Rancho Bernardo is a small community tucked neatly inside the top of San Diego. The always-accurate Wikipedia refers to it as "...an upscale master-planned community in [San Diego's] northern hills...".
For me and my family, it's just "home".
But, who can argue with an adjective like
"upscale" when our neighborhood is home to a three-stars-on-Yelp Chinese buffet and a reputable business endorsed by Robin Leach?
Depending on your source, Rancho Bernardo's population is around 40,000. This represents roughly 3% of San Diego's 1.3 million sun-drenched denizens. And, our region never seemed smaller than on February 25, 2010.
17-year-old Chelsea King -- a high school senior from
nearby Poway High School -- went for a training run at Rancho Bernardo Community
Park along its well-known, trees-and-brush-hidden trails. Tragically, she never came home. Her disappearance led to the formation of local
search parties -- comprised of both her peers and complete strangers -- that
organized just down the hill from my house.
Five agonizing days passed before her body was found. The victim of a horrific sexual assault was
murdered 1 1/2 miles from my front door.
Rancho Bernardo Community Park is also home to our local
Little League's ball fields. Days after
Chelsea King's body was found, the park hosted Little League's opening day
ceremonies. I have no doubt that organizers
wrestled with how to respectfully pay tribute to Chelsea in front of hundreds
of children -- some as young as five-years-old -- without creating a pre-pubescent
panic. I remember that the ceremony was
understandably brief, but moving. My son
Jalen asked about the large "CK" initials that were drawn on the
infield dirt, but my awkward response was lost on his ears amid calls of
"Play ball!"
Since then, I've spent an ungodly number of hours at that
park. I've watched Jalen attempt to
field everyone else's position in t-ball.
I coached him when he moved up to hitting off of the pitching
machine. I managed him in this, his
first year of live pitching.
Rancho Bernardo's Little League is a community all its
own. This is why I wasn't surprised to
receive a text message from my son's Fall 2010 coach. We regularly practiced together with our sons
-- and several other fathers and sons -- on whichever open field could
accommodate us on hastily-selected Sunday mornings or holiday afternoons or
early December evenings. J's old coach
asked if he'd be interested in playing in a charity tournament.
Last month, the second annual Home Run for Chelsea event was held at ball fields
across San Diego County benefitting the Chelsea's Light
Foundation. Jalen
reluctantly donned the uniform of the Cleveland Indians' short-season single-A
minor league affiliate -- the
Scrappers. As his coach wryly
remarked, "It's a good name for a kids' team." Without missing a beat, Jalen replied, "Yeah,
but, so is Rivercats!
And, RockHounds!"
(You'd have to be well-versed on the Oakland Athletics' minor league
teams to get that.
It's probably best if you just move on to the next paragraph.)
The tournament officials farmed us out to Encinitas -- a
coastal community that sits about 25 miles northwest of Rancho Bernardo. There was some grumbling from the adults --
naturally -- but, I thought it'd be fun to play on a different field and Jalen
was excited about the prospect of a real "road game".
For the first time in what seemed like forever, I
wouldn't be coaching my son. I hadn't
been just a spectator at one of Jalen's games since Mrs. Bootleg literally
banned me from watching from the same side of the field as her. According to my wife, I'm too obnoxious, too
intense and occasionally try to coach my son from the stands. Pfft...balderdash. Besides, if Jalen would just LISTEN TO ME...
Seated down the third base line, my wife and I watched
Jalen warm up with his teammates. This
was the only uncomfortable part of the event for me. It was all I could do to stop from grabbing
my glove (which I smuggled inside Jalen's bat bag), run onto the field and warm
up my son. Part of me was hoping that
he'd see my glove in his bag and ask, on his own, for a little catch with his
old man. And, then, maybe the manager
would say, "Hey, Aaron...we need someone to coach first base. You
interested?" Clearly, my evil
scheming and nefarious planning need polish.
Before the 9:00 AM games began, the mother of Chelsea
King gave a short speech in front of the gathered players and parents. I didn't really need such
a nudge on what was already an emotional morning, but her words pushed my tear
ducts past their natural capacity. It
was Mrs. Bootleg keeping the stiff upper lip for the family and her "Oh,
here we go..." roll of the eyes at the sight of my
tears was, admittedly, magnificent.
Jalen's team played two games that day. The first was against a travel ball squad
that was clearly the stiffest competition any of our kids had faced to
date. J struck out in his first two at
bats on letter high fastballs that I doubt he saw. Jalen pitched the fifth inning, tasked with
protecting a 3-2 lead. Unfortunately,
J's appearance was right in the middle of his worst Little League pitching
stretch of the season. He walked five
and gave up four runs in just 2/3 of an inning -- the two outs recorded on a
spectacular diving catch by the shortstop and a baserunner who crashed into the
same shortstop just as he was fielding another ball. My son had as much success fighting back
tears as I did earlier in the day.
In the sixth and final inning, though, the Scrappers
(ugh) rallied and Jalen drove in the tying run.
With the two-hour time limit reached, the game finished in a 6-6 tie. The second game followed 15 minutes
later. It was mostly an unwatchable slog
of ball four-after-ball four between two tired teams with a discernible
difference in ability. The Scrappers won
18-8 and Jalen is still talking about his bases-clearing
three-run triple in the first inning.
I didn't spend much time with Mrs. Bootleg during either
game. When I'm managing my son, I'm a
tightly-wound, mocha brown bundle of nerves who receives repeated reprimands
from the umpire to quit pacing and stay inside the first base coach's box. It's hard to sit still while rooting for
Jalen. It's surprisingly harder to sit
still when you're rooting for a community.
