going out and running a marathon every day. A simple commitment to a combination of running and walking for relatively short (but increasing) durations would yield health benefits while staying within our physical limitations of endurance and fitness.

We are an unlikely pair to take up running as a regular routine. At least I was a runner once upon a time, but I have tried without success to resume the practice since high school. Cheryl has been a committed non-runner her entire life. Nevertheless, since late July, we have arisen at 5:30 a.m. three times a week to run and walk a nearly three mile loop in our neighborhood. Over the summer, we were privileged to enjoy the early-morning sunrises. As winter approached, however, the days got significantly colder, and even more significantly darker. After following this regimen for more than a month, we felt committed enough to the practice to justify some dear appropriate for exercising in the cold and dark. We rewarded ourselves with new running shoes, reflective apparel, and cold-whether running gear. And, in a final, unmistakable symbol of our resolve, forehead lights.

After almost 5 months, we have only missed a couple of regularly scheduled running days, mostly due to my work schedule. Amazingly, I think we have missed only two days because of rainy weather. Over that time, we have steadily increased the length of the run portions of the loop (which are interspersed with regular intervals of walking). I have even kept up with the routine while on a business trip, and took a another run on my own to test my limits and found I could run a mile again (baby steps, granted, but it has been a long time since I could do that). Maybe in a couple of years we will enter a 5K race. That won't happen anytime soon, but against all odds, we are enjoying the commitment, the afterglow of the effort, and the demonstrable benefits of the consistent exercise regimen … dorky headlights notwithstanding.

We are either rationally coming to terms with the increased effort required to stay healthy as we age, or we have completely lost our minds. The jury is still out.

We Are The Champions, Local High School Edition

Against most if not all of the odds, Moraga's Campolindo High School, Kelly's alma mater to be, won the North Coast Section football championship at the Oakland Coliseum on Saturday night. Campo, projected to finish last in its own league, continued a true Cinderella season by knocking off heavily favored Marin Catholic 20-18 on a last-second field goal to go 14-0 on the season.

We managed to watch the last part of the game through a video feed online (the internet age is great for this sort of thing), and were able to witness our local boys work for the winning score after giving up their game-long lead with only two minutes to go. Campo had stopped Marin on fourth and two at Campo's 10-yard line halfway through the fourth quarter, but allowed Marin to go the length of the field on the next drive to set up a go-ahead field goal. On that drive, Marin survived a fourth-and-eight play, but also dropped a pass in the end zone. Campo returned the ensuing kickoff well to about their 35 yard line, but still had to go the length of the field with two minutes left and their starting center out of the game with an injury. On the first play, Marin had Campo's quarterback in their grasp, but he wriggled free, running for his sporting life to his left. Stunningly, he found a teammate (the older brother of a boy with whom Michael plays baseball) 45 yards down the field to immediately put Campo in position for a game-winning field goal. Campo milked the clock with a series of runs to put the game on the shoulders of the sophomore kicker. After a timeout with two seconds remaining in the game, enduring what had to be the highest-stakes moment the kicker had ever experienced, he coolly put the ball through the uprights, setting off a joyous celebration among the team, their families and fans.

Kelly, who has no real love of football, got an unexpected charge out of the winning kick. As it turns out (but she had not figured out until she heard his name announced on the webcast), the kicker is not only in her biology class, he is her lab partner. We went to one home game earlier this season, which she did not find all that interesting, but stuff like this could make a girl start to enjoy football a little bit more.

Campo has won NCS before, but not since 1986. To put that in perspective, that was when I was a junior in high school. Our football teams were terrible in those days, though, so I didn't pay too close attention at the time to what anyone else did (although I did go to the CCS final game in 1984 with a friend to watch his St. Francis beat Bellarmine 5-3 at San Jose State ... and Bellarmine is the CCS champion this year). With Kelly now a freshman, it truly has been a generation since Campo last reached this lofty height.

The magical season is not quite over. With its win, Campo earned a trip to the Division III state championship game in Los Angeles. Campo will match up with Washington-Union of Fresno ... the city where Kelly was born. We might have to figure out a way to watch this game.

Fall Fell

We are very efficient around here. Autumn may be a season on the calendar, but we take care of Fall in one day. Over the last 24 hours or so, most of the southwest of the country, including the Bay Area, has been subjected to heavy, sustained winds. The windstorm caused serious damage to the Los Angeles area, but around here it has simply taken care of denuding the trees. It was strong enough that when I stepped out for lunch with some colleagues yesterday, we put our conversation on hold until we reached the restaurant because the noise of the leaves swirling around us was too loud.

Nearly overnight, we went from enjoying colorful foliage to being ready for winter. Oddly, nearly every time we experience wind conditions like this, unlike Nor'easters on the Eastern seaboard, our temperatures pick up. We will be back to freezing nighttime temperatures and foggy mornings soon, but for now, we get to enjoy mild days with crystal clear air and blue skies.

I'm not looking forward to cleaning up the yard now, though. Drat this wind.

Hoop It Up

Once the calendar kicks over to November, our sporting life transitions from soccer to basketball. The two sports have been going simultaneously for the past several weeks, but yesterday was the first basketball game after several weeks of practices, a day after Michael's final regular-season soccer game.

The basketball league organizes the players into teams based upon their relative ability so that they can compete against teams of comparable ability from other parishes. This year, there were enough players for four fourth grade teams. Michael was placed on the third-level team, along with most of the players from his team last year. It seemed to be a good fit. We looked forward to picking up again with what had become a pretty decent team.

Somewhere along the way, it was decided that the third and fourth level teams were meant to be one large pool of players from which to relatively equal teams would be created. A few players, including Michael, ended up changing teams. He is now on a team without anyone from his squad last year.

Our first game was against that other team, and they annihilated us. Much like Michael's first game last year, the score was lopsided (32-8), and Michael scored three of the team's four baskets. Taking last year's experience as a guide, we can hope for substantial improvement as the players learn to work with each other and develop a set offense, which they did not have last night.

For his part, Michael played reasonably well at point guard. He had a few turnovers, but he showed advanced ballhandling skills with both hands, and late in the game blew away the other team's most athletic player with a killer crossover and drive down the open lane (he missed the layup, but that part will come later). The fun thing for me is that we had discussed that very move earlier in the afternoon. We talked about how the other team would grow to expect him to work the ball around to teammates, which would present a late-game opportunity to surprise them with a crossover penetration to the basket. Other than missing the shot, the play worked perfectly. He may not have a lot of experience, but Michael can put coaching into action as well as anyone.

The rest of the team shows promise. We have two very tall twins who show a lot of promise in particular. We would probably have more immediate success, and maybe more fun with people we already know well, if Michael had stayed on the other team. On this team, however, he will be the undisputed point guard and get a ton of minutes at that position. Given his small stature, that will work out well for him in the long term.

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On

Despite having lived more than 30 years in California, I have never lived someplace as seismically active as I do now. In the last six months we have had at least five earthquakes around 4.0 on the Richter scale within 5 miles of home, and a couple others of similar size and proximity in the two or three years before that. Three of those earthquakes have occurred within the last week, with an epicenter in Berkeley.

A 4.0 is not a tremendously strong earthquake, nor does it last long. However, an earthquake that size that close definitely gets your attention, and usually knocks over a picture frame or two.

Last Thursday evening, I experienced the second of two earthquakes that day while stopped at the ticket booth leaving the Oakland airport. I had missed the first earthquake earlier that day because I was out of town. (As is the new normal, I found out about the first earthquake because all of my Bay Area friends on Facebook started yammering about it. I could localize the earthquake based on which of my friends discussed it; in that instance, it was all the East Bay people. The South Bay people didn't say anything.) While waiting for my receipt at the parking lot booth, I had the sudden, queasy feeling that somebody had rolled into the back of my car. Having had that unfortunate experience several times, I checked my mirror, expecting to see headlights practically in my backseat. However, the car in line behind me was 30 feet away where it should be. I realized then that we had had another earthquake. I jabbed the radio preset button to the news station, which interrupted its regular programming a moment later to announce the earthquake, provide the preliminary strength numbers from Caltech, and offer the usual did-you-feel-it jabber. At that time, Kelly was at a choir performance, watching her high school choir try to stay focused while their risers swayed and everyone in the room got wide-eyed and whispery.

Yesterday morning at 5:35, the earth moved again. I had just awakened but had not summoned the energy to get out of bed when I heard the rumble of the earthquake approaching, which then hit with the resounding thump. I jumped out of bed, and Michael popped out of sleep and out of his room nearly in tears, afraid to go back to his bed. I don't think I have ever felt his heart hammering as fast as it was as I held him to calm him down. The moment his pulse returned to normal, though, he turned around, flipped his light on and eagerly went in search of things that had fallen down.

With all of these moderate earthquakes, we have not suffered any damage. I would like to believe that these quakes are relieving pressure on the two local faultlines so as to keep the "Big One" at bay. The many large earthquakes around the Ring of Fire over the last couple of years point in an ominous direction, though.

Time to restock the earthquake kit.

Soccer Update, Fall 2011

Here is, perhaps, the best way to understand the Michael's soccer season. After today's game, the opposing coach stopped him in the parking lot to ask, "so, are you going to sign with Barcelona?"

Through seven games, Michael has scored 16 goals. Early in the season, he scored a lot of breakaways. Lately, it seems that word has gotten out about him, and the defenses are collapsing all over him. Now, he is scoring goals on crosses or set pieces, and setting up teammates for goals with crosses.

Last week, our boys avenged their season opening loss by shutting out Germany 3-0. Michael set up the first goal on a long run to the corner, looking up to find a teammate in front of the goal, and delivering a 20-yard aerial cross for the assist. Later, he scored a goal on a free kick from just outside the penalty area, sending a hard shot high into the net above everyone, including the defenseless keeper. He scored a second goal in the second half when his strike partner sent a ball in from the side. Michael gauged the bouncing ball perfectly, sending in a one-touch volley with his left foot.

Today, our boys faced a winless Netherlands team that we had beaten 7-0 previously. Predictably, we came out flat and quickly went down 2-0. The coach had planned to play Michael in defense and goal, but as we fell behind, he kept Michael up front as usual. Late in the first half, we got a free kick on the edge of the penalty area. By now, everyone on our sideline knew what was going to happen. Even though the goal was 15 yards away with lots of players in the way, the coach called out for Michael to send it in. Sure enough, he drilled a hard swerving ball just over everybody's heads and past the frozen keeper. Early in the third quarter, one of our players took the ball down and out past the goal with Michael open in the middle. The coach told him to look for Michael the next time. Sure enough, on an identical play, our player took the ball to the side, looking to the middle the whole way. He delivered a perfect cross, which Michael again volleyed of a bounce with his left foot into the goal. Maddeningly, Netherlands went ahead again. Right at the end of the third quarter, a teammate sent a free kick to Michael in the middle. His first shot was blocked, but he stayed in and volleyed a ball out of the air into the top of the goal.

Most of the season, we have had just enough players to field the team with no substitutes. Today, a player who almost never attends practices or games showed up (late), giving us one extra player, so we had to play him. The coach picked Michael to sit out the fourth quarter, since everyone is supposed to sit out on occasion and he had not yet missed a minute. Predictably, we did not threaten to score for the rest of the game. Fortunately, we withstood a heavy assault to finish in a tie. We would have liked to play for the win, but sitting Michael was the right thing to do under the circumstances. The referee, who has seen Michael play for a couple of years now and saw what he did today, sought out our coach to praise him for sitting Michael, recognizing we were essentially conceding our chance at a win by doing so. His hat trick kept us in the game, but without him, our offense just did not work as well.

Michael will miss two of the last three games, unfortunately, but he has done plenty to distinguish himself. He says the opposing coaches have all sought him out after games, and he has gained a tremendous amount of confidence. His team, more importantly, has learned that relying on each other leads to success. Their best games have been marked with solid defense and crisp, heads-up passing that is rare at this level in a recreational league. It has been a very fun fall.

Just Respect, Baby

Oakland has its issues, but one thing that unites the city is its Raiders. The death of Al Davis, the general managing partner and longtime NFL firebrand, touched the community.


That is Oakland City Hall, across the street from my office. In the foreground, the city is flying the Raiders flag at half mast. That, folks, is civic pride.

Priorities, People!

I happened to hear the classic Harry Chapin tune "Cat's in the Cradle" the other day on the local "New Oldies" radio station that plays your favorites from the 60s, 70s and 80s (um, what?). The song is, as everyone knows, an achingly melancholy ode to fathers, sons, and life happening while we are busy making other plans. An unbridgable gap between father and son played out over a lifetime lies at the heart of the song.

Listening to the lyrics anew, I was suddenly struck by the obvious source of their problem. "My son turned ten just the other day," Chapin sings, "he said, 'thanks for the ball, Dad, come on, let's play. Can you teach me to throw?' I said 'not today. I got a lot to do.' He said, 'That's okay.'"

No, no it isn't. Why does the son turn down the father's entreaties later in life to finally spend that precious time together? It's not because of any quaint notions of the son ironically following the father's too-busy-for-family path, reversing the generational stiff-arm. No, discord is sown right in the heart of the boy's childhood, planting a demon seed that would grow into a pestilent weed in the years to come, leading the son to reject the father with malice aforethought.

The answer is right there in the lyrics. The boy turned ten, and he asked his dad to teach him to throw. (Insert screeching LP sound here.)

The boy is ten and he doesn't know how to throw? Come on. If a kid can't at least throw a circle change under the hitter's hands in a fastball count by the time he's ten, he might as well just find himself an ice floe and head on out to sea. Are you telling me this Chapin son doesn't even know how to throw a ball at ten? Everyone know he should be able to turn the double play pivot at seven, and find the receiver on an up-and-out pattern in the back of the end zone by nine. No wonder the son resents the dad, and the dad is too clueless to notice. The kid probably spent most of junior high stuffed in a locker.

Clearly, Harry Chapin didn't spend any time in our neck of the woods. Whiner.

(Or maybe having a son who actually "turned ten just the other day" caused me to pay a little closer attention to the song. I can't explain why it got so dusty in the car at that moment, though.)

How Many Birds Can One Stone Kill?

Some of the details of the president's plan to force the federal government to live within its means fund the federal government are coming to light. Included in the package of taxes and cuts is a proposal to increase the taxes assessed against commercial airlines. The lead of this USA Today article could not softpedal the issue more delicately:

President Obama is asking passengers to pay a few dollars more in taxes for an airline ticket...

Those "few dollars more" are actually a $100 fee per departure. I have made made numerous round trip flights between the Bay Area and Los Angeles, San Diego or Las Vegas for less than this proposed $200 tax. Those flights, which are available even now, will double in price instantly. The $450 business-ticket round trip flights I take to Las Vegas periodically will suddenly become $650 flights. This weekend our family will travel to Orange County to attend a family memorial service on round trip tickets we could afford with frequent flyer credits. Those tickets would increase by $800 under the president's proposal, which would have made them unaffordable.

Maybe it takes people who are accustomed to traveling on business class or first class tickets that cost thousands of dollars, or who always travel on expense accounts and never see what tickets cost, to conceive of a plan to increase round trip tickets by $200 that takes no account of what a shock to the system that is for the rest of us. The $200 increase will be a drop in the bucket to a traveler who is already spending $2000 or more for that ticket, or for someone who neither knows nor cares how much the ticket costs. For most people, however, the cost of an airline trip, especially if traveling as a family, already pushes personal budgets to the limit. Now comes the proposal to effectively double the cost of travel for the many who carefully plan their trips. Increasing the cost of any good or service 50-to-100% in one fell swoop simply by the imposition of a tax is unconscionable. The airlines are crying foul, and for good reason. Speaking as someone for whom airline travel is a luxury that is just barely within reach, and only for the right occasion under the right circumstances, it is an absolute certainty that airline ridership will decline. The proposed tax will damage the airlines directly, but also all of the many industries and businesses that depend on people who travel via air for vacations.

Airline travel seems poised to return to its roots, priced out of reach of the vast majority of travelers. Perhaps that is what our ruling class would prefer.

Bigtime Coach, Well Grounded

This interview with St. Mary's men's basketball coach Randy Bennett is a nice look inside the personal life of the man at the helm of a collegiate basketball program that has made some waves on the national scene in recent years.

We go to the same church as the Bennetts, and they just completed their first year with the swim club we belong to, where their two young boys are both strong competitors. They are also, unsurprisingly, involved in the local basketball youth league. Coach Bennett helped out at the league's evaluation day last month (held at St. Mary's, shockingly enough). Michael ended up scrimmaging in front of Coach Bennett a couple of times; he even pulled off a sweet crossover dribble and drive to the hoop under the Coach's watchful eye. Is it too early to start thinking about scholarships?

Belying his growing stature in the very public and glamorous world of Division I college basketball, Coach Bennett is quiet and unassuming. He and his family have committed to setting down roots in Moraga (Coach Bennett recently signed a 10-year contract extension), which is the intention of most families with kids in elementary school around here. This portion of the article shows why he is such a good fit here (because he shares my views, of course):

Bennett and his family are Moraga homebodies, he confides. A sandwich from Bianca's or pizza from Panini's is about as good as it gets.

"We kind of stick around here; Walnut Creek is a long trip," he laughs, but isn't kidding.

It is a little exciting to have a semi-celebrity in your midst on a regular basis. Even better, though, it getting to spend time around a terrific family that shares your interests, values and goals and struggles.

What A Difference A Week Makes

Last week, Michael's soccer team was blitzed by, um, Germany, ending up on the wrong side of a 4-0 deficit by halftime. Michael's hat trick made the game exciting, but it was only a moral victory.

Things were different this week. It was our turn to come out of the blocks blazing. The boys passed really well and put the pressure on the other team from the opening whistle. The ball was never played on our defensive side of the field in the opening half.

Michael didn't score three goals this week.


He scored four.

He also had two assists in the 7-0 victory, and could have scored at least two more in the second half had he not terminated several of his breakaways to look for teammates to pass to. His coach has now made Michael the designated taker of corner kicks after he deposited one into the middle of the goal box in the first half (past everybody except one of our players, who was so shocked to see the ball he whiffed on the shot). Michael's second assist came off a corner kick in the second half.


This little guy (for once I'm not referring to Michael) scored that goal. Pound-for-pound he is our best player: clever feet, good vision and judgment, a motor that never stops, and surprising speed and power for his size. Michael is the best player overall, a deadly finisher with skills and a lot of power and speed when he chooses to use it, but our little number four is an indispensable piece of the team.

That didn't stop us from giving him and our other best player to the other team for the second half to even things up a bit (they were already missing a player and used one of ours in each quarter, and we gave them another for the second half so that we were playing a man down), but we still scored two more goals and they only had a handful of threatening moments against us.

The boys are very squirrelly in practice, but apparently something is getting through. They scored well because they played well, for the most part. They will come crashing back to earth at some point, but for today, they got a taste of what happens when they follow their coaching to distribute the ball around and play hard.