Recently, I spent a Sunday in Norwalk, observing a group of 12-year-olds play baseball on a field situated between a juvenile detention center and a pair of railway lines. The day was hot and dry, and any whisper of a breeze was laced with the scent of diesel from the nearby industrial zone. Despite these conditions, I couldn’t think of a place I’d rather be.
Some of my friends, especially those without children or whose kids aren’t sports fanatics, find my commitment puzzling. For the most part of the year, I rise early on weekends to drive my son from our home in Atwater Village to various tournaments with his travel team. Our journeys have taken us to places like Sylmar, West Covina, Jurupa Valley, Irvine, Ladera Ranch, and even San Diego. I’ve declined offers to go camping or enjoy a weekend in Las Vegas and New Orleans. Although my novel was recently published, I’ve opted not to go on a book tour because I don’t want to miss a single moment of my son’s games.
As the months roll by, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude instead of regret. Yes, I’m proud of my son’s dedication to a sport he loves. And yes, I do find solace in watching him strengthen and gain confidence while I, on the other hand, face the inevitabilities of aging. But moreover, I cherish the hours spent with my son (and often my wife, sometimes our teenage daughter) traveling to and from his tournaments—those precious hours filled with conversation, music, and the colorful, sprawling life of this region. There are also deeper, more personal reasons.
I grew up far from here, in Hong Kong and western Canada, and knew the United States only through movies, TV, and a handful of books—Twain, Steinbeck, “The Autobiography of Malcolm X.” It wasn’t until college in Montreal, where I ran track for McGill, that I began spending time in this country. Our team would travel to New York and New England for meets. I eagerly anticipated these trips, visiting schools like Syracuse University, Dartmouth, and Harvard. Even in the chill of northeastern winters, the indoor tracks seemed warm and inviting. I was captivated by the energy and optimism of the American athletes we competed against. The way they spoke drew me in; their language had a sort of allure that spoke to me on a personal level.
Back in Montreal, I decided to major in English, spending more time pouring over American novels than I did with Shakespeare. On track and field, in the weight room, I read Faulkner, Hemingway, watched American films, and listened to American tunes. Eventually, I found myself in an American law school, marrying an American woman, and, in time, becoming an American citizen myself.
Baseball, a quintessential American pastime that was foreign in my own childhood, has offered me a wider lens through which to view American life. Spending many evenings and weekends with the parents of my son’s travel team, they’ve become like an extended family—a rarity in this fragmented society, especially for someone in their 40s. While I can be just as loud and animated as any other parent in the stands, I often enjoy standing back, listening to the others cheer and share stories. Some of their phrases like “Be a wall, boys!” and “Everybody bangs, bang bang!” resonate with me, making me adopt them as my own, seeing them as part of a distinctly American vernacular that’s inviting, witty, and strikingly fresh.
These games, while sometimes building to breathtaking drama, also have their quieter moments. During those times, I engage in conversation with other parents. A ballpark isn’t typically the venue for political or religious debates. But when you spend so much time with a group of people—more than you do with family or long-time friends—those topics inevitably come up.
My political stance is left-leaning, and I have always lived in politically blue cities within this country. During my previous life as a lawyer and now as an author, my circle was predominantly composed of liberals or leftists. I’ve had close friendships with socialists, anarchists, and Greens, but until my son joined his travel team, I never truly befriended a Republican. I know I’m far from alone in this; data reveals that Americans are ever more ideologically isolated.
This has transformed for me. Our team’s parents are a tapestry of diverse backgrounds and professions—ranging from Mexican to Korean, Armenian, Italian, and more, holding jobs from accounting to firefighting. Their political beliefs are as varied as their cultural backgrounds, yet they are uniformly kind, engaging, and family-oriented. They cheer for my son with the same enthusiasm as they do their own children. Despite our differences, we aren’t strangers. This simple, perhaps juvenile lesson is one I’ve learned as I’ve watched our children play.
For someone aligned with my politics, these times are undoubtedly challenging. But alongside the disheartening headlines since the inauguration, I’ve witnessed the fundamental decency and open-heartedness still deeply rooted in so many ordinary Americans. It’s a reminder that no one is truly unreachable, and despite everything, despair isn’t the answer.
Rav Grewal-Kök’s stories have been featured in the Atlantic, Ploughshares, New England Review, among others. His debut novel, “The Snares,” hit the shelves on April 1. More about his work can be found at ravgrewalkok.com.
