Hell Angeles - Chapter 7

January 9th

The baseball fields burn at 10:22 am. As a matter of science, the destruction might have happened earlier. The fire might have torn down the home of Pacific Palisades Baseball Association sometime earlier this week; after midnight on January 7 or on the morning of January 8. So many of those streets near the park were by then abandoned to flames. North Swarthmore, De Pauw, Via de la Paz, Alma Real and Frontera. But the psychic ball drops for all of us at exactly this moment. 10:22 am on Thursday January 9. In a town with ten places of worship (seven churches, three synagogues, a Church of Jesus Christ Latter-Day Saints, countless parochial schools) baseball is the true religion. Baseball is the single faith. Baseball is where the physical meets the spiritual, the higher, the bigger, the numinous enters our lives. This is the moment. A town on the verge of breaking will finally break. Bob Benton, the man who has presided over Pacific Palisades Baseball Association for 36 years sends this e-mail.

January 9th, 2025

PPBA Families -

It's with a heavy heart that we reach out to our fellow Palisadians. Instead of preparing for our 2025 season, we are all trying to comprehend the damage and devastation that has hit our community.  First and foremost, we hope that all of you and your loved ones are safe. Obviously we will not be having evaluations this weekend and for the time being, we are unable to provide any further guidance.  What we can say is that we will do everything in our power to try and provide these kids, and your families, with some sense of normalcy and community through baseball at some point this spring.  

The reason that PPBA has been so strong for so many decades is 100% due to the incredible community we share.  We have no doubt that the people of the Palisades are going to rise up from this tragedy, rebuild what has been lost and reestablish a community that will thrive for future generations. If baseball can play a small role in bringing people together and allowing the kids to see each other and forget other things -- we will be thrilled to be able to make that happen.

For now, we send our love and prayers and hope that we get to see you all soon.

#PaliStrong

PPBA Board

There are moments this week (amidst the miasma of digital life) when we think we are alone. Isolated. Now we remember we are together in our suffering. Every eye on this e-mail, every heart comprehending the loss of our baseball fields—the loss of Pacific Palisades Baseball known as “PPBA”—those four grassy cathedrals framed by tall palms and dark mountain and blue sky, outfields touching at the center, metal bleachers on the corners, banners flapping on the chain link fence, pitching machine firing in the cage, guy rolling fresh lines and sweeping the base bags talking to umpire who arrived at dawn and will spend his whole day here—this place where we spend our whole lives from January to July— as Roger Angell[1] put it “no place I’d rather be”— this place is gone.

Going, gone…

The suffering is fresh and new. It’s not your home that’s burning it’s the baseball fields. The place you like better than home.

Take my home. Give me back the baseball fields.

How can that feeling be true? How can it be so strong? This gets to a point I made earlier. The thing that’s burning isn’t your material possessions. It isn’t Pacific Palisades in physical form. It’s what lives on top of it. Little ecosystems of soul. I’d call it community but that’s too prosaic a word. Soul is the idea. When you find a group of people who want to spend 20 hours a week sitting on a hard metal bleacher watching kids learn to play baseball, people who leap up from their seats and cheer, holler, shake the fence when an awkward lumpy kid who doesn’t have friends at school and has a difficult relationship with his parents and has never been an athlete and can’t catch and throw and always steps out suddenly cracks one to the outfield, the ball is flying, flying over the outfielder’s head—the kid is jogging the bases with a bewildered look on his face while the dugout chants his name, while parents are in the air, hugging, hearts bleeding for this kid who against all odds just became his highest self at the moment the team needed it most—the glory, glory—of this moment. This moment, these people are your soul.

The lumpy kid jogging the bases is your soul.

Watch him closely.

In her recent bestseller The Night We Lost Him which spent months on the New York Times Bestseller List, Laura Dave writes a long inscription. It’s her acknowledgement section and there are a lot of people to acknowledge. She is after all the #1 bestselling author of The Last Thing He Told Me, Eight Hundred Grapes and other novels. Her books have been published in 38 languages and have been chosen by Reese Witherspoon’s Book Club, Best of Amazon, Best of Apple Books. The Last Thing He Told Me is a series on Apple TV+. She is the co-creator. Jennifer Garner stars. Her husband, Josh Singer, is a screenwriter best known for The Post and Spotlight and Maestro. He won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for Spotlight. Laura and her husband are a power couple. They attend awards parties. They have projects flying in the door and window. They get paid millions to lift the pen. There are a lot of things Laura could be grateful for. Lots of things could satiate her soul. What does she write in her acknowledgements section of her bestseller? I underlined it when I saw it:

Jacob, my favorite boy…

…nothing in this world makes me happier than watching you play baseball.

Laura is a Santa Monica resident and her son Jacob, 8, is an excellent shortstop. He plays for Pacific Palisades Baseball Association. His team the Chicago Cubs faced my sons’ team the St. Louis Cardinals in a second-round playoff game last spring. It was an epic battle. Late in the game we found ourselves down by four runs. Cardinals sat hunched on the bench. Ready to give up. Out of nowhere we rallied. Went on a streak. We tied up the game, 10-10, to go into extra innings. You can imagine our cheering section. I’ll insert now, selfishly, that of the ten PPBA teams we’ve been a part of we’ve never made it to the World Series. This was our chance and how glorious it would be to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Top of the 7th inning, Cubs score two runs. We’re down 12-10 but our best batters are going to get their chance. Our nine hitter grounds out to shortstop. One out. Our leadoff hitter Jack steps up. Singles. My son, Grey, hits a ball to left field. E Jackson singles on a fly ball to right field. “BASES LOA—DED!” kids in the dugout are stomping, shaking the fence. My son Sam is up. Hits a big ball to left field, sending one across the plate. Another coming. Score is 12-11. Grey is rounding third base and on his way home—this is it; this is the tying run—to open the door to the greatest moment of our collective lives—when the umpire stops the play. Sends Grey back to third base. Said he wasn’t halfway when the ball was controlled in the infield.

Silence.

Yelling. Coaches flying from the dugout, spit flying from their lips. How can you see the halfway line? You were turned the other direction? What is the halfway line? Point it out. Put your shoe in the dirt and show me where you think the halfway line is. The argument gets big and ugly and loud. A hush falls over the stands. The commissioner of the league is nearby. He wanders over to give the word of God. We’re afraid to breathe. Our entire life, our destiny was wrapped up in the outcome. The call stands. 12-11. Cardinals are down by a run, but it’s okay. We have bases loaded. Only one out. Kid named Ryan steps to the plate. He hits a pop fly to shortstop. Our runner on 2nd doesn’t tag up. Quick double play.

Silence again. Death that soon?

The outcome of course is that we watched Jacob’s team advance to the World Series. Laura Dave turned into a pile of nerves and Josh paced near the dugout and then wandered further, maybe the parking lot, too anxious to watch his son. We rooted for Jacob and the Chicago Cubs because we’d almost beaten them. The 2024 Pinto Cardinals were almost a World Series team last year.

Almost…

Glory….

That’s the promise baseball makes. The cycles of hope and depression are regular. They are communal. We are guaranteed the right to shout at the top of our lungs, sing and weep, stomp the metal bleachers when our epic journey almost plays out. We are met by death. Death again. One more out. Birth! One moment we’ve never felt better. The next we’re sure we’ve never felt worse.

Entire lives lived inside a season.

Like when my daughter Eloise’s team, the Bronco Tigers, went 13-5 in the regular season under the direction of the two greatest PPBA coaches there are. Ollie Dunn and Eric Foster. This is 12-year-old baseball; by this age in Southern California the players are good. The top players have played travel baseball for years, in addition to rec league and summer league. It’s year-round. Top players are two years away from being scouted by college coaches. In 8th grade it happens here. A 13-5 regular season record isn’t easy to achieve. There are many, many schools in Pacific Palisades. Their spring breaks do not coincide. There’s a period from mid- March to early April when at any given time, you have no idea what your roster is going to look like. Your entire bullpen could be at Disneyland. Yet, the show must go on. Two games a week. You put people on the mound who have never pitched before. Your infield looks shaky. You pull players up from Mustang to play outfield. No one knows their names or if they can catch. The 2024 Bronco Detroit Tigers managed this period beautifully. We didn’t drop a single game. We had two girls on that team (anomaly) and my daughter Eloise who bats 8th or 9th went through a long dry spell. Her teammates never stopped cheering. They stood in the dugout, yelling her nickname “Tweezer” every time she stepped into the batting box. They almost toppled her one day when she caught a big hit to left field. Their winning record, a thing of beauty, doesn’t begin to describe the chemistry of this team. How much fun they had. Their coaches. The coaching style. Dignity. Excellence. Humility. Sheer athleticism on full display.

Playoffs approach.

The phoenix will rise on the wings of this team…

Coach sends out the e-mail on Sunday May 5th.

Hi team,

Great effort yesterday. Full team win and…. we secured the number 1 seed in the playoffs!!! Kids deserve a big pat on the back. Historically the number 1 seed has struggled, mostly because of lofty expectations. let’s all do our part in reminding the kids that we lost to some teams that are waaaaaaaaay behind us in the standings. Seeding doesn’t matter!!!!

Upcoming we have practice today 6-7:30ish on field 1. Please try to be there!

Final game is on Tuesday at 4:30 on field 2 vs the orioles. Bp on Wednesday at 6:30………we don’t know who are playing in the playoffs but we know that our first game will Saturday may 11 at 2 pm. Put it in the calendar

ROAR

-donuts

Tuesday at 4:30 pm on May 7th we make quick work of the Baltimore Orioles. We win 7-3 and barely watch the game. We’re on Amazon buying Detroit Tigers balloons and banners and picnic ware and cup holders and cloth flags and cowbells and glitter decals for the face and arm. Flea bitten Detroit Tigers sweatshirt from a thrift store in Venice. Everything we need for a playoff run.

Next e-mail from coach on Sunday May 8th:

Hey tigers,

Great win last night! Awesome way to wrap up the reg season. We play the same team (orioles) on Saturday in the playoffs. Was a hard fought game yesterday and I anticipate the same for Saturday.

The only thing that changes in the playoffs is there are no substitution rules other than a player cannot sit two innings in a row. The defensive rotations will be tighter.

We have bp tonite at 6:30.

ROAR!!!!  

-donuts

Another e-mail on Mother’s Day.

Hi team,

Quick update. We play tomorrow on field 2 at 2 pm, we are the home team so we are responsible for scoreboard and GameChanger. Please have them there by 1 pm near the cages.

If we win will play on Tuesday if we lose we will play on Thursday. In either case we will have practice on Sunday like normal, 6-7:30 even tho its mothers day. None of you guys are my mom;) Given where we are in the season I think it’s important to get some work in but also I completely understand if people can’t make it. No need to let me know but I’ll be there at 6 like normal and we will go from there.

The playoffs can sometimes have a more intense feel, depending on the game and who shows up in the stands etc…. its our job to try to keep everything normal. Let’s all do our best to keep the pressure off—parents have been really good at this all season let’s keep it up. I have been only so so at it, I’ll be better I promise!!!

Let’s enjoy this playoff run!

ROAR!

-donuts

Saturday approaches. We’re on our lucky field. Field 2. It’s the furthest walk from the parking lot but it gives us time to control our excitement. Breathe. There’s nothing better than being a powerhouse team headed into the part of the season where life takes on new meaning. Set up the folding chair. Regular spot. Don’t do anything differently today; don’t pierce the magic bubble. Detroit Tigers are looking good, relaxed, ready to play. Why shouldn’t they be? Detroit Tigers crushed the Orioles just four days earlier. Our players are the best, most athletic in the league. They have that je ne sais quoi; you can see it in the way they dig into the batter’s box, get the wistful look in the eye.

Game begins. We score a run in the first inning. They score a run in the second inning. We work our lead up to 5-1 at exactly the right time, with only one inning left to play. Victory in the bag. Right? Top of the 6th inning. Feeling good. One of our ace pitchers is on the mound. Orioles batter grounds out to pitcher. Easy out at first. Next batter up. Walk. Hit by pitch. Walk. Somewhere in there we pick off a guy at 2nd. As Roger Angell, the great baseball writer wrote, “This is how I describe baseball. Nothing happens. Nothing happens. Nothing happens. Then all hell breaks loose….”[2]

Well. A little bit of hell is breaking loose. Not a lot of hell. Just a little. Pitcher is sweating through his neck gator. Coaches are up and out, discussing. They decide on a pitching change. New pitcher. The new pitcher’s mom circles the dugout. Doesn’t like the decision. In a voice we can all hear, “my son is not a closer.” Coaches demur. Coach Foster goes back to sitting on the overturned white bucket where he always sits. Detroit fans inch forward in the chair. We like this pitcher. He’ll be fine. He’s warming up and looks sharp. Come on. We need one more out. We’re ahead by 4 runs. Let’s go.

Walk. Walk. Score is now 5-2. Single. Score is now 5-3. Single. Score is now 5-4. Air is in short supply. This part of the game I can barely watch. We need to close it out here. We’re still alive! Just one more out!!!! Orioles batter at the plate. Get this guy out!!!! A grandparent nearby looks like his pacemaker is about to explode.

Ball one. Ball two. Ball three. In play.

Something happens which I black out for; batter makes contact. I hear the ping of the baseball on the aluminum bat. Not a great hit. Easy grounder. Second baseman scoops it up and instead of throwing it to first base sends it to Homeplate? Catcher has the ball. I swear he has the ball and the play is over. For reasons we’ll never know he chucks it as hard as he can over the first baseman’s head and the runners are moving. Two runs come across the plate. Two runs driven in on that pathetic hit. Orioles Mardi Gras party. What the hell did I just watch? Did that just happen? To say we’re still alive (half an inning left to play) is to omit the truth. Oxygen is gone. 12-year-olds are in shock. A player on our team is screaming at the top of his lungs at his dad. Bottom of batting order. Ground out. Ground out. My daughter Eloise is at the plate. I keep thinking: this horror movie is going to end on her? My daughter is going to be the closing image of defeat? In surreal fashion, Eloise gets a hit. She singles to the third baseman. She looks confused when she gets to first. Astride the plate. One last chance. Batter hits up a pop-up to the pitcher. Game over.

The official recap:

“PPBA 2024 Bronco Tigers Drop Game to PPBA 2024 Bronco Orioles After Late Score. Saturday’s game was a heartbreaker for Bronco Tigers, as they lost the lead late in a 6-5 defeat. Bronco Tigers lost despite outhitting the Orioles 10 to 6.…”

We are heartbroken, yes. In shock, yes. But this is double elimination. We have another path forward (winners go to the winner’s bracket, losers to the loser’s bracket. It’s harder to get to Narnia that way but yes, we can still get there. Mindset will be everything.

What the coaches say here, matters.

Saturday May 11th, 10:55 pm.

Tigers family,

What a tough loss. After a few hours of reflection….I still can’t believe what happened… im kidding. Sometimes a series of unfortunate events unravels in the worst way possible. I have been second guessing my decisions all night. As of this moment I have moved on and I am actually very excited to see how we all respond. I have also decided that the winners bracket is boring and we should all be looking forward to eliminating some teams next week! Happy Mothers day to Currie and all the awesome moms on this team. Practice tomorrow.

-donuts

Parents reply all:

Amen. ;)

Amen!

Beautifully said. Resilience in the face of unfortunate events. Shit Happens. Get over it. 

The fanbase has recovered. Have the players recovered?

Between Wednesday and Saturday, I keep thinking about Jack Nicklaus. Jack Nicklaus “Golden Bear” was one of the greatest professional golfers of all time. He won 117 professional tournaments in his career. What was his secret? Bob Rotella writes about in the book, Putting Out Of Your Mind.

Jack was speaking at an event at which he said, “I have never three-putted, or missed from inside five feet, on the final hole of a tournament.”

At question time a guy in the audience took Jack to task. He said that he was watching a recent tournament and that Jack Nicklaus missed a three-foot putt on the last hole.

Jack replied “Sir, you’re wrong. I have never three-putted, or missed from inside five feet, on the final hole of a tournament.”

The audience member offered to send him a video tape.

“No need to send me anything sir. I was there. I have never three-putted, or missed from inside five feet on the final green of a tournament.”

Of course, that was Jack Nicklaus’ secret. He was good at getting over his mistakes. So good in fact, that he refused to even remember them.

Wednesday comes. I wonder whether to slap a picture of Jack Nicklaus on the Detroit Tigers banner. Baseball is nothing if not resurrection.

Clean spirit.

Let’s do this…

Air feels funny. Sunshine, sinister. First pitch is thrown out. Game begins. Red Sox score a run in the first inning. We score two runs. Okay. Here we go. We’re doing this. Next inning. Red Sox score five quick runs; our star pitcher looks dazed. Infielders look like they stuck their hands in an electrical socket. Frayed, slightly emotional. Still standing. Better than still standing. We score three runs in the third inning, so we’re right there. This is a close game. Detroit Tigers are down by only one run to the Red Sox, 6-5, and we have baseball left to play! Three innings to play. Plenty of time!

Right then, if you walked by the field and looked at the Detroit Tigers, you’d think you were watching a team who was losing 15-0. What got into these kids? No one knows. The ghost of meltdown lurking. Delayed frustration from Saturday. That pesky voice of doubt.

But today is different! Come on. We can easily win this game!

The coaches can’t hide their frustration. Tension in their voices. 

Fans are loyal. We keep yelling hard. You’re so close, right there! Despite our loud, hopeless cheering, the attitudes get worse. The Detroit Tigers start acting like angry, frustrated losers when anything doesn’t go their way. Snarling. Kicking dirt. Bitter and annoyed. Blowing up at the umpire on every call. One our pitchers grows red patches on his cheeks. Pouring hot tears. Refuses to pitch anymore. Lurches off to the dugout. Mound is empty. His dad forces him back to the mound. Car crash beginning. Car crash right here in motion. Buy your tickets to watch the Detroit Tigers end their season in public embarrassment, shame.

The official recap doesn’t do it justice:

“Strong Hitting Not Enough As 2024 Bronco Tigers Falls to Bronco Red Sox.”

It should read:

“Strong Hitting Not Enough As 2024 Bronco Tigers become a Greek Tragedy.”

During the last inning, I looked at my daughter, Eloise. She was inside the dugout looking to the outfield. For Eloise, it would be the last playoff game she’d ever play. The last baseball game she’d ever play.

I wondered what she thought.

Her teammates left the field crying. Several parents walked off because they were too sad to see their kids (and one coach) in tears. The coaches waved the rest of us over to join the post-game huddle. Usually, the post-game huddle is reserved for the players. Tonight, we all gathered in the outfield under a darkening sky. Listened to the other team celebrating in the distance. As the coaches spoke, something dawned on me.

The luck of it—

The luck of being part of it—

We received an e-mail late that night titled “Final Final.”

Hello tigers,

One last note to wrap up the season… one of the strangest years I can remember. Its not how you start its how you finish, well im flipping that expression upside down. I have decided it is fact how you start that matters!:)

I was making a drink after our loss on Thursday, in a bit of a funk and Marlon out of nowhere said “that’s the most fun I have ever had playing ppba.” I dropped my glass in the sink, a bit in shock. I had no idea. Which kind of threw me, how did I not know that? I was really relieved to hear it and I hope it rings true for the entire team. Despite the disappointing playoff run the team was a really fun group of kids and coaches who all felt very comfortable with each other. Credit to everyone involved!!!! Many thanks for all the support.

End of season notes

{List of kids who made 12u and 11u all star team}

Lastly thank you for all the generous coaches gifts. It was my pleasure to be on the field with the kids all spring. Hope to see all of you around the park in the years to come.

ROAR!

-donuts

When Roger Angell told a fellow journalist after the Mets lost to the Yankees in the 2000 Subway World Series, “We should check in on the losers. The story’s in there too,” he was drawing our attention to the luck of it—

The sheer luck of being part of the 2024 Bronco Tigers—

The memory of the darkening sky. The coaches. The kids. Smiling through tears…

The memories live.

On this day as the baseball fields burn, like Laura Dave, I have acknowledgements:

Here are my acknowledgements.

Thank you, Eloise. Thank you, Ollie and Eric. I still have the game ball you gave her after she caught that pop fly in left field. After the team almost toppled her to the ground. It’s on the bookshelf near the desk where I write, and I treat it as my own. It is my own. If you knew what the moments mean to me. If you only knew.

And to Sam and Grey, my twins. Not Minnesota Twins but real twins. Fraternal twins. Pinto Red Sox and Shetland Pirates the first year, Pinto Orioles the second, Pinto Cardinals last year, then Mustang Orioles. All the June and July tournaments. Simi Valley and Agoura Hills and Valencia where it’s 105 degrees with no breeze and only the movie theatre to take shelter in between games. Encino ballpark. The ballpark next to the avocado fields where we won District Sectionals, and I have pictures of your team getting their first pennant. You both wore the Palisades jersey and star-spangled socks well. Sam, you had a black eye that day from being hit in the cheek with a baseball. Grey, you made the number one sign with your hand. You are twins with different everything, different hair color, different eye color, different height and gait. Different running speed and throwing speed. Different attitudes, different tolerance for mistakes. You play different positions. Sometimes you’re on opposite ends of the batting order. You have different ways of listening to your coaches. Different friendships with your teammates. Different aspects of the game that light you up. Different sorrows. Different habits. Different senses of humor. Different ways of seeing yourself in the world. And yet, the dugout is where you sit together.

10:22 am on Thursday January 9th something is happening—amidst the flames—I can’t name. It’s down there too deep. I guard it with everything.

RIP Pacific Palisades Baseball Association. 

Until we meet again.

---

[1] From Roger Angell’s New Yorker obituary: “He was not only the greatest of baseball writers; he had also lived long enough to see Babe Ruth, of the Yankees, at one end of his life and Shohei Ohtani, of the Angels, at the other.”
[2] Angell painted exquisite verbal pictures of players in action. He compared the unique high-kicking delivery of a great pitcher, Juan Marichal of the San Francisco Giants, to “some enormous and highly dangerous farm implement”.