W. Torrance 3

I’ve arrived at an important decision. I’m giving away my three tickets to see professional baseball’s All-Star Game this Tuesday night to attend my son Dylan’s Manhattan Beach 9-10-year-old Baseball All-Star Final in El Segundo instead. That might seem an easy decision – a dad’s obligation to his son and all – yet it was a little more difficult in my case. To me, the MLB All-Star Game represents a true awe and appreciation for baseball that links little boys and professionals alike. It’s where people who love baseball – the game of baseball – see the game’s true titans spend three hours in mutual admiration and admonishment to personally strive to be the epitome of their game. No father should ever watch an All-Star Game without his son, because every dad aspires to have his son perceive excellence, achieve excellence and – somehow, please, some way – see that there’s some very small measure of excellence in the Old Man that he might hope to have passed along. So six months or so ago, I thought I’d try to tap three seats to the MLB All-Star Game in San Francisco so my sons and I could see our very first All-Star Game firsthand. I’d have gotten four if my own dad was still alive, but I lost him way too soon fifteen years ago this July 27th, well before either of his grandsons was born. There’d have been three generations of Tyrer boys in AT&T Park Tuesday night, because my dad was the one who taught me my love and respect of baseball and the many life’s lessons it has to teach. Baseball is one of our common denominators between fathers and sons, even in those slack years when the kid tends to look someplace else. It’s the small measure of my dad’s excellence that I try to cross-pollinate with my sons. My dad grew up on the “Gashouse Gang” St. Louis Cardinals of 1934 when he was just a seven-year-old boy – the same age as my son Brogan -- traveling by cable car every summer day to Sportsman’s Park. He paid a nickel to ride and nothing to get in, courtesy of the Cardinals who gave all of his fellow “Knothole Gang” free seats in return for their loyalty. It would sure have been great to catch Tuesday’s All-Star Game with the once and future Tyrer men, but I’m staying home because my son – a ten-year-old boy -- needs me. Dylan’s team made the District Finals Sunday afternoon, which meant his Manhattan Beach 9 and 10-year-old Baseball All-Stars play for the first championship in many years at the exact same time as Jeter and Ramirez and Rodriguez and Soriano and all the rest of them will be crossing the chalk lines Tuesday night in San Francisco. Talk about the luck of the draw. We’d gotten plane tickets, changed them once (doubling the cost) and cut short an originally week-long trip to San Francisco to a one-night excursion to accommodate Manhattan Beach All-Star protocol and rules. It was a great honor for Dylan to make the team. So when his squad made the District Finals, we’d originally thought of leaving him with parents of one of his best friends and All-Star teammates, while my wife Kathy and youngest son Brogan and I went to San Francisco. But then I considered my original intent, and the unique bond that links me with my sons and how a baseball always seems to be floating in the background. And it just couldn’t be. If Dylan couldn’t go, then none of us could. If the Manhattan Beach All-Stars take the District title Tuesday night, I couldn’t bear missing the excitement on his face. If they were to lose, I couldn’t miss being there to help reassure him that they have another elimination game to bounce back. And if he – God forbid – caused the final out or an untimely error – or maybe even stroked a game-winning RBI – well that’s right up there with missing a first step. So I’m staying home this Tuesday night to support my son. And I am also staying home to support three other men who’d be equally as enthusiastic about attending the MLB All-Star Game but are here managing their teams in the South Bay. I don’t even know one of them personally, but something I saw the other morning tells me he appreciates the bond that links a true love of baseball and helping great boys to become good men. I’m staying home in support of the manager of the Silver Spur 11-12 Baseball All-Stars, Manny Balderas. On Saturday morning, I was helping out with the tournament at Marine Central, and I saw Manny bend to one knee to help console the opposing pitcher from Palos Verdes, who Manny’s team rocked for five runs including three home runs in the first inning of their own tournament elimination game. What you need to know is that same pitcher was coming off a two-hit win in his prior performance; a dominating victory for perennial power Palos Verdes. That boy took the mound on Saturday morning ready to repeat his All-Star performance, but the baseball gods intervened, and he left the game moments later, shaken and crying until Manny – the opposing manager – helped to pick him back up. I’m also staying home in support of Dylan’s All-Star manager Mike McKinnon, who I ran into coming out of the movies later that Saturday evening. Mike is positively giddy about his team, and how good they are. But not about how good they are as baseball players. How good they are as teammates and human beings. “They are all such good kids,” Mike grinned. “I’m really so lucky.” And I like to think every one of those boys – including my son – is lucky to have someone like Mike at the helm. I’m also staying home from the MLB All-Star Game to support another baseball dad who I know very well and who has helped my two sons develop a love and passion for baseball but, far more importantly, a respect and genuine dedication to the game, Wil Aaron. When it came down to it, I gave Wil my three seats to the MLB All-Star Game so he could reward his wife for all the time she allows he and his son, and Wil and my sons, and all the rest, with a nice trip to San Francisco. But I also gave them to Wil so he could sit in those stands Tuesday night with his son, Hakeen, and enjoy the exact same feeling that I would have with my two boys – or that I would have experienced with my dad. Wil hails from some awfully good baseball stock. You might have heard of his cousin Henry whose own MLB homerun record is about to fall to one of the other folks who’ll be sharing AT&T Park with Wil and his family Tuesday night. If you ask him, Wil’s got no bitterness toward Bobby Bonds’ son. In fact, Wil’s only complaint is that Barry Bonds’ legacy as one of the greatest – if not the greatest – natural hitters in baseball has now become tainted. When I extended those All-Star tickets to Wil, it reminded me that beneath every one of our son’s larger than life dream of Big League honors and professional careers lies the raw emotions, the hopes and fears of a little boy who needs guidance and coaching and reassurance from their dad. And that’s where the love of fathers and sons and their love of the great game of baseball collide. I love baseball because I love my dad. And I’m fortunate my sons share the same with me. Dedicated people like Mike and Wil and, probably Manny, do the same with their baseball families. So when all is said and done, I’m happy to be sitting at home on Tuesday night, watching young kids like Duncan McKinnon, Kyle Grafton and Ryan Verbiest – and of course my son, Dylan – try to bring home a championship to Manhattan Beach when I could be watching Derek Jeter and Albert Pujols. We have so many All-Stars on our local diamonds, there’s really no need to seek them elsewhere.