I am long-winded, and I love telling stories. So I am sorry if this post is a bit lengthy, but I think it is a story worth being told. But may the record show, I apologized in advance ;P.
When I was a kid, I LOVED baseball. I could rattle off names, jersey numbers, stats, stadiums, match-ups, teams, you name it. Through middle school, most boys were afraid to talk with me about it… because I knew more than they did. The only boy who did speak with me egged me on by cheering for the Dodgers and taping the box score for blowout games on my desk… malo. It wasn’t just my classmates though, some parents thought it was strange that two young girls loved a boys game so much, and not only liked it but dedicated their summers to something that (as my mother was told) “your girls can’t even participate in.” But those parents were wrong. Those years were formative, and the experiences my sister, Haley, and I had helped make us the individuals that we are today.
On the surface, it may not seem to be the most critical aspect, but our best baseball years were as die-hard SF Giants fans from ’03-’08. Oddly enough, our affiliation was important, because when we were fans, the Giants were just okay. Haley and I learned fast that not every game would be a win, but that there was something to be said for losing gracefully, and for being resilient. For picking yourself up, and bringing the same energy and excitement to the next day. For caring even when the night before, your favorite team had been creamed DESPITE all your cheering and pleas for a turnaround. In the grand scheme of things, baseball is just a game, and there are significant issues in the world that make baseball look, like what it is, insignificant. But as children, you have to learn somewhere that you won’t always get your way, and that most of the time, life goes the absolute OTHER way. Baseball taught us that. It also taught us to be respectful. Oftentimes, we cheered against the home team. But, we did so in a manner that did not offend others. We learned that when we respected others’ point of view, oftentimes, they respected ours. Those are things you can’t tell a child, you show them.
As important as those lessons were, the places and people that we were exposed to were just as important. I could go on and on talking about the two, profoundly humble and kind baseball players (Ray and Jay) that made the game everything to Haley and I. Or I could talk about the fans, like the 78-year Bostonian who cheered for the Tigers because as a boy his mother bought him the only baseball item she could afford (i.e. find on sale), a Detroit Tigers jacket. That man became, and remained for over 70 years, a Tigers fan so that his mother wouldn’t feel so bad about being a poor, single mom. Or I could talk about the St. Louis Cardinal-loving Texans who taught us that though we come from exceedingly different backgrounds, we still experience the same emotions, like amazement while watching Albert Pujols hit a towering home-run. Perhaps those are posts for another day, but lately there is one group in particular that I have given some thought to.
As a teen, no older than 15, my mom, sister and I took a trip to watch the Giants play the St. Louis Cardinals. As my mom was checking into the hotel, Haley and I sat (within my mom’s eyesight and earshot) in the check-in lounge. Waiting there, we were joined by four very intimidating, bandana-and-leather-clad men. They were very nice, and greeted us, but young as we were, we were FREAKED out. When our mom came over, they introduced themselves to her and proceeded to talk with the three of us, sharing their story. They were in a “biker gang”… but for good. They were Bikers Against Child Abuse. The bikers work with local and federal authorities to help abused children feel safe and unafraid of the world they live in. Whether the child is abused at home, or bullied at school, each child gets the names and numbers of two bikers who can come to their side when they need them. So yes, motorcycle gangs are scary, but they can be beautiful too.
Even as a teenager, I sensed the importance of what they did, so much so, that 10 years later, I still remember their organization. 10 years later, as an adult, I find their work immensely honorable. However, their organization and their mission were not the only things that stuck with me that day, rather, it was one of the biker’s words for me. As we were parting, the one biker looked at me, and pointed to my sweatshirt, and asked, “What does that mean?” I was surprised, it was just my Giant’s sweatshirt. Sensing my surprise he read off, “Property of the San Francisco Giants”. Sensing that I still did not understand (I didn’t), he looked me in the eye and told me, “Remember you are not and will never be the property of any team, any organization, or any person, including a man.” I did not know what to say, I was embarrassed and shocked. In my head I thought, “I think you’re silly, of course that isn’t what the sweater means”, but I was certainly NOT about to give voice to that thought. So I just said, “ok, I get it” (I still didn’t).
I went on to wear that sweater over the course of many years. And each time I saw that sweater, I would flash back to that biker’s words, and think about what he meant. As I grew older, and wore the sweater less and less, I thought about his words more and more. I realize now, that as a young girl, that biker was empowering me, and to this day he still is. I wish I knew his name and I wish I could say thank you, because now I get it.