Kill, Hit, Sing

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Being married to a college coach I have had the chance to see some amazing athletes. I’ve had a front row seat to transcendent moments where talent, passion and effort intersect in a goosebump kind of performance.  It is fun to watch but beyond that it is inspiring because it reveals what is possible as a human being. It makes me believe we all have the ability to do something that well, make that kind of contribution to the world, if we only identify our talent and then work it relentlessly for years.  And if we are lucky, it will come together in a moment that makes all the hard work worth it. If we are lucky, it comes together in a moment of stunning perfection. A third national championship, a four home run night.

Finally settled in from our move from the east bay to Palo Alto, I look around and realize there are a lot of good sporting events happening within a mile of my house. I jump on the volleyball bandwagon and start watching the Stanford women’s team.  It doesn’t take an expert to recognize that this team is playing at a high level, like cruising-altitude-in-a-jet high level. They are so fun to watch, and the most fun of all is Kathryn Plummer. At 6’ 6” with a flowing long blond braid she would be hard to miss but it is the grace and power of her play that is most compelling. I’d hate to be on the other side of the net when Hentz gets another perfect set and Kathryn comes out of the backcourt, rising in the air, arm swinging into one of her lethal kill shots. I could watch that over and over. It is like the Khaleesi on her dragon – undefendable. She has a fearful grace that is power and elegance and fierce competitiveness poured into movement. Her fearful grace led the team to its third national championship in four years and anyone watching that final match knew they were witnessing a physicality as close to perfection as humans can get.

I watch a lot of baseball. I love it. I’ve seen so many exciting games, thrilling moments, crazy calls and comebacks. But until this past year I had never seen one player hit a home run every time he was at bat in a game. Andrew Daschbach is a big, strong, friendly guy, like a golden retriever in Paul Bunyan’s body. And like Paul Bunyan might have done had he played baseball, Andrew eviscerated pitchers in a game against Cal Poly on May 14, 2019. Not only did he hit four home runs in one game, he hit those home runs off four different pitchers. By the fourth time he was up to bat every single person in the stands was holding their breath. Would he do it? Would he manage it one last time? I snuck a look around to find his parents, over in a different section. If my heart was beating fast theirs must have been pounding out of their chests. He made contact but unlike his first three, it wasn’t immediately obvious if it would go out. We all watched, silent, hoping, willing that ball out of the park. After time seemed to stand still the ball cleared the right field fence and the crowd went wild. His teammates went wild. I’m sure his parents went wild, all the parents went wild. I’ve been around athletes for a long time now and I am aware of the years of practice that went into that night. The years of working out, conditioning, eating healthy, hours in batting cages and weight rooms. Of overcoming slumps and injuries and exhaustion and bad calls. Nothing is guaranteed, but on a night like that, all those years of work must feel worth it. We all can feel a sense of potential but how often does it become fully realized? A night like that is a rare chance to feel like the potential has been fully realized, it has been completely fulfilled. The ball soared off into the night, again and again and again, there was no way to improve on that. It was the best that could be done, by anyone, anywhere.

I watch Kathryn and Andrew and feel a hum of possibility in myself. What is it I have to offer the world? What interest and skill do I have to offer, what passion is worth years of my time? What moments might I rise to that level of performance?

Many of us might reach a moment that big, might have a transcendent moment, but in all likelihood, it will not be public. It will not be cheered by masses of people. It will not be broadcast on SportsCenter and Twitter. It doesn’t have to be any less meaningful for that.

Craig and Karen Coane have hosted a Christmas caroling party for 12 years. They have the perfect house for entertaining, open floor plan, cool back deck and back yard, a stunning kitchen. Everyone brings food, mostly crockpots of chili, every variation you can imagine. It is festive and fun and everyone is chatting and enjoying each other and then Craig tunes up his guitar and starts the caroling practice. People are slow to stop talking to each other but eventually we are all pulled in to the music. And then it is time to head out into the neighborhood.  I’ve noticed that over the years, more and more people forego the caroling part of the caroling party, lagging behind inside, enjoying the warmth and the food and the good conversation.  This year, it had rained on and off all day and it was dark and foggy outside. Their beautiful house felt even more cozy. Fewer people than usual headed out to sing.

Then Karen sent a messenger inside to remind people that this was a caroling party, after all. Someone grabbed the microphone and shamed everyone into heading out to sing. We love Craig so much that we all went. The first house or two had people welcoming us. Then we hit a run of houses with babies sleeping, the parents at the door wide eyed in their pleas for silence. And then some houses where no one answered the door. And then a couple more welcoming folks. We sang, chatted on the way to the next house, sang again. The fog gave an eerie look to the world, everything fuzzy, all sharp edges gone.

Then we got to a house we go to every year, one towards the end of the route. There is an old couple who live there, they are slow to open the door but the festive wreath and the porch lights signal they are home and we should wait. Eventually the door opens to reveal them in their robes, beaming and happy to see us.  This year when the door finally opened it was only the man. He told us that his wife had passed away in June. And then tears started to slide down his face.

The group went silent. The laughing and chatting that had accompanied the whole trip stopped. While the rest of us stood tongue-tied, Craig seamlessly shifted from gregarious to compassionate. In a soft voice he told the man he was so sorry to hear that. The man talked about how much they looked forward to the caroling. How much his wife had looked forward to it. And Craig offered more kind words, shifting the whole group into a supportive mood. And then we sang Silent Night. Everyone cried. Even the man as he sang along, his face crumpled in grief, tears streaming. Even the pack of sixteen-year-old boys who, surprisingly, were still along, still singing, seemingly forgetting for this one night that singing carols is uncool.

For the length of that song we were with that man in his grief. I’d like to think it offered him some company in his sadness, a lessening, for a second, of his profound loneliness. I loved every person in that group in that moment. It was a reminder of what life is really about, being truly present with each other in all the parts of life. I will never sing Silent Night again without thinking of that man and that night. I’m not sure I’ll ever sing it again without tears.

Craig has been a musician his whole life. He brings the music wherever he goes. He has a relentless cheery outlook. Without being the least pushy, he inspires people to enjoy life, to sing even if they have no great voice, to dance even with poor moves. Even people who don’t know him are pulled into his charisma, as evidenced by the bartender at the Field of Dreams in Manteca who said ‘you do you Boo!’ to him, as evidenced by the ski resort employee who sold him lift tickets and said, ‘here you go, Craig-a-licious.’

Although he is an accomplished musician, it wasn’t Craig’s skill with music that made this moment – it was his skill with people.  He inspired us to get out and sing which brought us to the very place we were most needed. And he responded with compassion and tenderness to a heartbroken man. He turned an awkward situation into a holy one.

Kathryn Plummer gave all of herself and got her moment. Andrew Daschbach gave all of himself and got his moment.  And Craig Coane did the same and gave us all a moment, singing with the grieving old man. On that damp and foggy night, my voice joining other voices felt as powerful as a Plummer kill, as soaring as a Daschbach home run.

For a beautiful moment, humanity’s potential fulfilled.

 

 

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