A Father-Son Journey: Baseball, Heartbreak, and Redwoods

Eel River in Humboldt Redwoods State Park

Sometimes the most meaningful trips aren't the ones that go according to plan. Our journey to Eureka, California for the 2009 Babe Ruth Pacific Southwest 13-Year-Old Regional tournament was supposed to be about baseball glory. Instead, it became something far more precious—a father-son adventure that taught us both how to find joy in disappointment and beauty in the unexpected.

The Road North

The drive up to Eureka was electric with possibility. I squeezed into our minivan alongside three of Ted's teammates, their energy infectious as they talked strategy and dreams of making it to the World Series. The hours melted away with teenage banter, music, and that particular brand of nervous excitement that comes before a big tournament. These boys had worked all season for this moment, and watching them—especially Ted—live in that bubble of pure anticipation reminded me why I love being a baseball dad.

Discovering a Different California

Before the games began, we had a chance to explore Eureka itself—a revelation for a bunch of kids from Southern California. This wasn't the California we knew. Gone were the palm trees and endless sunshine, replaced by towering redwoods, cool ocean breezes, and a misty climate that felt almost otherworldly to us high desert dwellers.

A Samoa Cookhouse server

We wandered through the historic Timber Heritage Museum to learn about Eureka's logging heritage. The boys were fascinated by the massive lumber operations that once defined this region, and seeing those enormous logs stacked along the waterfront gave them a new appreciation for the redwood forests surrounding us.

One evening, the entire team piled into vehicles for dinner at the legendary Samoa Cookhouse. Sitting at those long communal tables, being served family-style meals just like the loggers of old, was like stepping back in time. The boys devoured plate after plate of hearty food while listening to stories about the cookhouse's history. For kids used to fast food and chain restaurants, this felt like dining in a living museum. Ted was particularly impressed by the endless platters of food—though I suspect that had more to do with being a perpetually hungry teenager than historical appreciation.

Five Days of Baseball Drama

The games at Eureka Babe Ruth Field were a rollercoaster that would have made any screenwriter proud:

Game 1 (August 6): We opened strong, beating the host team Eureka 4-2. Ted slid safely into home in the fourth inning—a moment captured in a photo that still makes me smile. That slide somehow encapsulated everything about Ted's approach to the game: fearless, determined, and just a little bit reckless.

Game 2 (August 7): Reality check. Tri Valley shut us down 4-1. The boys were quiet that night, but you could see the fire in their eyes. One loss wasn't going to define them.

Game 3 (August 8): Redemption came in the form of a 13-5 demolition of Somervile-Yaqui from Arizona. The bats came alive, and suddenly we were back in contention.

Game 4 (August 9): A 15-8 slugfest victory over Madera put us in the championship game. The boys were flying high, and I was already mentally packing for the next round.

Then came August 11th. The championship game, a rematch against Tri Valley. Ted started at shortstop and then moved to the mound in relief. Just when everything seemed within reach, a line-drive back up the middle ricocheted off of Ted's knee...an injury...

I won't dwell on the details of that moment—any parent who's watched their child get injured in a sport they love knows that sick feeling. What matters is that we finished second, our World Series dreams ended, and suddenly it was just Ted and me facing a 12 hour drive home.

The Healing Power of Highway 101

Here's where the real story begins.

Instead of rushing home to nurse our wounds, we decided to make the most of our time together. Sometimes life's detours lead you exactly where you need to be, and our meandering journey south became one of my most treasured memories.

It was the redwoods that first worked their magic.

Standing among those ancient giants in Humboldt Redwoods State Park, our baseball disappointment seemed to shrink to its proper size. These trees had been growing since before baseball was even invented, surviving ice ages and droughts and countless human dramas. Ted posed by the welcome sign, in his hoody, and I watched him crane his neck up at the towering canopy, maybe gaining some perspective on what really lasts.

We could have spent hours in that cathedral of trees, talking or just walking in comfortable silence. Ted climbed over fallen logs the size of train cars, and for a while he was just a kid exploring, not an injured athlete carrying the weight of a lost championship. But we had many more miles to go...

On the way south, we stopped at the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Snoopy's Home Ice in Santa Rosa. Walking through the museum dedicated to the creator of Peanuts, seeing Charlie Brown dressed as a hockey player and Snoopy in his dapper formal wear, brought some much-needed lightness after the heaviness of the tournament's end. Ted humored his old man as I snapped photos, both of us finding comfort in Schulz's gentle humor and the reminder that even Charlie Brown knew something about dealing with disappointment.

One final stop before it got too dark was the Golden Gate Bridge. Seeing Ted pose there—still wearing that gray hoody, his injury making him move a little slower but his smile genuine—reminded me that some moments transcend wins and losses. The bridge stood there in the fog, magnificent and enduring, a reminder that some things are bigger than baseball.

The drive continued past the scenic bridges spanning San Francisco Bay, through foothills, mountains, and farmland valleys. We stopped for photos, shared gas station snacks, and talked about everything except baseball. Well, mostly everything except baseball.

The Gift of Going Slow

What strikes me now, looking back at those photos, is how this "disappointing" trip became something invaluable. If we'd won the tournament, we would have rushed off to the next competition. We would have missed the redwoods, missed the long conversations, missed the chance to just be together without the pressure of the next game looming.

Ted's injury was heartbreaking in the moment, but it gave us something we rarely had during those intense baseball years: unscheduled time. Time to be tourists in our own state. Time for a teenage son to let his dad take goofy pictures without rolling his eyes too much. Time to remember that the relationship matters more than the results.

The drive home took us the better part of two days, when it could have been done in one. We saw things we never would have seen, talked about things we might never have discussed, and created memories that have outlasted any trophy we might have won.

What Lasts

Ted's injury healed. The sting of finishing second faded. But those photos from our journey home—Ted by the Golden Gate Bridge, among the redwoods, grinning despite everything—those capture something that winning never could have given us.

Sometimes the best trips are the ones that don't go according to plan. Sometimes the most important conversations happen when you're not trying to have them. And sometimes, when your baseball dreams end in disappointment, you discover that the journey home can be the most beautiful part of the whole adventure.

The redwoods taught us something that day: the things that really matter take time to grow, and they're strong enough to weather any storm. Including the storm of a thirteen-year-old's broken baseball dreams and a father's broken heart. Resilience isn't about avoiding disappointment—it's about growing deeper roots that can sustain you through whatever comes next. Those trees had witnessed countless storms, countless seasons of loss and renewal, and they were still reaching toward the light.

But hearts heal, and memories grow stronger with time. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, you get to take the scenic route home.