Gordon Hempton's Blog

I live on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington state in a rural location that affords beautiful views of both snow-capped mountains and wilderness beaches, so when I have time off there is always a choice between the two.  If it weren’t for my surfing buddy Nick Parry, I would probably divide my free time equally, but every Saturday, religiously, rain or shine (or this time of year snow), we turn on the surfer tunes and make the drive along highway 112 that traces the coast of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.


It keeps me sane, hanging out with a true friend like Nick who has heard it all and accepts me no matter what I might say.  Our topics range from problems with aging, trails to hike, things women say and what they might mean. Great laughter, good tunes, and a cold soak in the sea (water temp currently 47°F) is like doing spiritual laundry; you got to do it at least once each week . 


Bodysurfing teaches me, over and over again, to adapt to forces that I cannot change and use that energy in a positive way.  First off, when I am swimming out to catch a wave and see what appears like a mountain range approaching there is nowhere to run—all I can do is hold my breath and take evasive action.  I bow, dive to the bottom and remain there until I feel the passing water pressure recede, always accompanied with a roar and sometimes the clatter of stones near shore.  Once out in position, beyond the breaking waves, I have time to jockey for a shoulder, that place where the wave just begins to spill. This is the preferred place to join the energy flow. Sometimes while I wait I will glance over and see Nick make another of his death defying glory rides, arms raised, giving a shout (He will ask later, “Did you see that!”).


With a quick kick of my fins and an arm stroke I launch myself to the rising mountain slope.  I can feel the energy of the wave interact with the ocean bottom causing it to push and ease against my body, my body respond to adjust my shape while my angle directs my glide to the steepest upper slope just ahead of the break.  At times I am rocketed across the face, skipping like a stone, or if outpaced, buried inside a long aqueous tube. If my body errs or I begin to think about what I am doing, I might get dragged “over the falls” and twisted like a human Gumby.  Either way, I’ve never suffered a serious injury and its all fun and heart-pumping exercise.  At the end of these Saturday surf sessions, big waves or small, I’m always invigorated, and I can always count on a smile from my good buddy Nick.



Get more on Gordon Hempton at SimonandSchuster.com

From the day I attended my first major league game at Wrigley Field as a seven-year-old, bringing my first mitt, of course, I’ve been in love with the game of baseball—for all the reasons you often read about (the timeless nature of the contest because there’s no clock, the awesome arc of a titanic home run, and the spider’s web of statistics that entrap so many), but a couple more reasons as well. I’m a general manager of a fantasy baseball team in a league of old friends. Baseball is the glue that helps hold us together. I’m also a collector of ballparks—that is, I try to attend a game in as many different stadiums as I can—major league and, increasingly, minor league venues, where the prices are reasonable, the ballparks more intimate, and the summer evenings just as balmy. So far, without embarking on a dedicated ballpark tour, I’ve been to 20 past or present major league stadiums and 11 minor league ballparks.

But my favorite diamond, surely, was the one on which I got to man all nine positions as a player for a day with a very special team. Bless the Internet, for it saves me from rooting around in my attic to hunt down musty old magazines that bear stories I’ve written. Just recently I came across a story in Sports Illustrated’s online archives about the day I combined business and pleasure and donned flannel pants and a white shirt bearing an Olde English M, tied a red cravat into a bow, tugged on a pillbox hat with two horizontal stripes, and took the field as an Ohio Village Muffin. The Muffins played in a league that adhered to Civil War era rules, back before base met ball in the name of our national pastime. No gloves. (still 20 years shy of the first padded glove) No stealing. (also not yet part of the game) Balls caught on the fly and on one bounce were outs. While hurling (pitching) I caught a one-hopper, and in the heat of the action unknowingly started a double play. Here’s the last paragraph of the story that Sports Illustrated ran in its June 27, 1994 issue:

As a striker I went 2 for 4; in our game-breaking bottom of the third inning I scored one of our seven aces. My ace, however, was not automatically registered when my foot hit home base. According to a wonderful bygone ritual, I was required to first visit the tallykeeper’s table, which on this day was decorated with red, white and blue bunting and situated some six feet in foul territory between home and third. With my left hand on the table and my right hand raised as if in a courtroom oath, I looked the tallykeeper in the eye and uttered the spirit lifting words: “Tally me, sir.” And then I rang the tallykeeper’s bell.


Get more on Gordon Hempton at SimonandSchuster.com