**Baseball Meetup Helps Dads Rebuild Their Lives After L.A. Fires**

 A group chat called "Altadena Sandlot" is providing advice and support to men in suburban Los Angeles after the Eaton Fire devastated many of their homes.

Tim Gehling throws a pitch during Sunday's first meetup of the "Altadena Sandlot" since the Eaton Fire.

Feb. 5, 2025, 4:00 PM GMT+6

ARCADIA, Calif. — Of all the baseball bats Brian Gardner owned, only one survived the Eaton Fire. But one was all he needed.

Gardner, 48, gripped the bat and stepped up to hit. Someone warned him about an incoming "heater."

"I call it a fastball, not a 'heater,'" he quipped. "'Heater' is one of my new trigger words."

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, and Gardner, along with eight other men, had gathered at a park in Arcadia. For a couple of hours, they were reclaiming a ritual that had been a weekly tradition before the Eaton Fire tore through their Altadena neighborhood three weeks earlier, displacing them all from their close-knit community in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.

Gardner's house had been reduced to ashes, along with a home bar stocked with over 1,000 bottles of whiskey. He also lost his Cadillac Eldorado, adorned with cattle horns on the grille, a car he had driven his kids to school in every Friday as a special treat. Now, he was living in a rental home with his wife, two children, and their 13-year-old terrier.

After his turn at bat, Gardner leaned his bat against the fence and exhaled. "That felt good," he murmured. "That felt really good."

The men were part of a group chat, dubbed "Altadena Sandlot," originally created by a local dad in 2023 to connect with others in the area. It had started as a way for more than two dozen men to banter and coordinate their weekly meetups. But since the fires, it had evolved into something deeper—a space to share advice, voice fears, and reconnect with the community they deeply missed.

"It wasn’t meant to be a support group for dads," Gardner said, "but that's what it became."

Sunday’s gathering came just two days after authorities declared the Eaton Fire 100% contained. But for many, that milestone brought little comfort. Even for those whose homes were still standing, power and gas remained shut off, and the daunting task of cleaning and rebuilding had yet to begin.

Nine men showed up at a field eight miles southeast of Farnsworth Park, their usual meeting place. One was new to the group—a fellow Altadena dad who had also lost his home in the fire. They bonded over their recent finds: deals on gloves, bats, and balls from local stores and eBay. One dad brought a new pitching screen and a bucket of baseballs. When they realized the field lacked a home plate, they improvised, using the bucket lid instead.

"Fitting," Gardner noted. "We don’t have a home plate."

Even before the fire, the group had served as a quiet antidote to the growing epidemic of male loneliness. A 2021 survey revealed that men have fewer close friends than in previous generations, a decline more pronounced than among women. Men also die by suicide at higher rates and are more likely to experience depression while being less likely to seek mental health treatment.

Psychologists note that men tend to bond best through shared activities rather than face-to-face conversations. That insight had proven true for the "Altadena Sandlot" group.

Andrew Holmquist, 44, started the chat after inviting a few dads to hit baseballs one Monday night. He had noticed that men in his generation weren’t making time for friendships. Especially during the pandemic, they had spent ample time with their children—whom they loved but also needed a break from.

"The crass way to put it was: I need to go spit and scratch with the guys," Holmquist said.

One by one, others joined. Most were fathers of kids in the same Little League teams or schools, but a few were single.

"Guys would say, 'Ah, I’m not very good; I haven’t hit a baseball since eighth grade,'" Holmquist recalled. "Then they’d make contact, and you'd see the joy on their face. That’s why we’re here. For a little while, you're not stressed about work or home. You're just here, having fun. And friendships grew from that."

Eric Gibson, who joined a year ago and spent Sunday’s game patrolling the outfield, acknowledged how rare it was for men to openly seek support.

"It helped that this group already existed before the fires," he said. "Everyone knew each other well enough to say whatever they wanted."

When the game wrapped up, the men gathered in a circle, talking about insurance claims, rebuilding regulations, and the disorienting experience of accidentally driving toward homes that no longer existed.

Tim Gehling, 43, hadn’t yet been able to assess the damage to his Altadena house, where he lived with his wife and two children.

"As a dad, I feel like it’s my job to hold everything together," he said. "This group helps me do that."

Throughout the afternoon, Gehling had thrown himself into the game, diving for balls in the outfield, sweating in the late-afternoon sun.

"It’s a bunch of guys our age, all going through the same s---," he said. "It gives me strength."

Grant Babbitt, living in a friend’s house in Arcadia with his wife and four kids, joked that it felt like "the longest sleepover ever." He shared a moment he had with his oldest son, whom he recently found hiding in a closet. His son had insisted he was fine—he just needed a quiet place to be alone.

"Him and I are the ones carrying everything right now," Babbitt said, tucking his glove under his arm. "Except I’m talking to you guys. He’s not. That’s the hard part."

The sun was setting. It was time to return to their families.

Unlike past games at Farnsworth Park, they couldn’t walk home together.

"And that’s the park where I played Little League," said John Tyberg, 44. "So yeah, playing in Arcadia just doesn’t feel right."

Still, they agreed to meet again next Sunday. As they dispersed to their cars, they exchanged their goodbyes, then drove off in different directions—toward homes that weren’t truly theirs.