Saturday, June 25, 2022

#RanchoBirdnardo

Those of you who’ve stumbled across this lightly-read blog for the 15+ years(!) it’s been around surely know my son Jalen’s comic book origin story. He was born nine weeks premature. He spent five weeks in the NICU, then for six months after THAT, he was hooked up to a portable heart monitor. I’ve shared the beginnings of my boy so many times that most of you could probably finish writing this paragraph for me. Jalen weighed an ounce over three pounds when he arrived on a sunny 66-degree afternoon, seven weeks into a typical San Diego winter.

Babies are supposed to be cherubic. J looked emaciated – the overt outline of his rib cage is the one image I’ll always remember. Jalen didn’t cry cry when he was born. Instead, he released a single yelp as if someone had interrupted the most gratifying nap in the history of humanity. I was a puddle of tears as this point and my wife was propped up over a pool of her own blood (as is – apparently – the style for C-sections). My reflexive aversion took my eyes away from the cataclysm of plasma over there and to the other side of the room where Jalen was immediately assimilated into every medical invention of the electronic age.

Someone yelled out, “97!” Another nurse, apparently incredulous, responded, “97?” I didn’t recognize most of the words being thrown around the delivery room that day, but, dammit, I still knew my numbers. And, with all the confidence I could muster, I meekly asked, “What’s that mean?” It was explained to me that J’s lung capacity was at 97% and, yes, I responded by asking, “Is that good?”

At 31 weeks, preemies – on average – hover around 50% of normal newborn lung capacity. I can confirm that 97% is, in fact, “good”.

Jalen overcame so many obstacles – physical, internal, developmental – in the first few years of his life that I fell into one of the pitfalls of parenting. At some point, I started focusing on the finish line instead of the circuitous medical and therapeutic paths my son had to traverse. J had literally been fighting his entire life – hell, at times, fighting FOR his life – but, along the way, I unintentionally began to take his gumption for granted. J became an archetypal teenager full of monosyllabic brooding and a bottomless pit of 20,000 calories/day. But, it’s taken the last 12 months for his dumb ol’ dad to remember there’s nothing “typical” about this kid.

After catching for more than seven years, Jalen and his coaches agreed that his best path to playing on the high school varsity team was as an outfielder. J got spot starts in the outfield all the time during his catching days. It was always an uncomfortable watch. He was a CATCHER playing OUTFIELD. How the hell do you THINK it went? I’m not saying my wife and I would pray that the ball wouldn’t be hit to him, but when baby Jesus inevitably ignored our pleas, we’d both hold our breath so dramatically that it became one of those running jokes between the other families in our vicinity.

Last July, Jalen played in the first tournament of his final travel ball season.

By this point, J’s catching days were well into the rearview mirror. He made varsity as a junior, but his team was so loaded that he only came to the plate nine times. And, about half of those at bats were because of a midseason COVID outbreak inside our starting lineup that probably should have shut the program down. (lol @ global pandemics tho amirite guys) Jalen played all three outfield spots – often as a late-inning defensive replacement, which spoke to (a) how far he’d come with the glove and (b) the reality of last year’s starting outfield that featured a natural third baseman, pitcher and DH, from right to left, whose impressive bats won out over their gloves.

So…one more time.

Did I mention it was the FIRST tournament of the summer?

Did I mention it was the FIRST inning?

Did I mention it was the FIRST batter?

Jalen was playing centerfield and immediately saw a screaming line drive headed his way. Centerfield defense can be tricky considering the amount of ground needed to cover and the fact that fly balls often aren’t angling in a way that gives the defender enough time to read it and run to a spot to play it. It’s the quintessential instinctive position and Jalen’s instincts brought him running in. By the time he hit the brakes, it was too late. As the ball whistled past him with the momentum of C. Montgomery Burns’ failed gubernatorial campaign, Jalen’s knee buckled atop the faux Kentucky Bluegrass-blend underneath his feet.

He missed the next three weeks as the doctors couldn’t accurately assess the damage until the swelling went down. During this time, the only thing that seemed to lift Jalen’s spirits were the obligatory barbecues roasts on my dime:

J played off-and-on for the rest of the summer – mostly as the designated hitter – as we crisscrossed the Southern California travel ball tournament circuit. When the calendar came ‘round to whatever we call “autumn” out here, the Cam Fam found ourselves in Arizona during “homecoming weekend” at J’s high school. An elaborate plan was hatched involving planes, trains and automobiles that would ensure our son made it back to San Diego before the weekend was out. Oh, and speaking of “out”: He was fine! He made it back to San Diego for homecoming! Please don’t show this to my mom!

In November, with Jalen’s knee still smarting, we got him in for an MRI. He was diagnosed with a torn right patellar tendon. He’d been playing on it for about three months and the doctor gave us two options: (a) surgery – but, without an idea on how long the recovery would be until after any procedure or (b) physical therapy/pain management.

M’man Andy and pretty much all the other Little League baseball dads still give me good-natured sh t from the time J was 9 y/o and batting late in a playoff game. He fouled a ball in the dirt which ricocheted off his face. As the legend goes, it’s believed I caught Jalen in my overprotective arms before he hit the ground. A few years later, Jalen was catching in the bottom of the last inning in a tournament game. With two outs, the two-strike pitch in the dirt was swung on and missed. It got J good in the groin. As he writhed in abject agony, the runner was lumbering to first base. I helpfully coached from behind the backstop, “Goddammit, get up and throw to first!” And, he did! Then, he collapsed like a kid’s sandcastle in the surf.

(Space constraints keep me from mentioning the multiple concussions from a cavalcade of catcher collisions at home plate, so let’s keep it moving. Cool? Cool.)

The point is that baseball has kept Jalen on the business end of occasional medical observation, but this was well beyond “walking it off” or the ubiquitous “rub some dirt on it” prescription. J had to put in the work with PT – strengthening the surrounding area of the injury – if he had any hope of playing in his final high school season. And, even though his attitude was terrible (“It’s not working!”, “It still hurts!”, “Can I skip this week’s PT?”) he began to see some progress after a quick confab with his dad:

Me: How was practice?

Jalen: It sucked. My knee hurts like hell.

Me: *looks down* Are…you wearing the knee braces that the doctor told you to wear?

Jalen: No.

Me:

The varsity baseball roster situation was almost as obvious. Last year’s team graduated a ton of talent, but for all intents and purposes, there was just one open starting spot heading into the spring season – in the outfield. There were six seniors – including Jalen – in the competition for that one job. J missed the first week of the six-week “winter ball” season, but played in the remaining five games (even though he technically didn’t have medical clearance – but, again, guys: don’t tell my mom).

By the end of winter ball, one of the seniors in the mix (not Jalen) had separated himself from the pack. The always-gossiping cadre of high school baseball padres -- an honorable group of men who routinely talk sh t about you and your kids behind your back – respectfully agreed that the right decision was made in that regard. But, on opening day, who was ALSO in the outfield (and medically cleared!), starting in right and wearing the resplendent wedding gown white/bronco blue home uniform? We see you, J-bird!

BUT…he wasn’t batting. The DH hit in his spot. This happened a few times the previous season, so it was at least negligibly easier for me and Mrs. Bootleg to charge it to the game. Jalen’s first at bat of his senior year came a game or two later and he promptly singled to right field. He’d singled and doubled in his first two at bats early during his junior season – in which he’d finish 2 for 9 – so, I made every effort to film it on my phone and savor the scene. As of this writing, I’ve watched it 10,000 times, give or take.

There is an inherent dichotomy that comprises the rosters of every team sport. It’s ostensibly a meritocracy – except when it isn’t. One player’s bad luck is another player’s good fortune. An unexpected opportunity can be snatched away as fast as it was be bestowed, thanks to a performance unfairly predicated on a small sample size. In this case, due to one teammate’s serious injury and some additional circumstances elsewhere in the lineup, Jalen found himself in something of a job share for the right field job.

This went on for a few weeks, until the job was Jalen’s alone.

If you play baseball long enough, you’ll inevitably burn hot as hell at times. Maybe for a few weeks. Sometimes for a month or two. During Little League All Stars in 2014, J led the team in RBI and threw out three of four runners who tried to steal. Fast forward a few years later, at a Memorial Day weekend tournament in the blast furnace of Perris, J went 10 for 14. But, for these four months of his senior season? Whew, buddy. It was 16 weeks of clutch hits, highlight-reel defense and choreographed postgame dance celebrations with his fellow outfielders immediately after the last out.

Jalen hit .326 during the regular season and in our second playoff win, he drove in the second run and scored the third and final run in a 3-0 victory. That third run came on a sacrifice fly in which Jalen slid safely ahead of the tag, then sprang to his feet and celebrated – briefly! – over the fallen corpse of the catcher. J took several steps in the opposite direction of his dugout – sneering at the opposing fans while maintaining his stride – then peacocking back to his boys on the third base side. Both benches were warned, as the umpires tried to diffuse the tension. Meanwhile, in the stands, the opposing parents were chirping that Jalen’s slide was dirty and that he was a dirty player. This brought me and Mrs. Bootleg to our feet with what may or may not have been an open challenge for a mixed tag team match against any mom and dad who wanted to [quote] talk your sh t over here!...talk your sh t over here! [unquote]

Before their season ended in the CIF Regional Semifinals, the team held their postseason banquet. At the end of the evening, the coaches recognized and honored the seniors:

72 hours after his last high school baseball game, Jalen had his rematch with the MRI machine. It was important to ascertain how much more – if any – damage J might have sustained to his knees.

The hope was to avoid surgery if they weren’t much worse than six months ago.

The reality was that he’d not only torn the patellar tendon in his OTHER knee, but at some point during the season, Jalen had torn his right ACL, as well.

I was approaching the apex of the biggest hill that abuts Stately Bootleg Manor, walking our 15-lb mostly-decorative dog, when Mrs. Bootleg sent me the MRI results. For a minute or two (or three), I couldn’t tell where the dampness from San Diego’s early morning marine layer began and where the dampness from my eyes ended.

What happens next is anyone’s guess.

J wants to keep playing and he’s been in contact with some local JUCO coaches. He has a not-insignificant procedure at the end of June to address at least some of his knee issues. From there, it’s up to the baseball gods and the indomitable determination of the same 9 y/o who told me he wanted to be a catcher – and I doubted he could; the same 15 y/o who told me he needed to become an outfielder – and I doubted he could; the same 17 y/o who meticulously selected his pre-at bat walk-up music months before the start of his senior season, fully expecting to be in the starting lineup of the most storied high school baseball program in the county and finishing the year as an all-league honorable mention.

Take it from his dumb ol’ dad – don’t bet against the Bird.

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