We moved a lot when I was a kid. Because of that, I made a conscious decision that when I had children, they wouldn’t have to move if I could help it. My daughter lived in an apartment for five years and then in the same house until she left for college. That stability was one of the best gifts I could give her, and we had a wonderful time in that house.
Now, we live in a small town, but we didn’t move here until ten years after Kaila finished high school. She always knew she had a place to come back to if she needed it.
Growing up, I was always the new kid. Making friends was hard, especially in elementary school. We moved ten times during my junior high and high school years, but at least I stayed in the same schools. In elementary school, though, I went to Fort Logan, Harder Road, Sunset, Allen, Harrington, and Vivian—too many places to ever feel settled.
One of my biggest loves as a kid was baseball. I have plenty of stories about it, but one in particular stands out.
When I attended Allen Elementary, we lived in an apartment just off El Camino Real in San Bruno. There was no park nearby, so I played baseball in a tiny area behind the building, near the garages. Luckily, there was a Catholic church at the end of the block. I’d throw a baseball against its wall for practice, but my favorite thing was tossing it onto the roof and catching the fly balls as they came down.
The church had a two-story classroom building that was always empty when I played, so I wasn’t really disturbing anyone—or so I thought.
One day, I was in the middle of my usual game when I turned around and saw a priest standing there. He wore a full cassock, his hands clasped behind his back, and he had a stern look on his face.
“Are you the one playing baseball against my church?” he asked. Before I could answer, he followed up with, “Why?”
I hesitated but told him the truth—I didn’t have anyone to play with. Yes, I was the kid playing baseball.
I was sure I was in trouble. I even considered making a run for it. But then, something changed. His expression softened.
Slowly, he brought his hands from behind his back. He was wearing a baseball mitt. That stern face turned into pure joy.
From then on, we spent many afternoons playing catch in the church parking lot. He never asked if my family was part of his congregation, but for those afternoons, I was a proud member of the Church of Baseball. We talked for hours about the Giants, and through him, I started watching their games. I even tagged along with friends’ families to the ballpark.
That priest made me a lifelong Giants fan. Today, I have a tattoo on my calf commemorating their three World Series titles from the 2010s.
To this day, I have no idea what his name was. But I do know this—I owe him a debt of gratitude. Baseball has been a huge part of my life, all because a man saw a lonely kid and gave him the gift of the game.
I still play my old fly ball game off of roofs, and I’ve taught it to my players. But nothing, absolutely nothing, beats playing catch with a friend.
Edited for clarity and grammar using AI – Randy