Game 7 - World Series

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There's nothing bigger for the game of baseball than a game seven in a World Series. This is the moment when all things collide and all the patience, calm and the incorrect perception of baseball's  non-challance is challenged because of the immediacy of now. There is no tomorrow for these two teams, the Giants and the Royals. They both die tonight. One dies a champion and goes on to immortality. The other dies the runner-up, and fades from memory. All the greatness of the season, small and large, save for the winning team, won't matter after tonight.

The weather has cooled considerably. Winter is beyond knocking at the door, it's two steps inside and preparing to sit down. This is death. It is inevitable.

I've been asked by a lot of friends, family and fellow fans if I'll be cheering for the Giants tonight. After all, they're from the Bay Area, just like my beloved A's. These kind people are casual fans. They don't understand border skirmishes in sports and the particularly dire spat between the A's and Giants over a thing called "territorial rights". In short, no, I will not be cheering for the Giants tonight.

What about the Royals, then? They're the feel-great story of the season, right? A team that has been mired in mediocrity for decades that slowly began to simmer at the end of last season, scratched and clawed it's way into the post-season then flat steam-rolled the Angels and Orioles on the way to the World Series. They're also from the American League. Yay, DH, right?

No. Those Royal pissants urinated in my playoff Cheerios what seems like a year ago and last night at the same time. I despise them like a Kirk Gibson elbow pump (link intentionally left out because eff Kirk Gibson).

What will I be cheering for, then? A great game. I hope these two teams leave it all on the field. I hope the defense plays fundamentally sound, the pitchers paint the corners and a hitter or two leaves the yard to the shock and delight of all fans in a wild cacophony of black, orange and royal blue. I hope there are no injuries. I sincerely hope it's a great game. And I cheer for its end, too, so I might let go, more completely, of my ridiculous lingering disappointment over the A's not finding away to beat the Royals back in that horrid wildcard game. Cheering for death is not morbid, it's just a coping mechanism that encourages the cool darkness along so that warm, hopeful life might return again next spring.

Only if you're a fan

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I won’t defend or try to explain why I’m up in the middle of the night writing this when I should be in bed, asleep, preparing for another busy day of getting the kids ready, work and honey-do’s that are way past due. The only thing I can offer is I’m a fan.

Last night, my favorite baseball team, the Oakland A’s, played one of the most thrilling and heart-obliterating games I’ve ever experienced in over thirty years of loving this game. A completely impossible hero in Brandon Moss hit two monster home runs to give the A’s leads and confidence that appeared insurmountable. Jon Lester was pitching with a 7-3 lead in a way that he looked every bit the pitcher that was almost unhittable in last year’s playoffs for the Red Sox. Then came the eighth inning, which will live in my head, like a sideways eight – infinitely, horribly nightmarishly. The hits. The walk. The inevitable feeling that if a Royal touched first he’d be on third before you could blink. The A’s were defenseless against these little speed gnats. It was a death not of a thousand cuts but rather of a thousand steps. From the moment A's catcher and defensively superior Geovany Soto went out after the second inning having suffered a thumb injury, I had an awful feeling about the possibility of what the Royals might do against Derek Norris. They did all of that and worse.

But it wasn’t a complete meltdown – not yet. The A’s held a one-run lead and loaded the bases in the 9^th only to, once again, leave them loaded, something they’ve done with incredible efficiency over the past six weeks. They still had their closer for the bottom of the 9^th with the one run lead. But when a Royal bloop single found the field, it was almost a foregone conclusion that runner would find home plate. And damned if he didn’t a few minutes later. Tie ball game. Onward – if you must. I wish I didn’t. But I’m a fan.

The 10^th and 11^th went quickly, but the 12^th offered that slippery bitch named hope. The A’s squeaked in a run to take an 8-7 lead. The Royals would once again answer in their half, tying the ball game. Then they’d do one better and walk off with the win. Game over. Details are for recaps and this is not meant to be that.

This season, as a whole, has been remarkable journey for my dad and me. We saw this A’s team back in Spring Training. We fell in love with the group and were in awe of their potential. They jumped out of the gate and set the league on fire for three straight months. They were 99.9 percent favorites to make the playoffs through that run, often winning in historic, crushing fashion, doing just about everything right. During that streak, dad came down to Vegas and he had a great streak of his own, recovering bits of health and hope in his own life that led to parallel tracks between what the A’s were doing and what he was doing. It’s silly, I know, to tie this much into a game one watches and has no control over, as opposed to a life, where, although we may not have complete control, e.g. my dad sure didn’t mean to get Parkinson’s Disease, we have direct daily influence. In the irrational part of my mind (the fan part), you bet I believed a World Series win would do something to help heal my dad - to give us the Charlie Bucket Golden Ticket. Crazy, I know. But, you see, I’m a fan.

I watched the final, soul-crushing innings with my dad on facetime via our cellphones. He had the game on his television which was just ahead of my feed on the computer. He was giving me just the smallest hints with his reactions, much more subdued than mine, of the way things were unfolding. When it was all over, I felt a rush of tears flood my ducts, but they never came out. I felt sick, too, but didn’t throw up. I told my dad I was sorry. Silly, right? Like I had anything to do with the outcome. But I was sorry; I was sorry the season had ended this way, I was sorry that we wouldn’t have another game to watch like this until next year at a time when every month, week and day seems touch and go. I was sorry that this season, so wrought with possibility of finally punching in the long-awaited World Series ticket in the Billy Beane era would finally happen. And when that happened, the fan in me believed there would be some sort of storybook ending for us, too. That something else would be lifted off my dad. Again, silly, right? I’m a fan.

You could argue a million different ways to me that I’m being ridiculous, that I’m putting too much into this game I have no influence over (let alone control) and that I should calm down, let it go, whatever else. But if you said that, you wouldn’t be a fan, the way I am at least, and you wouldn’t understand. Baseball is a vehicle. This season was one hell of a ride. Right now, I’m sick because of it. But you pay your money and you take your chances – that’s life.

Will I be back next year? I have every reason to believe so. I love the A's. I have for over thirty years. But right now I’ve got nothing. I’m empty and I should be in bed. I just needed to write this first because only a fan would understand. Good night.

Health in layers – like an onion

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Back in March 2014, my dad, who had dealt with his Parkinson’s diagnosis for nearly 13 years was nearing the end of his rope. He had chronic back problems, with scoliosis and a 55-degree tilt causing him to shy away from even his most beloved activities because of the constant, excruciating pain.

As we documented this summer, dad found some relief in his work with Dr. DeMartino. As important as the relief was, the feeling of hope in knowing there was something my dad could actively be doing to improve his quality of life was and remains equally as valuable (something he heard nothing about from his doctors at Kaiser).

Earlier today, he received the results of his second set of blood work from Dr. DeMartino, who did a draw at the beginning of my dad’s process back in May. The marker that showed up differently this time indicated an infection in my dad’s kidney. The fascinating thing about that information was that it didn’t show up a few months ago, and nothing in my dad’s recent history would suggest him getting an infection between May and now. However, he did have kidney stones back in the mid-90’s and had a very powerful and disruptive sonic blast treatment that broke up the stones (and almost certainly damaged his kidney, too). Dr. DeMartino suggested that some of my dad’s back pain and the scoliosis itself could well be tied to this infection. The fact that this infection wasn’t even on the map previously due to all the other things my dad was dealing with (pancreas in crisis, mercury levels off the chart, etc.) suddenly made sense. The body can only deal with so many fires at once. The idea that we have layers of health, source or core problems that manifest in other ways than are directly evident is fascinating.

“It’s like an onion,” Dr. DeMartino said, with a smile. “Like Shrek.”

 This immediately gave Dr. DeMartino a new course to work with for my dad and my dad some interesting food for thought. He’d known about his low white blood cell count for some time (indicative of an infection), but hadn’t received any assistance on where it might be. It’s clear my dad has peeled back some layers of disease from himself already, literally in the extra weight as well as the heavy metal toxicity buildup internally. The idea that he could peel back another and, perhaps another yet, to get closer to the core health of his being is fascinating and quite hopeful.

Safe at Home

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In March 2014, we rekindled the adventure we began ten years prior. My dad, with Parkinson’s, and me, with a camera or two, came together around baseball and went on a journey. In 2004, the journey was simpler to define: we road-tripped 20,000 miles in two months to see a game at each of the 30 MLB parks. In 2014, the initial idea was to do it again. Because of financial and physical limitations, we decided to pare the idea down to the six parks built since 2004. When the limitations became tighter on both fronts, we changed directions.

Dad broke through many walls this summer - most more metaphorical than this one.

My dad was signaling that he was giving up. The red flag for all of us ­­was dad’s lack of interest in golf and his admission that the pain in his back had become nearly debilitating. His doctors had told him there was nothing more they could do beyond prescribing more pain medicine. My mom was scared to the point she fell into another depression.

Dad plays with his grandson, Giuseppe.

Through searching for alternatives, a friend suggested I give Dr. DeMartino of Superior Health Solutions in Henderson, NV a call. We exchanged information, then discussed opportunities. He liked what he saw in our original documentary enough to offer my dad pro bono treatment at the clinic. He was confident he could relieve some of the pain and bring my dad to a greater degree of health. It wouldn’t be easy, though. Dad would have to come to Las Vegas for an extended period of time, estimated at two to three months. Dad said yes.

In late April, Dad said yes. I’ve been blogging about this process over the last three months in detail and there is more to come still. I want to cover the last day right now and a few thoughts on what the future holds.

One goal achieved. Next up.

Mom worked through her depression and came down to join my Dad in Las Vegas in early June. She went home for a brief period of time, then stayed for the last six weeks. Living conditions weren’t always the easiest or most comfortable for them in their extended stay hotel, but they managed. There were many ups and downs in the treatment. There was great skepticism at times and great hope at others. The constant physical sign of health was my dad’s weight loss through nutrition and supplementation. He lost nearly thirty pounds and reached his goal weight of 175 pounds in the final week. He displayed signs of increased health, vitality and enjoyment in his activity. He suggested social events and dates with my mom as opposed to holing up in a room and tuning out with television or his laptop. He said yes to road trips to Zion and Los Angeles. He braved a boxing ring, the Pacific Ocean and some water slides. He played with his grandkids. He emerged, three months later, a healthier man.

Dad plays with his granddaughter, Francesca.

For those looking for a cure to Parkinson’s here, I suggest you look elsewhere. It’s the wrong line of thinking as far as I’m concerned. As to whether or not those working on a cure for it will ever find one, that’s well beyond me. “Ever” is a long time. I have serious doubts about some, if not many, traditional western medical institutions, foundations and pharmaceutical manufacturers because their loyalties, in my examination of them, often following the dollar, seem to value that dollar or system that is supporting them long before the individual. I can say, with certainty, I believe in the power of the human body to heal itself. I believe it is doing exactly that on a daily, combatting much of the toxicity we introduce to it, both knowingly and unknowingly. I believe our bodies can be overwhelmed and that we do sometimes need help in evaluating our health, as we can easily become locked in our silos of self and blind to the things that we are in control of versus those we are not.

 

My Mom and Dad went home yesterday, July 31, 2014. My mom cleaned out the old food they had been eating and they both pledged to “protect their home” from unhealthy foods, recognizing their damaging effects back in June. My dad, who began his treatment with a 55-degree tilt in his spine and ended it with a 49-degree tilt, is committed to a more vigorous, physically active lifestyle. Dr. DeMartino repeatedly remarked how strong my dad’s body was, despite the PD or the massive curvature in his back. That encouragement, along with the weight loss and a renewed acceptance of himself as an athlete, has driven my dad forward.

Our journey is not over. We still hope to get to the six new ballparks built since 2004. We love our Oakland A’s and will cheer our lungs out for them to finally push through and not only get to but win a World Series for the first time in 25 years. Mom and Dad have much work to do, as do I. When will the film come to light? That’s beyond me right now. Too many questions. It will be seen at some point, when the time is right. I am working up my case for the next ask and I will write it soon. I hope you will join those who have already contributed to our mission, understanding, now more than ever, that we have proved the concepts we have put forth, worked diligently and professionally and are very worthy of your financial support.

The biggest difference between now and when we began in the early spring is the presence of hope. My Dad knows he can’t cure Parkinson’s, nor is he even remotely interested in seeking one out. That’s out of his control. He has quit looking. He is interested in making the most out what he has, Parkinson’s – not my Dad -- be damned. His body is much more willing than he previously thought and now so is his mind. The last action he took with Dr. DeMartino yesterday was to take a brief jog with him around the parking lot of DeMartino’s office. The idea of running again, something my dad identified very closely with for decades, was not on the list of hopes when we began this process. It emerged naturally through perseverance, saying yes and a happy accident. Look for Dan Cochrane jogging on a block near you, Walnut Creek, CA.

I am deeply proud of my parents for accepting their challenges head on and fighting back, for not listening to the naysayers, even professional and very well-educated ones, who told them they were on a fool’s errand. Contrary to popular, and I believe often well-meaning advice, “never quit” is not a philosophy I subscribe to. There is a time to quit – whether it’s a belief system, relationship, job or anything else dragging one down or causing you to lose focus. Holding on to too many things is far more dangerous and detrimental than quitting, reevaluating and harnessing one’s energy.

Mom says goodbye. Dad encourages her along.

The journey continues.

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Billy goes Gollum

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A Boys of Summer editorial from a long-time A's junkie.

“Precious…”

Come late October/early November, Oakland A’s General Manager Billy Beane will look at himself and think: “So this is the end of a ill/well-spent season…or perhaps era.” With the acquisition of Jon Lester and Jonny Gomes for outfielder Yoenis Cespedes, Beane has once again set the baseball world on fire. Talk about all in.

Just one month ago Beane traded away the teams top two farm prospects in short stop Russell Addison and outfielder Billy McKinney for the Cubs Jeff Samardzija and Jason Hammel. Outsiders who have claimed to understand Moneyball or the inner workings of Beane’s mind were once again tossed aside this morning with the shocking trade of clubhouse and fan favorite Cespedes. When the A’s were seriously drawn into the Lester conversation yesterday, my response was that Beane was merely driving up the price to make sure whomever landed him paid a hefty price. Turned out that was Beane.

Over his tenure, Beane has stockpiled picks for later at times (trading away big names like Tim Hudson and Mark Mulder or budding superstar Carlos Gonzalez) and made plays for bigger names at other times (Milton Bradley, Frank Thomas and Matt Holiday). This year is an all out push. This is the ring or bust. After consecutive post-season losses to the Tigers, largely at the hands of pitchers Justin Verlander and Max Scherzer, Beane has decided he won’t be fooled again.

The line to consider is whether or not Beane has gone too far, given too much for what amounts to a short-term rental of Lester (he’s only signed through the end of the year) and the best shot the A’s have had at a ring in decades. While the starting rotation of Sonny Gray, Scott Kazmir, Jon Lester and Jeff Samardjia is positively devastating, the smoking hole created in left field by Cespedes departure and the clubhouse is worthy of conversation. There are those who have long said Cespedes is more thunder than lightning – his value increased by the ROY, All-Star and home run derby titles and occasional highlight reel throws from the outfield. His numbers at the plate over his three years with the A’s are good but not great 2012: .292/.356/.505/.861 2013: .240/.294/.442/.737 2014: .256/.303/.464/.767.  

My knee jerk reaction was “oh no”. That had largely to do with my fan-side that loves the guys in green and gold and sees them as part of the family. Cespedes was an exciting part of this crew over the last couple of years. But if pitching wins championships, if you believe in closing windows of opportunity (with several contracts coming up in the next two years) and the ring is the only thing that really matters, then Beane has made yet another bold and brilliant move. The high-wire part about it, of course, is that it’s really only bold and brilliant if the A’s win it all.

Beane has long been a subject of fascination for baseball GM’s, fans and commentators. He’s tough, bold and devastatingly sharp – that blade cuts both ways. While the A’s have been competitive nearly every year he’s been at the helm, they’ve never even sniffed a World Series. Without a ring, rightly or wrongly, many people will forever question Beane’s true efficacy as a GM. This is his moment – to shine or flame. Is he a genius or a buffoon? Come late October/early November, the rapidly eroding middle ground will be gone.

The Boys of Summer roll along, but we need your help to complete this year's journey. Please see our site for the latest on how to contribute. Thank you!