The Boy Who Knew Too Much

by Cathy Byrd

  Right before the start of the season, the Los Angeles Dodgers had been purchased by Guggenheim Baseball Management for the highest price ever paid for a sports franchise, $2.15 billion in cash. I was excited when I found out that my former employer, Earvin “Magic” Johnson, was one of the new owners of the Dodgers. I hadn’t been in close contact with Magic since leaving my job as vice president of the Magic Johnson Foundation 14 years earlier to pursue a career in real estate with my mom, but this serendipitous turn of events provided a great opportunity to rekindle the friendship. When our paths crossed at Dodger Stadium on a Tuesday night, I introduced Magic to Christian and proposed the idea of having him throw a ceremonial first pitch at a Dodger game. Although Magic didn’t appear to take the request too seriously, he was amused by my tenacity.

  A few days later, I was navigating the aisles of a grocery store with Charlotte and Christian in tow when I received a call from the Dodgers’ main office. The person on the other end of the line said he and his colleague, who was also on the line, were calling because they had heard about my request to have my three-year-old son throw a first pitch at a Dodger game. The man then said, “Ma’am, you know that everybody wants their kid to throw a first pitch, right?” At that moment my sense of recognition clicked, and I realized that I was being punked.

  I asked with a knowing laugh, “Is this Lon?” It was indeed my old friend Lon Rosen, Magic Johnson’s longtime agent, who I had first met when he interviewed me to work at Magic’s foundation. As it turned out, Lon was now the executive vice president of marketing for the Los Angeles Dodgers. The three of us had a good laugh, and I even managed to keep my sense of humor when Lon delivered the disappointing news that there was no chance of Christian throwing a ceremonial first pitch at a Dodger game.

  His exact words were: “It’s not gonna happen.”

  Since my hopes of having Christian throw a first pitch at a Dodger game were dashed, his preschool teacher, Mrs. B, arranged for him to throw a first pitch at a high school baseball game. Christian had such a good time throwing the first pitch at the high school game that another friend made arrangements for him to throw a first pitch at a Pepperdine University baseball game. Sitting in the dugout with the college players on the beautiful field overlooking the Malibu coastline was like being in Heaven for our little boy. He was right at home on the mound, and his ceremonial first pitch was a big hit with the crowd. We were amazed when two color photos of Christian’s first pitch at the Pepperdine University game showed up on the cover of The Malibu Times newspaper the following week with the headline, “Watch Your Back Clayton Kershaw.” We had no idea who Clayton Kershaw was at the time, but easily deduced that he must have been a pitcher for the Dodgers.

  For the most part, we enjoyed indulging Christian’s passion for baseball, but there were days when we prayed for relief from his tyranny. When he was in the role of pitcher, he begged us to run the bases each time a ball was hit, and he kept track of the score in his head. It was impossible to end our family baseball games until he was satisfied that the last out had been made. On one of our numerous outings to play baseball at a local high school, Christian spotted a metal cleat lying on top of a trash can in the dugout. This dirty, metal cleat became his most prized possession, and many nights he fell asleep cradling it in his arms.

  One night before dozing off Christian said, “In the old days, we wore metal cleats but no batting helmets.” This turned out to be yet another statement that proved to be true of baseball during Lou Gehrig’s era. I discovered that metal cleats were invented in 1882, and batting helmets were not introduced in the Major Leagues until the mid-1950s. Christian was still three years away from being able to read when he said this and I was quite sure that he had never been exposed to this information.

  Shortly before the release of Adam Sandler’s movie That’s My Boy, we received an e-mail from a reporter at the Ventura County Star by the name of Rhiannon Potkey. Rhiannon had been assigned the task of writing a lighthearted human-interest story about Christian being discovered on YouTube for the movie. However, it was clear from our e-mail correspondence that she was much more interested in Christian’s obvious love of baseball than she was in his minor acting role. It was a Monday afternoon in May when Rhiannon showed up at our home to conduct the interview. Rhiannon’s knowledge of sports—all sports—was way beyond my comprehension.

  By asking a few questions, I found out that Rhiannon was once an accomplished athlete and had faced Serena Williams in more than one championship match during her days as a player in the fiercely competitive Southern California junior tennis circuit. Donning a bowl-cut hairstyle, she’d also battled it out on the Little League fields to earn her credibility among the boys, long before the notorious exploits of Mo’ne Davis in the Little League World Series. Unfortunately Rhiannon’s athletic career was stunted due to debilitating pain, sometimes so extreme that she had to stay in bed for days on end and had to rely on friends to bring her food. She had warned me prior to her visit that if it was a bad pain day we might have to reschedule, but today was a good day.

  When Rhiannon arrived, Christian was engaged in his normal ritual of playing baseball in our family room while Charlotte was in the kitchen preparing Kool-Aid for her upcoming seventh birthday party. I explained to Rhiannon that this was something Christian did every day for hours on end. The athletic news reporter jumped into the action right away, tossing balls to Christian and egging him on as he belted line drives off the microwave and hit pop flies into the ceiling fan. Rhiannon skillfully assumed the roles of pitcher and catcher in Christian’s imaginary baseball game, while managing to simultaneously ask questions and jot down notes without getting hit by a single ball.

  When the inquisitive reporter politely asked for my permission to interview Charlotte to get a quote about her brother, I willingly obliged. Rhiannon started by asking Charlotte why her brother liked baseball so much. This is when my worst nightmare became a reality. Charlotte’s Kool-Aid-fueled monologue on Christian’s past-life memories began with, “Christian used to be a tall baseball player. He played first base for the Yankees.” Before I could interrupt, Charlotte had already spilled the beans. “He was Lou Gehrig, and he hates Babe Ruth.”

  I tripped over my words while attempting to explain to Rhiannon what Charlotte was talking about and then begged, “Would it be okay if we keep this off the record?” When she responded by laughing rather than the affirmative yes I was hoping for, I had visions of a headline that read: “Three-Year-Old Boy Thinks He Was Lou Gehrig.” I was a nervous wreck just thinking about it.

  In an effort to change the subject, I suggested we go upstairs so that Christian could give Rhiannon a tour of his room. As we passed the laundry room, Christian pointed out a pile of baseball pants with fresh grass stains and proudly said, “Those are my baseball pants.” Rhiannon acted impressed when he added, “I made the green spots by sliding in the grass.” She laughed when I told her Christian easily went through an average of 10 pairs of baseball pants per week and sometimes even managed to sneak his protective baseball cup to preschool without me noticing. The tour of Christian’s room included an introduction to his beloved metal cleat, and he nearly burst with excitement when he showed Rhiannon his autographed ball from Matt Kemp.

  As I walked Rhiannon out to her car, she said, “You remind me of Kathy Bryan, the mother of the Bryan Brothers.” I knew exactly who she was talking about, not only because Kathy’s twin sons were the most accomplished doubles team in professional tennis at the time, but also because I was a big fan of Kathy’s husband, Wayne Bryan’s, book, Raising Your Child to Be a Champion in Athletics, Arts, and Academics. I considered Kathy Bryan to be a role model, as a coach and as a parent, because she was an advocate for keeping sports fun for kids while instilling the values of hard work and discipline. Wayne Bryan’s advice for parents and coaches was to never force a child to play against their will and to always keep them wanting more. Before departing Rhiannon said, “To say
Christian eats, sleeps, and breathes baseball might be an understatement.”

  Michael was mortified when I gave him the news that Charlotte had told the reporter about Christian’s claims of being Lou Gehrig. Michael huffed, “Great. The whole world is going to think our kid is nuts!” When the article hit the newsstands, two color photos of Christian graced the front page of the Ventura County Star below the giant headline, “Passion Never Off Base.” Above the headline appeared a quote from me that read, “The kid is really lucky, but he has no idea. He just loves baseball.” Rhiannon gave numerous examples of Christian’s extreme baseball obsession and wrote of his baseball skills: “The left-hander has nearly perfect form when he swings a bat and an intense stare when he fires a pitch with a leg kick.”

  The article ended with a quote from Christian in response to why he never wants to stop swinging a bat or throwing a ball.

  “Because I like baseball and I want to play it all the time.”

  Thankfully there was no mention of Christian claiming to be Lou Gehrig in a previous life. Rhiannon gave a fun description of Charlotte ducking to avoid balls as she made Kool-Aid during Christian’s indoor batting practice. Charlotte’s quote in the article was, “He always does this. He even does it at lunch.” Michael and I were elated to have dodged that bullet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME

  “I bleed Dodger blue and when I die,

  I’m going to the big Dodger in the sky.”

  TOMMY LASORDA

  That summer we celebrated the conclusion of the school year with a big seventh birthday party for Charlotte at our community pool, followed by a family reunion in Lake Tahoe. Our trip was actually a week-long 70th birthday celebration for my mom, her identical twin sister, and their best friend from high school. This was a trip I looked forward to taking every five years with my extended family because many of my fondest memories were created at this picturesque lake in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Although the people in our tightly knit group were all Southern California natives, we had gradually become more scattered throughout the United States as my generation settled down to have children of our own.

  Our rendezvous at this sacred spot with my cousins and longtime family friends was like a walk back in time. Seeing our children learn to water ski and skip rocks on this crystal-clear lake, just as we had done together in the 1970s, was surreal; a little slice of Heaven on Earth. Our time together at this alpine retreat also provided a perfect opportunity for me to discuss Christian’s claims of being a baseball player in another lifetime with my three cousins, who were more like sisters to me. I told them how his storytelling had begun exactly a year before at our church camp in the woods when Christian was two years old. It was a pleasant surprise when my cousin Leanne, who owns a yoga studio in Nashville, was willing to entertain the possibility that Christian’s stories were not pure fantasy. Leanne was promptly added to my short list of confidantes, which also included Michael, my mom, and Cinthia.

  When we returned home from Lake Tahoe, I noticed a considerable change in Christian. On days when we attended Dodger games, he was much less inclined to talk about his past-life memories. Being immersed in the action of the Dodgers seemed to bring him into the present. Instead of wanting to talk about Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig before bed, he preferred to rehash the Dodger game he had just watched and flip through the player photos in the Dodger media guide. This prompted my decision to take Charlotte and Christian to Dodger games multiple times per week that summer. My desire to get Christian out of the past and into the present was the prime motivation behind our frequent trips to the ballpark.

  Dodger Stadium became our new Disneyland of sorts, with an equally colorful cast of characters we looked forward to seeing at every game. Michael’s enthusiasm for making the long haul to downtown Los Angeles to watch the Dodger games was waning, so my friend Cinthia gladly scooped up his season ticket. She was a tremendous help when it came to keeping an eye on Charlotte and Christian at Dodger Stadium.

  Dodger Stadium, commonly referred to as Chavez Ravine because of the narrow gorge in which the stadium sits, is the third-oldest ballpark in Major League Baseball and the largest MLB stadium by its seating capacity of 56,000. In the summer of 2012, Dodger game attendance was quite low, despite efforts by the new ownership group to boost the sagging fan morale left behind by the former Dodgers owner, Frank McCourt. This meant there were plenty of open seats right next to the Dodger dugout for us to choose from. This is where we met the colorful cast of characters who became our surrogate family.

  There was Ernest the ice-cream vendor, who had been walking the Dodger Stadium aisles with his tasty treats for 50 years, and the friendly ushers who welcomed us with open arms to the front row seats, even though they knew our season ticket seats were way up in the nosebleed section. Charlotte and Christian acquired a deep respect for the always helpful police officers who lined the halls of the stadium and made them feel safe. There was also the full-time crew of landscapers who made sure that the lush turf was perfectly groomed before each game. The head groundskeeper, Eric Hanson, once said of the Dodger Stadium turf, “You can see there’s a lot of science to it, but there’s a lot more art.” The combination of art and science he described struck me as very similar to the game of baseball itself. And then there were the Dodgers fans; the heart and soul of any Major League Baseball club.

  Our newly acquired Dodgers family was quite diverse, but the one thing they all had in common was the fact that they bled Dodger blue, a phrase coined by longtime Dodgers skipper Tommy Lasorda. At 84 years old, Tommy Lasorda was an honorary figurehead for the Dodgers and could be found at every home game, mingling with fans and never hesitating to sign an autograph or kiss a baby.

  Leading our crew in the Dodgers cheering section was Hiccups the Clown, a Hispanic man in his late 20s who dressed up as a Dodger clown for every game, complete with face paint, a bulbous blue nose, big clown shoes, and a Dodgers jersey. We were first attracted to Hiccups because of the appealing photo opportunity and because of the way he made people smile. However, as we got to know the man behind the clown suit, it was his great big heart that we all fell in love with.

  Hiccups was a real-life superhero, a man on a mission to feed the homeless and bring joy to the hospital rooms of pediatric cancer patients. In addition to his full-time job at a local children’s hospital where he dressed up as a Dodgers clown on his lunch breaks to visit the kids who were being treated for cancer, Hiccups also rallied hundreds of people to bring pizza and clothing to homeless people on skid row in downtown Los Angeles once a month. In the midst of his already full life, our pal Hiccups managed to squeeze in taking care of his 99-year-old grandmother and attending nearly every Dodgers home game.

  Our next friendship was formed when a friendly, upbeat Dodgers fan in his mid-50s noticed Christian’s intense love of the game. This nice man named Russell had probably attended more baseball games in his life than most professional baseball players. Russell was as well-known at Dodger Stadium for his motto, “No bad days,” as he was for his bright, Hawaiian-print, baseball-themed dress shirts. At times when I was unable to tear Christian away from the game to go to the concession stand or bathroom with Charlotte and me, Russell stood on guard until I returned.

  Our little tribe expanded when we met Don and Merry, a fun-loving couple in their 70s who never missed a game, and then again when we met Rhonda, a kindhearted, Jewish mother of two college-aged daughters. Rhonda, who had recently beaten cancer, had more energy than all of us combined. She gave each member of our unofficial Dodgers fan club a necklace that said “Stay Positive,” and we wore them at every game with pride. We were a motley crew of misfits who somehow fit together perfectly.

  Charlotte and Christian never tired of singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh-inning stretch or chasing the beach balls that inevitably bounced through the crowd whenever there was a break in the action on the field. They both knew the
words to the national anthem by heart and had committed the names and numbers of their favorite Dodgers players to memory. Christian was completely enamored with left-handed pitcher Clayton Kershaw. When Clayton was on the mound, nothing could distract Christian’s attention. After watching Clayton pitch in person at Dodger Stadium, our baseball-obsessed son would rush to the television to watch the replay of the game as soon as we arrived home. Christian studied Clayton’s unique stretch and windup with laser-beam focus and practiced the 24-year-old-pitching-icon’s movements over and over again, until he was able to imitate him perfectly.

  I didn’t think Christian’s admiration for Clayton could get any greater, but my mind was changed when I witnessed him meet his larger-than-life hero in person at a fan appreciation event known as On-Field Photo Day. This is a tradition at Dodger Stadium that started in the 1970s where players mingle with fans on the field prior to a late afternoon game. Legions of fans gather around waist-high temporary fences while the players make their way around the penned-in area to pose for photos. Three-year-old Christian was awestruck when he saw Clayton making his way down the long line of adoring fans and stopping to pose for pictures.

  When Clayton finally appeared in front of where we were standing, Christian was so excited that he completely froze. In an effort to break the ice, I handed Clayton the front page of The Malibu Times with the funny headline that read, “Watch Your Back Clayton Kershaw.” Clayton laughed and said, “I’ve heard of this kid. A friend of mine sent me an article about him.” I correctly guessed that Clayton was referring to Rhiannon’s article in the Ventura County Star where Christian was quoted as saying Clayton was his favorite player. Clayton posed for a quick picture before continuing to make his way through the crowd.

  After witnessing Clayton’s generous spirit that day, I was curious to learn more about him. Online, I found the nonprofit foundation Kershaw’s Challenge, which was created by Clayton and his wife, Ellen, to serve parent-less children in the most impoverished areas of southern Africa. In addition to donating $100 each time Clayton successfully struck out a batter, this young couple had also written a faith-based book called Arise: Live Out Your Faith and Dreams on Whatever Field You Find Yourself and had used the proceeds to build an orphanage in Zambia. Clayton and Ellen Kershaw had an obvious passion for helping others, and Clayton appeared to be a role model in more ways than one.