Part of the Family

One evening in early 2000 my Mom and I were discussing some sad news we had received earlier in the day. Long time 101.5 KGB DJ “Long” John Leslie had passed away. I was blessed to meet and hang out with John on a few occasions and he was a throwback to the good old days of radio; often bringing milk crates full of his own records into the studio to supplement the extensive playlist.

Just as saddened as we were for the loss of a man who was like a cool older brother to thousands of San Diegans’, our hearts went out to his long time on-air partner and off the air friend Coe Lewis. Coe was charged with the monumental task of announcing his death on the air and for all of us it was like a member of our own family had passed on.

This past year has had me thinking of John Leslie’s death on more than one occasion, in part due to his lifestyle and how it inspired me to make changes in my own life. Yet even heavier on my mind and in my heart was the way our local media personalities ingrain themselves into the very fabric of our lives. And this year, the year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Fourteen, the collective loss shared by the San Diego community and family have been unlike any previous year. 2013 closed with the devastating loss of Loren Nancarrow, our go-to guy for weather and anything we might want to learn about our gardens.

Our baseball world was rocked before 2014 was even a week old; as long time Padres announcer, former World Series MVP and USMC combat veteran Jerry Coleman was called for one last sortie into the heavens. Jerry was there for many camping trips on Rosarito Beach in the 1980’s, a source of comfort in the turbulent early 90’s and a prime example of what it is to be an American well into this new millennium. In short, he was like a grandfather to three generations of San Diego baseball fans.

Not long after the first Opening Day in forty years without “The Colonel” behind the microphone, San Diegans were devastated by the second part of the worst one-two punch we’ve ever known. Tony Gwynn. Need I say more? I’ve written extensively about the man and his impact on me, echoing the stories from thousands of others not only across America’s Finest City but across the baseball world. For all his awards and on-field accolades, they pale in comparison to the love we had for him.

And just when we think we might finish the year without losing yet another local icon, Larry Himmel loses his valiant battle with brain cancer. Each man was unique from the other in their chosen crafts but we were able to enjoy Larry all year round as opposed to a spring-through fall schedule.

Tony was most well-known to us on the baseball field and Jerry was most known to San Diegans for his “Oh, Doctor!” catch phrase and Larry well, he was just Larry. He was just a man who just made us laugh through the 1980’s with one  of my favorite shows; San Diego at Large, and he merely became the man who showed the most outstanding example of on-air humility when he covered live the burning of his own home during the 2007 Wildfires. Many San Diegans knew someone who lost a home in the fires, and even more knew someone who was evacuated. But Larry made sure we all did, reporting live as years of irreplaceable memories went up in flames before our eyes. He gave a face to the faceless, a name to the nameless. With one selfless act, we all knew someone who lost their home that tragic day.

I don’t know if it’s a combination of age and the losses we’ve suffered this year, but the impact local personalities have had on our lives have occupied a large part of my mind this past twelve months. I began wondering about the ones who have moved on to other cities and of course those who have moved to the big news desk in the sky. Good folks like Captain Mike Ambrose and Larry Sacknoff, and our writers like Jerry Magee and Barry Lorge. They greet us over coffee in the morning and welcome us home after a long days work. They sit at our table every Thanksgiving, they go to the beach with us every summer. They said goodnight to us on Fridays when we stayed the night at grandma and grandpa’s house and shared wonderful stories of our fair city every Saturday night. They shared their triumphs and sorrows with us; who can forget the stoic message Dave Rickards sent to our enemies after 9/11; the way we mourned with him when his beloved wife Beth passed away?

I will never forget sitting in my Mom’s 1972 Mustang; her risking being late to work and my brother and I being late to school so we can hear Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph’s “Joke of the Day”, nor will  I ever forget “North Mission Beach” and that dastardly Kurt Bevacqua after he stole Biff’s dream girl Roberta. And who among us hasn’t learned something new About San Diego from Ken Kramer?

 Beloved figures all, and when we encounter them in public we greet them like the old good friends they are. I remember my Mom telling me a story of a company convention she attended which included Ted Leitner as Master of Ceremonies. They say Ted is the kind of guy you either love or hate and Ted, if you ever read this, I love you man.

Many of our local personalities came from other towns, from other states. Yet they are as local as the fish taco, as much a part of our identity as the San Diego Zoo. They are reliable as the waves at Windansea, timeless as the pines in the Cuyamacas. They are our newscasters, our reporters, our writers and our announcers. They are like the wise grandfather, the cool uncle and the neighbor down the street with all the latest gadgets. And when they mourn, we mourn right along with them. For they are part of our town, part of our lives and part of our family…

Walter and Cordelia Knott

This past March my wife and I along with our three children and counting celebrated our first wedding anniversary at Knott’s Berry Farm. It’s close to home, they have a wonderful hotel and park ticket package and most important to me it gave us the opportunity to enjoy the legacy of Walter and Cordelia Knott.

This was our second family trip to Knott’s and let me tell you, I was no less happy there than I would have been at any of the other well-known theme parks in Southern California. Having been our second trip, we were able to plan a little better than we did the previous year. The only real difficult part was making sure we enjoyed ourselves as much as we did the first time around. Rather than spend Sunday and Monday inside the park, we chose to check in to the hotel early Sunday afternoon and take in the sights outside the park that didn’t require admission. This was done for many reasons; weekday crowds are always smaller than the weekend crowds and we gained an extra three hours inside on Monday, which we would not have had if we went inside on Sunday.

After checking in to the hotel we made our way to the Marketplace. Knott’s California Marketplace is a collection of shops and restaurants just outside the main gate and within easy walking distance of the park. I had explained to my sons that they would be able to choose any souvenirs and goodies they wanted with one stipulation; if it was theirs, they carried it. No exceptions. Visiting the Marketplace enabled us to get our fill of souvenirs before we went into the park the next day. This prevented us from being bogged down with extra cargo while we enjoyed the attractions.

One thing I really looked forward to was Independence Hall; a brick by brick replica of the original in Philadelphia complete with a replica of the Liberty Bell. It was a quiet afternoon, we were the only souls in the building aside from the two employees manning the souvenir stand located in the Supreme Court room. The afternoon wore on and we were all getting so we walked through the pedestrian tunnel under Beach Blvd and headed over to Pink’s Hot Dogs. The original Pink’s is located in Hollywood and the Knott’s version carried the same star-studded menu. I read the menu online nearly every night for the previous week yet still I was unable to make a final decision when I got to the counter. I settled for the Chicago dog and if anyone has had a good Chicago dog before, let me tell you the one at Pink’s is the real deal.

I was running on three hours of sleep and only eight since the previous Friday but I was not tired in any way. Besides I get plenty of sleep at home and at home I don’t have world class hot dogs, souvenir shopping and Mrs. Knott’s Fried Chicken at home. After a short rest at the hotel we journeyed again to the Marketplace, stocking up on toys, clothing and bottles of concentrated boysenberry punch. A pleasant surprise awaited us the Berry Market section of the building; one of the oldest Knott’s attractions that predated even the venerable Ghost Town. As Walter Knott scrambled for ways to entertain guests during the hours-long waits for Cordelia’s fried chicken, two of the first attractions he added were an exact replica of George Washingtons’ hearth at Mount Vernon along with a rock-garden waterfall and an antique millstone. What a joy it was to discover them while searching for the restroom! I had read about the attractions following our first trip but I was under the assumption they were tucked away in employee-only areas of the property.

It was a joyful yet solemn moment; those attractions had stood for over seventy years and aside from the updated lighting it was just as Mr. Knott had made it.

Even though we were still a little full from our afternoon hot dog and chili feast, we kept up with the “we can’t get that at home” way of thinking and picked up a bucket of Knott’s fried chicken and fresh baked biscuits our the way back to the hotel. We made it through the first day without succumbing to my temptation to buy extra tickets and head into the park a day early.

Some of my past blogs have talked about why my family is so endeared to Knott’s and that second trip, combined with the history I learned made the feeling that much deeper.

Walter Knott was born in 1889 to a family whose roots were brought west in a covered wagon. His grandmother made the trip across the Mojave Desert at three years of age. At 16 Walter met Cordelia Hornaday and after a two year courtship they were married, Cordelia settling in as a housewife and Walter taking a well-paying job as a supervisor for a concrete company. Walter could have likely made a comfortable living and even retired from the construction job but he knew that it wasn’t his calling. Since childhood Walter tended his own gardens and sold the rewards to neighbors in an effort to help with the family finances. His heart was with the land; Walter wanted to farm and unbeknownst to him, that desire would make the Knott name known worldwide.

Before that could happen, Walter and Cordelia decided to leave their relatively comfortable life in Pomona for the hardship and uncertainty of farming in the Mojave Desert. Walter looked forward to the prospect of owning his own farmland, while Cordelia didn’t share his enthusiasm. As the story goes, Mrs. Knott burst into tears when she saw the one-room adobe that was to be their home.

Undaunted, Walter made the best of their new home near the town of Newberry Springs. The average temperature in the summertime is over 100 degrees and while the ample sunshine is vital to a good crop, lack of water in the desert made it very difficult to succeed. In researching the Knott family story I found it very coincidental that a “New” berry would be a catalyst to Mr. and Mrs. Knott’s success.

After three years of trying to eke out a living in the harsh desert landscape Walter received an opportunity to return to Orange County. His cousin Jim Preston invited him to partner in a tenant-farmer deal in Buena Park. Starting off with strawberries, raspberries’ and later adding asparagus and rhubarb, Walter and his cousin were barely scraping by. After a year, Jim was ready to call it quits. If he left Walter would be out of a job, as Jim held the farming rights to the land. Walter approached the landowner himself, inquiring about purchasing the land outright. Walter met great difficulty in securing a loan; the Great Depression was on and no bank would touch him. In spite of the economic hardships, Walter was determined to make the farm work. After having secured the necessary loans and convincing the landowner to sell at a below-market price, Walter now held the deed to the land that was to become America’s first theme park.

In spite of Walter’s green thumb and Cordelias’ undying support the berry business was middling at best. An old friend of Walters tipped him off to a hybrid berry plant created by Rudolph Boysen. Walter tracked down the remaining berry plants in nearby Anaheim and soon had a thriving spread of the plants. In 1928 he opened Knott’s Berry Place, a simple wooden shack to sell his products. Cordelia began to make jellies and jams with biscuits, light sandwiches and punch to wash it all down. When asked what the berries were called, Walter replied “Boysen created them, so we should call them Boysenberries.” This was a shock to some, as most men would have put their own name on the new berry product. But Walter Knott was a very special breed of man, he chose to give credit where credit was due. Within a few years, Boysens’s berries were the most popular berry in the United States and every boysenberry in the world today came from those six withering plants Walter found over 80 years ago.

The Depression continued to strain the financial situations of families across the land and the Knott’s weren’t immune. Despite the popularity of the Berry Stand Walter and Cordelia weren’t turning a profit. Undaunted, they built a “tea room” to give more of a homey feel to the business. Cordelia added sandwiches to the menu, along with her immediately famous boysenberry pies. They say in business the three most important things are location, location and location. This was true for the Knotts’ as the Los Angeles elite used California State Highway 39 (now known as Beach Blvd) as the main route to their summer homes on the beaches of Orange County. Soon, visitors from all over made Knott’s a destination instead of just a stop along the way. With the influx of guests, Mrs. Knott decided to cook up some of her family recipe fried chicken; serving it to eight people on her own wedding china.

Cordelia continued to serve her chicken to supplement the family income, insisting the whole while “I am not in the restaurant business.” Within weeks, word spread like wildfire about the fried chicken being served up at Knott’s Berry Place; averaging one thousand meals served per day, with four thousand on Sundays and a total of over a quarter million meals served during that first year. Like it or not, Cordeila Knott was definitely in the restaurant business. The average wait to sit at one of Knott’s tables went into several hours and this is when Walter started adding attractions to keep his guests entertained. The first was a mock volcano that came to be as much out of necessity as desire. An old vent pipe stuck eight feet out of the ground and since it could not be removed, Walter piled up lava rocks trucked in from Death Valley and had his volcano.

I thought of this when I admired the handiwork of the Washington hearth along with the millstone and rock garden. The Knott legacy was right in front of me and as I said, it was a serene; almost solemn moment. Knott’s is now an internationally-known brand but when I stood admiring those attractions I was taken back to the 1930’s. Later in the evening I made a third trip to the Marketplace. While my family and I shopped at Snoopy World Headquarters earlier in the evening I spotted a rain coat that I really wanted. I had the money to spare but when my oldest son and I went to check it out, I found they didn’t have my size. It was for the better, it was a nice jacket but I knew the money would have been better spent elsewhere. The later-evening walk to the Marketplace has become something of a tradition for Trevor and I. Not only does it give us some great father-son bonding time, something that is cherished by a dad who works five nights a week. It also gives me an excuse to check out the Knott legacy, something I never tire of doing.

Every time I walk by the Chicken Dinner Restaurant, I visualize the photos I’ve seen from when it was one of the only buildings in the area. There was a time where there were as many horses parked out front as there were cars. As Trevor and I walked back towards the hotel we spoke excitedly about our plans for the next day. He said “We better make sure we get you and Jojo one of those turkey legs”, as my youngest son asked earlier if we could get “one of those big barbecue chicken legs”. I thought of Knott’s Ghost Town, built in the years around World War Two. Walter often traveled throughout the west in search of ghost towns. His idea was to build a Ghost Town of his own; complete with actors portraying the characters one would expect to see in a typical Old West town. Some of the buildings in Knott’s Ghost Town attraction were new, built by Knott employees and intentionally weathered to look old. Walter also traveled to Arizona and purchased entire buildings, had them dismantled, shipped to Buena Park and reassembled in the newly named Knott’s Berry Farm. Walter and Cordelia didn’t stop with in Arizona; some of the buildings came from as far away as Oregon and the venerable Ghost Town Schoolhouse was shipped from Kansas and placed next to the Birdcage Theater, an exact replica of the famous theater in Tombstone.

When my family and I visit a well-known attraction I am often in envy of its employees. How lucky and blessed they are to work in a place where fun is the main commodity! At Knott’s I thought of the employees who worked directly under Walter and Cordelia themselves. One year Walter decided to give out twenty thousand dollars in profits to employees as bonuses in addition to their standard pay. When told that he was crazy to do such a thing, Walter shrugged it off knowing that the loyalty he showed was far more important to the bottom line than money. This continued until after Mr. Knott passed away; with a grand total of over five million dollars given right back to employees. That’s over twenty million dollars in today’s numbers.

Near the Independence Hall building there is a Golden Rain Tree planted by the Knott employees. Near the tree sits a bronze plaque dedicated to the Knott Family. This plaque was paid for and installed by employees in appreciation of dedication the Knott Family showed to them over the years. Of all the dedication the employees showed to the Farm, the Knott family returned it tenfold. One afternoon, a waitress from the Chicken Dinner restaurant was overheard talking about her inability to buy a dress for her daughter on her salary as a single mother. Mrs. Knott learned of this and promptly went into her sewing room and made a dress herself; presenting it to the young mother after dinner at the Knott family table.

Such things are on my mind when I walk through the park and outlying properties. When the park opened for business on that cool Monday morning we made a beeline to the Log Ride. Since it was closed for renovations when we made our first family trip last year, I had not ridden it since 1986 and more than anything I wanted to share the experience with my family. The ride itself was designed and built by Bud Hurlbut, the master designer and builder who cast the Liberty Bell replica and created the world’s first “dark ride” in 1960; the Calico Mine Ride. When Mr. Knott expressed his concerns for the feasibility of such an endeavor, he asked Bud “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Mr. Hurlbut replied that he was indeed certain of the ride’s success and was later quoted as saying “And that’s the first and last time I lied to Walter Knott.” A theme park standard these days is the hidden queue, a design feature that Bud Hurlbut gave birth to with the Calico Mine Ride. The Log Ride followed in 1969 and while it wasn’t the first log flume-themed ride in the country, it was the first to add animatronic figures and accurate reproductions. Riders were immersed in the world of an 1890’s Northern California logging camp; the first of which were legendary actor John Wayne and his son Ethan. Knott’s was now an official theme park, as Walter reluctantly decided to fence off the entire property, giving the Knott’s the ability to charge admission for the first time.

After two consecutive trips on the Log Ride we walked over to Knott’s other window to the past, the famous Ghost Town. Ghost town is a window in two ways; one being that many of the original buildings still stand and two because they continue to pay the tribute to the pioneer spirit that Mr. Knott intended. We filled our cups with ice-cold boysenberry punch and settled in to a lunch of smoked turkey legs for us boys and a pile of gourmet fries for the Mrs. I think my one year old daughter Layla got the best of the deal. Too young for a plate of her own, we each shared a bit of our meals with her, giving her the best of both worlds. We also shopped in the Bottle House, a small building made of thousands of whiskey bottles. Now a gift shop filled with Native American crafts, the Bottle House is one of the original Ghost Town buildings. Again I was transported back with thoughts of the old photos I saw.

At the end of our first day we resisted having a fried chicken dinner for the second night in a row; opting for a light dinner of appetizers at the hotel’s Amber Waves restaurant. We planned on taking some chicken home the next day and didn’t want to burn ourselves out on it. It was an early night for all five of us; my usual 4am bedtime was beaten by nearly four hours. This came only after skimmed through two new (to me) books on Knott’s history; both of which contributed largely to this travel/history piece. I looked over airborne images of the park over the years and compared them to the Google Earth images on my laptop. I was saddened to see Ghost Town and the two major Hurlbut-built rides were among the only remaining features from the days when both Mr. and Mrs. Knott lived on their “Farm”. Just under the tracks of the Pony Express ride there are remnants of the original Ghost Town desert. Mr. Knott’s Church of Reflections is now across the street, near Independence Hall. It is generally closed to the public but they still hold an Easter Sunrise service every year. That is definitely something on my bucket list.

We often try to visit major attractions on weekdays, I’ve never been partial to large crowds aside from baseball games and rock concerts. During our early-week visit to Knott's the lines for most rides were non-existent. On our second day rather than ask one another “What do you want to do today” we were able to ask “What do you want to do again today?” One of the only rides we missed that first day was the Butterfield Stagecoach ride, due to it being closed by the time we made the effort to ride it. In keeping with a promise I made to my son Joseph; we headed straight to the depot as soon as we walked in the gates, stopping only for some candid shots with Snoopy, Linus and Charlie Brown. Trevor and I wished to ride on top of the coach while my wife rode inside with Joseph and Layla. It was our longest wait of the entire vacation and came about only as a result of our differing seating requests.

I rode many of the thrill rides that day, my favorite of the newer attractions was the Supreme Scream, a lift device that takes you over two hundred feet in the air and drops you so fast you can experience a few seconds of weightlessness. I wasn’t in it so much for the thrill as I was the view. On my first journey upward I was able to see the Santa Monica Mountains and were it not for the haze I am certain I would caught a glimpse of the world-famous Hollywood Sign. As much as a thrill that first trip up was the second was more endearing. I was treated to a birds-eye view of the entire park and my shadow graced the tops of Timber Mountain. Many people fear getting stuck on a ride like that but I secretly hoped I would get stuck, I would not have minded getting extra time with that view one bit. Alas I had to come back down to earth, at least literally.

We still had more than half a day remaining and I set to trying to win some stuffed animals for the two lovely ladies in my life. No such luck with the carnival games but that didn’t damper our spirits. To be honest, only two things put a damper on our trip; one being that it had to come to the inevitable end and the other was knowing my children would never know the Knott’s Bear-y Tales ride. As a sixth-grade boy I was enchanted by it and I knew my little ones would have been as well. As for me, the most enchanting physical part of Knott’s is and always has been Ghost Town; where we had our last meal of the trip. The astounding success of Mrs. Knott’s Chicken Dinner Restaurant led Walter Knott to build two more eating establishments to accommodate those who may have not had the time to bear the three-plus hour waits.

Ghost Town Grill was one of these and the view out its windows are yet another step back in time. Many families develop what I like to call “Instant Traditions”; something they do once and it immediately becomes a yearly thing. One of our many Instant Traditions born at Knott’s is having our final in-park meal at the Grill. Even though it was only our second trip we didn’t need to see a menu; my wife opted for the buffalo chicken salad that she fell in love with on our honeymoon and I opted for the smoked brisket sandwich with the special request that it be served on sourdough. I don’t know if I opted for it because I simply like the bread or because I think of sourdough bread as a staple of Old West and pioneer life but either way it was a fitting meal to end our day with.

As I paid the bill and tipped our waitress I felt that familiar lump in my throat beginning to grow. We walked slower than usual to the exits, trying to soak up the last bits of enjoyment. On our way to the car we took one last stroll through the Marketplace; stocking up on concentrated boysenberry punch and a twenty two piece bucket of chicken with biscuits. A last-minute decision added a fresh baked boysenberry pie in our bags; weighing them down almost as heavy as my heart was during those final minutes in what was once known as “Knott’s Berry Place”. I have never been much of a pie person but going to Knott’s and not having at least one slice is akin to visiting Philadelphia and not having a cheesesteak. It just seems wrong not to do it.

The lump in my throat grew larger as we browsed our way through the MarketPlace Emporium one last time and looked over the “A Christmas Story” ornaments that my dear departed Mom would have absolutely adored. Even though she and I never had the opportunity to enjoy Knott’s together that moment along with the moment I spotted the reddish orange tines of the firestick plants at the old mine attraction next to the Ghost Rider wooden roller coaster felt as if she were there with me; much as being in Ghost Town, with its buildings from near where my grandfather was born made me feel as if he was there also.

I walked a few steps ahead of my family as we crossed under the Ghost Rider; I wasn’t sure how to explain the tears in Daddy’s eyes to my children. A few steps later we were walking through the parking lot towards the rear entrance of the Knott’s Hotel. As he was the night before; Snoopy stood with open arms to greet us. A smile came to my face and more than a few tears fell as I softly whispered four words I had spoken dozens of times over the past three days:

“Thank You Mr. Knott”

 

 

 

 

Mr. Padre

Summer 1983

Just a few days after my ninth birthday I piled into the bed of a late-1960‘s Ford Ranchero along with my brother and a neighborhood friend of ours as part of a four vehicle caravan to Mission Valley. Our destination: Jack Murphy Stadium and my first ever Major League Baseball game. It had all the sights, sounds and smells as those of you who have attended a game could imagine. I think I need not go on, your memories have surely come alive as soon as you read the words first and game. As an added treat, it was bat day, meaning every kid got a free bat. Not one of those little souvenir bats the size of a baby’s arm but an honest to goodness youth sized bat.

The bat itself is long gone. Had I known better than to use it to hit rocks, marbles and just about anything I could fit into my hands; I might still have it. But what I gained that day; a lifelong love affair with America’s Pastime, will far outlast any material souvenir. It may be worth mentioning that the Phillies were in town that warm July evening, so my first game consisted of one future Hall of Famer in Tony Gwynn and one should-be Hall of Famer in Pete Rose leading their teams against each other.

Fast-forward thirty summers and I found myself at Petco Park with my family; placing a bundle of sage at the foot of the statue I helped unveil.There was a somber tone in the Park at the Park that day; reminiscent of the losses my immediate family has suffered. The silent mourning; the resurgence of tears each time I hugged another member of the Padres family reminded me of the days my mother, grandmother and grandfathers passed on. Many words were shared; fond memories recounted but the most touching moments were the silent ones. One of the first members of my Family of 40,000 I encountered was Summer Serrano; President of the Madres Organization. Few words exchanged initially; each of us knowing all too well how the other was affected by such an immense loss.

In the days since; every night has brought memories of days past to the surface. Whenever a major event occurs in my life, I usually have a rough draft detailing my experiences and what I have learned completed within an hour. In the case of losing Tony Gwynn, it took two full days to even shed a true tear. My shock was so thorough in that it affected me as a child, as a former coworker, as a husband, as a father, and as a fan.

Ten days and three separate drafts later I am finally able to put my fingers to the keyboard and finally express my thoughts in a way that truly reflects the impact Tony has had and continues to have on me. In all honesty, I don’t think I or anyone else will know the full impact he had on my life until my own day of reckoning comes. Try as I might, I am only scratching the surface when I say knowing Tony and knowing of him has made me a better husband, a better father, a better friend and a better employee. Of all the things there are to admire about him, his qualities that have affected me most were his human qualities; his strengths of character. As much as his excellence on the ballfield amazed me, his ways of achieving that excellence are what inspires me most.

The universal truths in his career stats are not lost on anyone, but the stats behind those stats are what I find truly astounding, making the former San Diego State point guard a legend among legends. Stats that would make Babe Ruth, Willie Mays and even that ornery SOB Ty Cobb bow their heads in reverence. The eight batting titles and .338 lifetime average are astonishing in themselves. But look behind those numbers and you’ll see that Tony batted an un-Gwynn like .302 against Nolan Ryan;  yet still a full .100 points more than the rest of Major League Baseball. Against Greg Maddux, Tony batted an incredible .429 while the rest of the league batted a paltry .250. And against Mad Dog’s fellow Atlanta Braves ace John Smoltz, Gwynn batted .462, nearly .250 higher than the rest of the Majors. In short, Tony Gwynn owned the legendary pitchers of his era much like he owned the 5.5 hole. He dominated the dominant.

Of all his Hall of Fame credentials, what impresses me most and what I will try to hammer home in the minds of my children are his five Gold Gloves. Upon being drafted, most MLB scouts had Tony Gwynn rated as an average fielder at best. No matter who you are, average outfielders don’t get rated best in the field with average talent.  He worked hard at fielding and he mastered it, just as he mastered every other aspect of the game. When I talk to my sons about the game of baseball, I don’t talk much about statistics; I put the emphasis on how those statistics were achieved. In all my years of following baseball and studying the all-time greats, I have found no better example of hard work and discipline than those five awards.

As I mentioned a few moments ago, with every major event in my life; be it triumph or tragedy I have never had a problem writing about it. Often I have a first draft complete within an hour of such occasions and it is not uncommon for a single draft to spawn a dozen new ideas, or as western writer Louis L’Amour used to say “more grist for the mill”. Yet through countless drafts, rewrites and total emotional breakdown, it has taken a week and a half to put this thing together. Had I been using actual paper and pencil, my wastebasket would have overflowed many times over with crumpled, tear-stained pages. But I have realized that one single word, one sentence, one paragraph could not possibly do Tony the justice he deserves. Many of those who read what I share publicly are just as devastated as I am and I do not want to let them down.

In my search for the best way to create a written tribute to Anthony Keith Gwynn Senior; I prayed, I watched the tribute videos, I read old interviews and I prayed some more. I looked for anything to assist me in properly defining exactly what Tony means to me. I finally found it in an unlikely place. In indigenous languages around the globe; one word, one term can carry volumes of meaning. Certain terms would require several paragraphs to be properly translated into the English language.

Great Hitter. Model Teammate. Extraordinary. Unequaled. Hard working. Honorable. Intelligent. Focused. Dedicated. Determined. Unsurpassed. Endearing. Magnificent. Dependable. Legendary. Consistent. Personable. Talented. Loyal. Loyal. Loyal. Did I mention loyal?

These are just nineteen terms, and surely we could add to the list and make it oh, 3,141 more or so. For the citizens of San Diego and baseball fans the world over; all those terms can be summed up with one word:

Tony…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elmer Crow

Oftentimes much of what I write starts out on a negative note; at least the inspiration starts with something I look upon negatively. I am amazed at how a single thought or word can lead to something bigger and well beyond the initial thought. Well beyond that it can come home to me in such a way that I am able to produce something I feel is very positive.

With yet another Hollywood “Superhero” film being all the rage at the moment, I kind of feel it’s a waste of time and resources. Entertainment is enjoyable, but I choose to find more productive ways to entertain myself. I often wondered why so many fiction stories are produced for the big screen while there is story after story of truly heroic men and women out there just waiting and needing to be told.

I won’t look down on someone for paying their hard-earned money to see a comic book character on the Silver Screen, but I choose to entertain myself with things that could possibly benefit from either an educational or even a spiritual standpoint. That’s why I’m not much a fan of comic book fiction; it’s fake in every way, shape and form. I’m not speaking simply of special effects but of the actual characters; robots that turn into cars; humans with titanium alloy skeletons, politicians who have integrity. Oh wait, that last one belongs in another blog. My point is, I wouldn’t go hunting just to shoot a bunch of duck decoys, so when it comes to the information I take in, I go for the real deal

Last summer I posted about a man named Roy Benavidez, a half Yaqui Mestizo who served in the United States Army. Roy’s story is more amazing than anything Hollywood could dish (or shovel) out. The main motivation behind my post was to illustrate the point that the word hero is widely misused these days and the fact that true heroes are widely ignored. That post led to a comment from a distant cousin of mine, a member of the Nez Perce tribe in Lapwai, Idaho. His comment spoke of a man named Elmer Crow, a Nez Perce elder who lived and died hero in its truest definition.

Now, if I had not made my original post about heroes, it’s very likely that I never would’ve known Elmer’s story. A quick search of the Web made it clear that his story barely made it beyond of the local news, and then only in Native-run media outlets. I guess the national mainstream media was more concerned with the celebrity of the day or whichever millionaire athlete was wiping his ass with the rulebook.

I felt much sadness as I read of Elmer’s life; partly a selfish sadness in that I never had the opportunity to meet the man. Yet in reading his story and reading the comments his friends and loved ones had to share, I was able to get to know him. The more I read about him, the more I realized that Elmer Crow is as much a hero as any man who has walked the Earth and a much bigger hero than most.

A man of integrity.

A man who valued Mother Nature.

A man who dedicated his very existence to something bigger than himself.

He was the kind of guy who saw the value in every person and went out of his way to show them that. Some of you might know someone like him, or at least have someone in your life who, when you even think of them, a smile comes to your face and a warmth comes to your heart.

As I read on, I learned that Elmer was a lifelong hunter and fisherman. No surprise there, for I’ve learned that those most in tune with nature are more in tune with life itself. Heroes give you much to admire and Elmer was no exception. But the truly great heroes make you look within.  They make you ask questions of yourself. They challenge you to be the best person you can be. What have I done for wildlife? What can I do for my community that I’m not doing right now? What wisdom have I gained that I can pass on to my children and grandchildren? The notepad is out and I’m adding things to that list even as I write this blog.

It could be said that one of Elmer’s biggest legacies is his work for the Pacific Lamprey, affectionately known as “Elmer’s Eels”.

At one time, tens of thousands of eels used to migrate from the Pacific Ocean up the Columbia and Snake Rivers into Nez Perce land in Idaho. 4 years ago, only one dozen were counted. Due to Elmer’s tenacity, dedication and spirit, the Pacific Lamprey is making a comeback. All because one man cared enough about our sacred wildlife to get up and do something about it.

These days, there’s little to no opportunity for the Nez Perce of Lapwai to harvest the lamprey, yet that day might come and it will be because of “Eelmer”.

Rarely do we hear mention of such men outside his family and community. And that is not only a downright shame; it’s also an indication of how our society has pushed aside positive values. Who among us can say they helped bring an animal from the brink of extinction? Many of us have made donations to worthy organizations that dedicate themselves to propagation and preservation of wild animals; but Elmer Crow literally and figuratively “rolled up his sleeves and got his hands dirty”.
When I look at Elmer’s picture, I see a man who I would’ve loved to hit the trail with; to sit by the campfire and hear the stories that I never could’ve learned in a lifetime in the library. The world could use a few more men like Elmer Crow.
Elmer was a rare man in that he could truthfully be called a hero for any one of his lifetime accomplishments; he honorably served in the 101^st Airborne, created trout fishing opportunities at Tunnel Pond and more important; taught the old ways of hunting, fishing and making traditional Nez Perce weapons and tools.

I never met Elmer but I think of him often. His life and legacy has led me to my desire and duty to be a better husband, father and member of my community. I think of Elmer and say to myself “We need more men like Elmer in this world.”
Elmer’s final mortal act turned out to be his finest; he gave his life to the Snake River so that his grandsons may live, ensuring that the future is secure with more men like Elmer in it…

 

 

Jerry Coleman

Coming on quickly Finley, Finley, Finley he’s under it he’s got it AND THE PADRES DRAPE THE NATIONAL LEAGUE FLAG AROUND THEIR SHOULDERS FOR 1998! OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH DOCTOR!

Not only is this my all-time favorite call, but it was also my answering machine message from October 1998 through the beginning of the 1999 baseball season. For every road game in the 1998 playoffs, (as with every nationally televised Padre game) I muted the TV and dialed up the Colonel on the radio; hitting the record button for Game 6 of the NLCS.

Another favorite came on a day in 1996. The Padres were in Florida playing the Marlins and I was in Mira Mesa on a remodeling job. Pardon the phrase, but it sounded like Jerry Coleman went absolutely berserk when Ken Caminiti grabbed a fair ground ball in foul territory and threw the runner out at first while sitting on his rear end. I almost fell off a ladder hearing his excited description of one of the most legendary plays in Padre history!

Every one of us has a treasure trove of fond memories of Gerald Francis Coleman but to me, the collective memory of him is what I cherish most. Recently I have been corresponding with a well-known local radio personality in hopes of fine-tuning a manuscript I’ve been working on. During one of our email exchanges, we talked about another long time San Diego radio DJ who passed away ten years ago. After this exchange I started thinking a lot about how local radio and television personalities become an integral part of the fabric of our lives. Dave, Shelly and Chainsaw went to school with me every morning and in my twenties, they spent the first few hours of every weekday at work with me. On the rare occasion I’m awake and in the car in the morning hours, my time is spent with Coe Lewis, Bob Buchman and the rest of the 101.5 KGB morning show gang. Larry Himmel spent a lot of time in my grandparents’ living room and I’m sure that many San Diegans have memories of sitting at the dinner table with Bob Dale.

Nothing against the aforementioned people but I am certain that most if not all of us will agree that no one has endeared himself to our community and our families more than Jerry Coleman. Jerry spent time with the Gonzales family in Rosarito Beach every summer in the 1980’s, with the Ress family at Indian Hills Camp every Fathers’ Day and was even in the hospital room when my son Joseph was born. (I know, I know. Listening to the ballgame during childbirth might not be the best idea for a daddy, but Chris Young was on the verge of a perfect game that day!)

As a writer, I feel that my most important tasks are to get people to think, to feel. But what could I possibly say about the Colonel that people don’t already think about him, don’t already feel about him? We all know the stories; Marine, World Series MVP, local icon; not to mention the Distinguished Flying Crosses, the Air Medals and the Navy Citations. But there is one thing about him and the rest of our beloved local media personalities that isn’t often mentioned or thought of:

More than Trevor Hoffman, more than Tim Flannery and yes, even more than Tony Gwynn; Jerry Coleman became a part of our families. And you know how I feel about our guys on the field. But players retire, uniforms change and our address even changed. In my lifetime there was always and only one voice.

Former Padres Director of Media Relations and current Miami Marlins radio broadcaster Glenn Geffner said it best when he wrote that even if Jerry Coleman had been only a Yankees star, or only a fighter pilot, or only a broadcaster, his would have been an unbelievable life. But he was all three. Most of us knew him as the Voice of the Padres and as Mr. Geffner said, he led a life that would have been extraordinary for three men.

To me, Jerry Coleman embodied everything that made and continues to make this country great. To sum up what I feel is the best way I could describe the man, I’ll use some words that came to me when my own grandfather passed away;

“He was a man who did the right thing simply because it was the right to do…”

Another great man I have been blessed to know is former San Diego Padres Director of Military Marketing Captain Jack Ensch, who was fond of saying “There is nothing more American than baseball and serving your country…”.  Those words have been repeating themselves in my head and in my heart over the past couple of weeks. And I’m sure that most if not all of you would agree that when you put it in that context, no one was more American than Jerry Coleman.

My sincerest thanks to the Coleman Family for sharing your Husband, Father and Grandfather with forty years worth of grateful Padre fans…