My boyfriend runs a soccer game on the Presidio on Saturday Mornings. A former professional player with knees gone wrong, he's the grandfather and coach of the group. He arrives an hour before anyone even thinks of the game, stakes out the field, sets up the pop-up goals and waits to greet the players - twenty-somethings, some who are experienced and some who are new to the game. M calls the shots, sets up the plays, encourages the "kids," gives warnings of "be careful" when the ball rolls into the empty street. He's ever watchful, layering his love of the game with his joy at seeing young people succeed. There's an old man who comes to my park each day at 4:00 without fail. He has a truck that can only be described as junky; garden equipment is tied to the rotting wooden sides and piled in a manner that makes each item - rakes, leaf blower, water canteen - nearly indistinguishable. I know what each of these things is because I see him unpi...
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