Pacifica, 1960
Mom and Dad throw Gary and me into the Mercury station wagon and, together, we head up the Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco. We make this trip twice a month to pick up Dad’s paycheck and then visit my grandparents. Dad drives and we listen to the radio, Mom dialing in Don Sherwood on KSFO. Gary and I laugh as Sherwood does his crooner impersonation between songs.
On this particular trip, we pick up Dad’s paycheck but don’t go to my grandparents’. Instead, Dad steers along Taraval Street near the Fleishhacker Zoo to Flying Goose Sporting Goods. We aren’t a rich family—Dad often has to make sure he deposits his fireman’s paycheck on the first and fifteenth of each month to be able to cover the mortgage, utilities, and grocery bills—but the Flying Goose will become a regular destination in the future. Dad, a former professional baseball player, will make sure his boys always have the proper equipment.
Dad is a first-generation American. His parents emigrated from Spain via the Pacific, arriving in San Francisco in 1916. He is proud of his Spanish heritage, frequently gathering Gary and me together and asking, “Now, sons, who are you?”
“Spaniards, Father!” we say, trying to match his gusto.
“And where is Spain?” he asks.
We’ll find the globe in Gary’s room and point to the place Dad has already shown us a million times. “In Europe, Father!”
“Correct! Don’t forget this!”
But Dad loves America. “In America,” he says, “you can do anything you want so long as you put your mind to it and work hard enough.” That “thing” for Dad, like for many San Francisco boys growing up during the teens and twenties of the twentieth century (including one named Joe DiMaggio), had been baseball. A standout at Mission High School, John Hernandez broke all kinds of school records, leading his team to a championship game at Seals Stadium, where he hit five doubles, was named MVP, and was christened by the city as the next big star to come out of the Bay Area.
But Dad’s father, Pa, who spoke no English, never knew much about his son’s baseball accomplishments. While his son played on the ball fields, Pa worked long hours for the Simmons mattress company as an upholsterer. Being European, he did not understand baseball and always chided his son to stop playing silly games and go to work. The only game he ever went to was his son’s championship game at Seals Stadium, and only after seeing that his son was obviously very good and everyone in the crowd was talking about him as the next Joltin’ Joe did Pa seem to care.
“He had no problem taking an interest then—after I’d done all the hard work,” Dad will sometimes say.
So Dad had never gotten the support that he is now determined to give Gary and me, his two sons, and an hour after parking the station wagon, he leads us out of the sporting goods store carrying two brand-new wooden bats. On the way home, Dad switches off the radio and says, “Hitting lesson number one, boys: Always have a bat in your hands that you can handle. Never too heavy. Never too light. You should swing the bat, not let the bat swing you.”
As usual, Dad parks the station wagon on the street in front of our house. There is a two-car garage, but Dad is always creating something in there. He loves working with his hands—woodworking, masonry, or artistic endeavors—so he needs the space for his saws, tools, and workbench. The washer and dryer are in there, too. It’s not a mess, but it’s tight. He’ll squeeze the car inside once he’s finished working for the day.
Gary and I shuffle out of the car and follow Dad into the garage. The bats are official Little League and much too long and heavy for us. Dad saws the barrel ends down, then secures the bats in a vise and sands them. Finally, he hands each of his two sons a custom-fitted bat.
Then he takes us outside, closes the garage door, and begins throwing batting practice against it. He throws tennis balls because they are soft and don’t hurt if they hit us. We are so young—just learning this game—and he wants us to be at ease, without fear. He wants us to love baseball.
We’ll take BP off Dad any day he’s home from work—twice a day in the summertime. Dad works a twenty-four-hour shift at the fire station and then is home for forty-eight hours. He leaves in the morning and is back the next day for breakfast. After a nap, he’s all ours for two days.