Sillanpaa From the 707

Romberg, Jacobs & Soccers Stars at D-I Colleges

2011-12-31T21:16:00.000-08:00

This list of Humboldt-Del Norte League athletes who've gone on to play NCAA Division I sports, on scholarship, has grown again to include a number of soccer players of recent vintage and a couple of the best girls to ever play basketball on the North Coast.

There is no list like this anywhere else. So, folks interesting in helping grow the list to include the dozens of folks not mention yet can send information to:

tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com

The only criteria is that the athletes played in the Humboldt-Del Norte League went on scholarship to an NCAA Division I sports program. If an athlete earned a D-I roster spot as a walk-on participant, great, there's a place on the list for them. (Fans can decide whether or not an athlete is noteworthy or not.)

Making this a comprehensive list could turn into a job ... sort of like something that folks in the North Coast media could be putting together as part of their routine. Seems like there'd be great interest in Sage Romberg emerging as a Pac-12 Conference basketball star for Washington State, but it appears that today's games are all that really matter in the daily North Coast media.

Too bad, huh? The athletes listed here were mentioned day after day after day as the biggest stars on the North Coast -- until they left to play in a bigger spotlight and, now, this little list is all the attention many of them get.

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Sage Romberg, McKinleyville/Washington State, basketball
Romberg's a sophomore for the Cougars after earning all-Pac-10 Conference honorable mention and Pac-10 All-Freshman Team honors in 2010-2011.
Romberg's WSU hoop hero

Kelsie Jacobs, Fortuna/Wichita State, basketball
Jacobs is a red-shirt freshman for the Shockers after suffering a knee injury that shortened her senior season at Fortuna High.
Jacobs at Wichita State

Rachel Grushkin, Eureka, University of Oregon, soccer
Grushkin currently is the national teams coordinator for the U.S. soccer federation. She was also an intern for the David Beckham Academy at Anschutz Entertainment Group after graduation from Oregon in 2007.
Grushkin Still Active in U.S. soccer

Greg Allen, Eureka/USC basketball (currently on roster)
EHS star with Trojans

Tara Boynton, Ferndale/Fresno State, soccer
Boynton appeared in 17 games and started nine in her freshman season for the Bulldogs.
Ferndale star shines at D-I

Clint Long, Arcata/Oregon State, soccer
Long redshirted in this his freshman season with the Beavers.
Arcata's Long With Division I Beavers

Buck Pierce, Del Norte/New Mexico State, football, Canadian Football League QB
DN's Pierce a CFL standout

Soma Vainuku, Eureka/USC football (currently on roster)
Vainuka at USC

Cody Hoffman, Del Norte/BYU football (currently on roster)
DN stud shines at BYU

Other H-DNL alumni

Rey Maualuga, Eureka/USC, football, Cincinnati Bengals
Randy Matyshock, Ferndale/Boise State, football
John Jaso, McKinleyville/Seattle Mariners (currently on roster)

Jaso back on West Coast
Randy Niemann, Fortuna/NY Yankees/Pittsburgh Pirates/Houston Astros/Chicago White Sox/NY Mets
currently NY Mets minor league pitching coach
Niemann working for Mets
Tino Romero, Eureka/Washington State football
Jon Stone, Eureka/Cal, baseball
Dave Stone, Eureka/N.Y. Mets organization, baseball
Mo Purify, Eureka/Nebraska, football
Cardedrick Foreman, Eureka/Weber State, football
Willie Beebe, St. Bernard/Colorado, football
David Sharp, St. Bernard/Virginia Military Institute, baseball
Gregg Reynolds, Arcata/University of Pacific, baseball
Travis Fleming, McKinleyville/University of Pacific, baseball
Matt Nielsen, McKinleyville/Sac State baseball
Gary Wilson, Eureka/Sac State, baseball, Pittsburgh Pirates, currently Colorado Rockies regional scout
Mark Gorge, Arcata/Sac State, baseballJeff Borghino, Arcata/Sac State, baseball
Mitch Walter, Arcata/Kansas State, baseball
Ryan Johnston, McKinleyville/U. of Arkansas, baseball
Matt Tomlin, St. Bernard/University of Nebraska, baseball
Brandon Marcelli, Eureka/Fresno State, baseball
Mo Charlo, Eureka/Nevada, basketball
Trina Bindel, Eureka/Wake Forest, track and field
Brandon Bieber, Del Norte/U of Alaska-Fairbanks, basketball
Vicky Fleschner, Fortuna/Oregon, cross country & track
Heidi Bowman, South Fork/Marquette, basketball
Trina McCartney, McKinleyville/Oregon, basketball (She graduated in '87)
Matt Creason, Eureka/Georgetown, cross country & track
Debbie Templeton, South Fork/Stanford, track and field
Megan McMillan, Del Norte/Oregon State, volleyball
Morrie Roe, Arcata/Hawaii, football
Scott Eskra, Eureka/Mississippi, baseball
Gina Loechl, Eureka/Wisconsin, swimming
Ashley Curry, McKinleyville/UC Davis
Jim Berning, Eureka/Montana State, basketball
Mike Spini, Ferndale/Washington State baseball
Rick Lundblade, Eureka/Stanford baseball
Rob Harrison, Eureka/San Diego State/San Jose State/Sacramento State football
Ken Maire, Eureka/Cal baseball
Chad Gleave, Arcata/San Jose State, soccer
Sita Kuteira, Arcata/UC Davis, soccer
Greg Lorenzetti, Fortuna/Stanford, baseball
Paul Ziegler, Fortuna/USC, baseball
Trina McCartney, McKinleyville/Oregon State, basketball
Cindy Bradley, Eureka/Minnesota, basketball,
David Wells, Eureka/CR/Stanford, track & cross country,

Bay-Valley Prep Football Rankings Coming Sunday Night

2011-09-04T01:49:00.000-07:00

No. 1 Napa High lost a heartbreaker at home, but second-ranked Vacaville steamrolled a typically solid foe to open the high school football season.

There's bound to be a shake-up at the top of the second Bay Valley Sports high school football rankings that will be released Sunday evening.

Bay Valley Sports: http://bayvalleysports.blogspot.com/

This week's rankings will also feature the result of Napa and Solano counties' Division I schools struggling, while perennially strong, respected smaller school programs rolled on Friday night.

Size doesn't matter if discipline and desire compensates, so ... which small schools from among teams like Rio Vista, Justin-Siena and St. Patrick of Vallejo will leave fans of bigger schools gnashing their team when new rankings are released?

Next week

** A look at Bay-Valley Sports Napa and Solano stars who will have their weekly accomplishments forwarded to national prep websites for potential acclaim.

** The best football fans ... where are they and why do they love their teams so much more than the fans at ...?

(If you enjoy the work you see from Bay-Valley Sports, please consider offering a dollar or two or more, or less, simply by clicking the "Donate" button above. The first week of rankings, complete sets of Napa and Solano football scores drew more readers than could've ever been hoped for. Thanks! To keep Bay-Valley Sports growing, please consider supporting us financially.)

Through a Father's Sighs: Simple Guide to Making Relationships Sorta, Kinda Work a Little Better

2011-09-04T01:34:00.000-07:00

It's 12:50 a.m. and, really, don't ask why I was just now unloading the dishwasher in the home of my youngest children's mother. Don't ask why I rinsed a stack of dirty dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher either.

Really, I'm serious. Don't ask.

OK. What type of schnook would mention unloading and loading his ex-wife's dishwasher and keep the back story a secret?

See? I immediately mentioned that I'm a schnook. That's the result of my never having anyone guide me through the murky waters of marriage ... or lasting relationships with any women ... even a woman I really, really cared about.

After two divorces, both the result of me being a less than attentive and not completely motivated husband, a guy starts to assume he has schnook'ish qualities. A schnook? You know? Two divorces from bright, attractive, intelligent women who gave birth to two each of my four amazing kids. (One of them raised all four kids with me.)

The marriages didn't work. Upon reflection, a fella feels like a schmoe.

Neil Young Sings For a Schnook

I sighed so loudly before deciding to just unload, then load the dishwasher for my kids' mom that my 29-year-old son heard me from the living room. He's here, hanging out for the holiday weekend. He, his youngest brother and my oldest son are the best of very best buddies. My daughter loves all three brothers and they love her. That's why he's at the house of the woman who raised him while his real mom was, thank God, getting her life together for a decade or so.

I didn't want him or his brothers ever standing in someone else's kitchen, in someone else's house at 12:50 a.m. trying to decide whether to load somebody else's dishwasher. So, I thought I'd make a quick list of ways to avoid the mistakes I made that led to two divorces from, really, very nice women.

1. Don't sigh!

Easier said than done when, as in my case, a sigh can mean just about anything. My kids reflexively ask, "What's wrong with YOU?" I usually say, "That sigh had nothing to do with you. Honest." I might be sighing because I'd just figured out that the mathmatical probability of the San Francisco Giants winning the World Series again had finally reached zero.

It turned out that both of the women I was married to, as well as other women, assumed that sighing was a sign of disgust. They came to believe that because I didn't think about the Giants or the NFL playoff races or the new running course I'd found when I was with them while the sizzle still existed in our long relationships. So, when I sighed, I was usually actually disgusted -- with myself.

Nobody likes to be around somebody who sighs. So, guys, don't sigh when you're with a woman you love. It's just easier that way.

2. Load the dishwasher early on.

After roughly a decade with my youngest kids' mom, I still hadn't yielded to the simple notion that some people actually believe that there's a right way and wrong way to load a dishwasher.

Oh, I know enough to reasonably rinse food off of plates. It's clear that one must put glasses and cups in top side down.

The last ex-wife I'll ever had has a very particularly way she wants her dishwasher loaded. I spent about 10 years trying to show her, without saying a word, that the dishes get clean if you load the machine the way I load it, too.

We bickered about me being too lazy to load the dishwasher correctly. Argue about enough things as ridiculous as how to load the dishwasher and your marriage is headed down the toilet.

One reason I hesitated to load the dishwasher tonight is that, well, she saw me loading the dishwasher the last time I was here and said, "Just leave those. I'll load them ... because ... "

Because I'm a screw-up and, even though she's nice enough to let me hang around, she doesn't want to have to go in behind me and re-load the dishwasher ... which she did all the time when we were married.

Quick, men ... what do you feel like doing when your wife lets you do a job, then follows you in and does the job over again the way she wants it done? Right-O! It makes you never want to do that job again for as long as your married.

Well, that might be just how I felt. I'm not sure. I know when I was at woman's house months back, a woman I care for deeply, I unloaded the dishwasher while she was out. Seconds after she arrived, I heard the dishwasher crash open.

"Oh, Joe, bless his heart he tries to help ..."

Joe is the kid she thought had unloaded his dishes and put, I guess, the spoons and forks in some sort of disarray. It wasn't anything too messy because, by now, I take my time thinking about how people want their dishes unloaded.

"Joe didn't unload those dishes. I did. Sorry I messed 'em up."

"Oh. No. Thanks. (Long pause as I hear silverware being shuffled.) I appreciate the help."

So, I hope my sons load a dishwasher around a woman very, very early in any meaningful relationship. If they disagree on how to load a dishwasher, they'll talk it out while there's still some snap, crackle and pop in their hook-up. She might even think that their way works best.

No. That won't happen. But, a dad can dream.

3. Fold laundry. Lots of laundry.

Sadly, I can't count my meaningful relationships by the number of different ways I can fold towels fresh from the dryer. So, for the record, I can fold them four different ways -- ah, that's actually the result of three meaningful relationships and me just aiming way too hard to please fresh out of the box after my first divorce.

Every way that I've learned to fold towels works fine, given that my goal is have them fit neatly in a cupboard or drawer. All four ways to fold towels are completely different, wind up with a folded final product that looks different one from the other.

So, guess who caught the devil for folding clothes the way his first wife folded them? It took awhile for me to even grasp the concept of folding clothes. My mom folded all my laundry until she died when I was 17 1/2. She didn't show me how to fold them. When pressed to fold my own clothes, I did my best and she was my mom, you know? She told me I'd make a helluva clothes-folder someday.

My second wife folded towels to make them fit under her sink in the bathroom in a big rectangular shape, nothing at all like the tri-folds my first wife used. By the time I was thinking, "I've got this deal aced" and was folding towels for the woman I really, really care about now ... I was absolutely screwed!

"Here ... lemme' show you how to fold them. If you fold them like THAT (eyes rolled with a look of disgust), they won't fit in dresser."

I really wanted to please her. Really. But, I felt my jaw clench because ... I knew I wasn't going to let the moment pass without mentioning that, um, I was sitting at her house, on her couch, spending time with her ... folding laundry for her and her kids. So, it seems like I'd get gold stars on my Man card, not a symposium on folding towels.

I've argued with three women about folding towels ... and shirts ... and pants ... and even my own damned underwear. Criminy! It's my underwear?!?!

"If you don't fold it just right, it won't all fit in the dresser ... "

Wonder how my life would've been different if I'd never said anything?

"Well, yeah, they'll fit in the dresser just fine ... just not like YOU want them to fit in there."

I've been emasculated more than once over this stuff. My youngest son once heard the "it won't fit in the dresser" lecture and said, "Who cares? It's your stuff. I hope nobody ever just starts folding my stuff because I'm gonna fold it like I wanna fold it. It's my stuff!"

Ah! To be 15 years old and naive in the ways of love.

My sons, frankly, should bring some clean laundry with them on a date when they realize they're getting serious about a woman.

4. Take turns driving.

Everybody drives a little differently, right? We all can agree on that.

Some of us follow cars a little more closely on the highway. Some of us stop a little herky-jerky at intersections. We all take turns a little differently.

No big deal, right?

Wrong.

I've driven with a woman who, inexplicably, leaves me feeling carsick. She is arguably the woman I have loved more than any woman ever in this world. Yet, we had a shouting match that let her enraged when I mentioned that, for some reason, I get carsick in her car.

Maybe I shouldn't have said anything? Well, maybe I thought that vomiting in her car would've caused a bigger problem than telling her I didn't feel well whenever we drove in her car.

And, yes, the fact that I get carsick when she drives came up over and over. It became a black mark against me.

So, man, drive with that special lady.

If she's really special, you are going to take turns teaching your kids how to drive. Children have enough to worry about without hearing mom and dad argue about the proper way to place your hands on the steering wheel when making a sharp, right turn.

I've been told to, "Sit back there and be quiet! He's trying to drive," for whispering to my older son that his younger brother seemed to be using some new technique for steering a car.

Again, if driving with her can result in her giving you a black mark on your Man card or in her snapping at you to, more or less, shut up ... you will have argued a great deal about driving.

Argue enough about how to drive a damned car and you will find your marriage in trouble. If you're marriage is solid as a rock, you wouldn't argue about ... you get the idea.

So, my sons, will ideally drive with the woman who matters. She how she handles it and how she expects you to handle it. The woman who makes me carsick, for no reason I can explain, consistently wanted me to drive with the cruise control engaged. I gathered that slowing down and speeding up on the highway really aggravated her.

I don't want my sons nearly driving off the road because someone reaches over and snaps, "They put cruise control on here for a reason!"

The list goes one. That's plenty to digest for now. Besides, it's only 2 a.m. and there is a basket of clean laundry out in the hall.

How does my youngest kids' mom like her towels folded again?

Eureka's Mike Poovey was one-in-a-million athlete in the 1970s

2011-08-31T23:10:00.000-07:00

Former Times-Standard sports writer Sean Quincey's observation about how everybody views all-time top athletes and teams based on their own age, the era they remember most clearly, etc., is accurate.

That's what makes putting my All-Time North Coast Baseball Team together fun and challenging. I had to go back well before I played baseball at Eureka High in the 1970s and then jump to add players who starred up there from about 1995 to date. I couldn't just fall back on my era as the best era because it's the era I most remember.

Perfect example of "Best of..." being so wildly personal is my own little list of all-time great Humboldt-Del Norte League athletes and, in particular, football players.

I would argue, after writing about H-DNL sports for 20 years and following them for 45 that the best athlete and most explosive football player ever on the North Coast was a guy who is totally forgotten on the North Coast today. It's a former Eureka guy ... a guy I played Midget Leauge with ... went to Winship Junior High with ... from a sports family that folks who remember 1965 to 1980 would've insisted was a family that would never be forgotten.

I intend to introduce the most impactful football player, from Eureka High School Class of 1975, to folks here. I hope you'll remember him.

Eureka High's Rob Harrison was as good as any running back in America as a senior in 1980. Everybody's thinking now of NFL linebacker Ray Maualuga who starred at USC. It'd be stupid not to list one of them as No. 1, right?

Wrong.

Hey, woa! You can disagree ... but, you can't call me names! I know what I saw with my own two eyes and I those two greats and ...

Mike Poovey was a running back at Eureka High in 1974 and 1975. He was a 100- and 200-meter H-DNL sprint champion. (And, I played with him on Belcher's Giants in the Eureka Midget League for 3 years. He was a quiet, cocky kid who often left the impression that amazing baseball talent was wasted on him in a game he seemed to find boring.)

Poovey was a touchdown machine. He ran over people. When he hit somebody, Albee Stadium rocked. (I once saw Harrison hurdle defenders. Also impressive!)

Poovey was just so much faster than defenders I found his performances on the field breathtaking -- even as a guy who viewed him as a peer and sort of a pal. He was a sprint champion who hit like a ton of bricks.

Think a minute. How good does a guy have to be to have a peer, 40 years later, say, "He was electrifying!" He has to have been great.

When Poovey hit somebody it made that explosive sound, then the would-be tackler fell straight backwards. And, yeah, I saw him meet defenders at the goal line and knock them on their ass.

If he got a half-step on the defense, he was gone. God, Mike Poovey was a great football player!

Then...in the middle of what would've been an historic senior season, he blew out his knee and his spot in the middle range of all-time rushers and TD scorers hides the fact he was the biggest impact player I ever saw on the North Coast.

Kids didn't play for NCAA Division I scholarships in 1974-75. Poovey didn't have state of the art medical techniques to repair his damaged knee. He came back and played football at College of the Redwoods, but he was never the same ... still good, though.

Mike Poovey. Eureka High Class of 1975. The best I ever saw.

I last spoke to him 12 years ago or so. He was in Sacramento. His brother Dale "Butch" Poovey is a lawyer up there. I remember arguing with an older pal that Butch Poovey was a better quarterback and baseball player than younger brother Mike would ever be. Tom Poovey played baseball with us as kids, the youngest of the clan. John Poovey (EHS Class of '72) was a basketball star on one of the best teams in Loggers' history. He passed away too soon not long ago.

I tried to track him Mike Poovey down, through his family, about a year ago. No luck. He's still impossible to catch.

All-Time North Coast Baseball Team 2011

2011-08-27T21:48:00.000-07:00

Ted Note: This is the story featuring the all-time North Coast baseball team that I pieced together with research, in discussions with people who'd followed the game for years, etc. It first appeared in the early 1990s, but has been updated here to include three stars who played in the area since the story first appeared.)
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Selecting the best North Coast baseball players of the century is no more difficult than picking the prettiest star in the evening sky.

Still, as 2000 nears, it's worth taking the time to consider the best of the best who have been the region's "Boys of Summer" in the last many years.

While Major League Baseball has copious statistics going back to 1900, the process of selecting the all-time North Coast baseball team falls to recollections of former players and coaches or media members.

"There have been some great players here through the years," the Times-Standard's the late, longtime sports editor Don Terbush said. "How can you compare them through the years with the change from wooden bats to aluminum? It's tough, but the great ones could have played in any era."

Players are honored here for what they did on the local scene, while considering what they accomplished outside the area, too. The majority of the stars of the last century played pro baseball, although some drew high praise simply for their excellence on the North Coast scene.

The team was chosen after polling local baseball players, baseball historians and media members who have watched this area's finest baseball stars through the century.

The late Carl Del Grande described the 1949 semi-professional Humboldt Crabs in a 1984 newspaper story.

"The club had intensity and brute strength," Del Grande said. "It also had finesse and skill."

Some things never change. That could describe any championship team from any era.

Here's a look at the Times-Standard All-Time North Coast Baseball Team:

First base: Two players who starred at Eureka High before becoming standouts at Stanford University and then enjoying careers in professional baseball earn the nod.

Mark Lucich, who graduated from Eureka in 1972, and Rick Lundblade, who starred in the late 1980s, both left their mark locally and then starred for the Cardinal.

"Mark was just a great hitter. He hit for average and with power," said former Alaska Summer League teammate Lee Iorg, who played against Lucich at Eureka High.

Lundblade, at one time, held the all-time Stanford career home run record.

Lucich spent time in the Cincinnati Reds organization while Lundblade was a Philadelphia Phillies farmhand.

Infielders: Although he's best known as a legendary Humboldt-Del Norte League coach, Bob Bonomini ranks among the greatest players in history. He was a superb player at St. Bernard High (Class of 1958) before shining at Fresno State and, then, for years as the second baseman for the Humboldt Crabs.

Wally Scott was a shortstop for Arcata High School and Humboldt State in the 1940s. He was a brilliant fielder with an outstanding bat. He wound up playing professional baseball.

"You can't pick an all-time team without Wally on it," Terbush said.

Eureka's Scott Eskra became the rare Humboldt County player of modern vintage to star in high school, at College of the Redwoods -- and absolutely sparkle at a powerful NCAA Division I school. He had a brilliant 1997 season at the University of Mississippi in the Southeastern Conference.

Eskra anchored one of the finest Eureka High School teams of the last quarter-century and starred for a magnificent Humboldt Eagles Connie Mack League team that dominated throughout the western region of the United States.

John Schlesinger (Eureka High, 1968) was among the first in a crop of standout Loggers to shine in the infield and then go on to play professionally. This Loggers grad spent years in the Yankees farm system.

One player stands head-and-shoulders above the rest at this position -- former Eureka and Humboldt Crabs sensation Reco Pastori. Pastori was a brilliant middle infielder in the 1940s for the early editions of the semi-pro baseball powerhouse. He played second base for the Crabs.

"Reco was our Ty Cobb," Del Grande recalled. "He was a good percentage hitter and could convert a walk or single into two bases with his exciting base running."

Garth Iorg was a shortstop for Arcata High from 1971-73, then moved on straight from high school to the minor leagues.
He spent a long, storied career as a third baseman for Toronto Blue Jays. He is currently a coach with the Milwaukee Brewers.

Once again, a player from years gone by is considered by many the best in North Coast history at the hot corner.

Former Arcata High star Eddie Oliveira was a brilliant third baseman for the Tigers in the 1940s and remains, in the opinion of many, the best at the hot corner in the history of the Humboldt Crabs.

"Oliveira had excellent bat control," Del Grande recalled. "He usually led our team in hitting. He was very good at the hit-and-run play. He was a great athlete."

Catchers: After a brilliant career at Eureka High and with the Humboldt Crabs, Carl Del Grande earns a spot on the all-time team as a catcher. He was power hitter in the 1940s here before playing professional baseball with the Detroit Tigers and Pittsburgh Pirates organizations.

"Carl could play the infield, the outfield, and he was a catcher, too," Terbush remembered. "He could really hit the long ball."

McKinleyville High's John Jaso went from being a slugging Panthers' star in the early 2000s, to community college stardom. He was drafted by the Tampa Bay Rays and currently sees action behind the plate for the AL East team.

Jaso ended a long spell where not a single North Coast player was drafted, signed and made a Major League Baseball Roster.

Greg Kane was a home run-hitting sensation for Arcata High in the early 1970s before moving on to a professional career where he showed defensive prowess to go with a booming bat.

Outfielders: Dane Iorg was a star at Arcata High (1968), was a standout for the Humboldt Crabs and Brigham Young University and then had a long and successful big league career with the St. Louis Cardinals and Kansas City Royals. While with the Royals, he played against younger brother Garth, who was with the Blue Jays, in the American League Championship Series.

"I think Dane was the best all-around player ever to come out of this area," said Iorg's brother Lee.

Some would disagree.

"Lee Iorg was considered by many the best overall talent of the three Iorg brothers," Terbush said.

Lee Iorg was not to be outshined as a center fielder from Arcata High (1970) with great speed, fine defensive skills and strong bat. He is considered by some baseball historians here as the most physically gifted of the brothers. He played in the New York Mets organization.

"Dane and I played different positions. I prided myself on my defense and my hitting," Lee said. "It's kind of nice that people remember you were a pretty decent player."

Buster Pidgeon was as outstanding a multi-sport athlete as the area has ever produced, starring for great Eureka High teams in the 1960s.

It was as a baseball star at Eureka High, College of the Redwoods and then in the Philadelphia Phillies organization that he made his mark on North Coast history. He continues to leave his mark on area baseball with son Matthew pitching in the Florida Marlins organization and by Buster coaching the Connie Mack League Humboldt Eagles, with Matthew at Eureka High School and on his own time with young players from throughout the county.

Paul Ziegler was another multisport hero for Fortuna High (1976). He was a mercurial center fielder who led many Humboldt Crabs teams to glory while starting in center field in a four-year career at the University of Southern California.

Greg Lorenzetti is another Fortuna grad who, like Ziegler, was a football quarterback and a basketball star, coming along in the 1980s. He went on to become a baseball standout at Stanford University, and played for the Crabs, before signing professionally with the Toronto Blue Jays.

Shane Zerlang is the third Fortuna High grad to crack this mythical squad. He was a superior lefty swinger with speed and power. He went on to play professionally in the Los Angeles Dodgers organization in the mid-1980s.

Pitchers: Joe Oescheger came out Ferndale High to pitch for decades in the major leagues in the 1900s. The right-hander pitched in the longest game in major league history for the Brooklyn Dodgers.

"He gained so much recognition nationally for the longest game that some people don't remember he pitched here," Terbush said.

Wade Hammond was named California's Medium School Player of the Year in 1956, leading Eureka High through a magical season in which he pitched five shutouts before signing a professional contract.

Greg Shanahan went from St. Bernard High (1968) to Humboldt State's now defunct baseball program. His career didn't end until he had worked his way through the Los Angeles Dodgers system and into the big leagues.

Nick Seely was a Eureka baseball product from Little League through Babe Ruth League. He went on to star as a slugging outfielder and pitcher at St. Bernard High School (Class of 1999) for former Crusaders' head coach Al Brisack.

While Seely was a switch-hitter with power to all fields, he went on to star in college and for the Humboldt Crabs as a submarine-throwing pitcher. The hard-thrower starred at every level he played.

Bob Wilson was a versatile player at Eureka High (1969) but really earned his stripes as a pitcher in one of the most gifted groups of baseball players the area has ever produced. He signed and played pro ball for the Phillies.

"Bob Wilson just had a great fastball," Lee Iorg remembers. "Back then, we didn't know how hard guys threw without a radar gun to measure speed. We just knew it was hard to hit. Bob had a good curve, but you really respected his fastball."

Bobby Box was a dominating left-hander for Arcata High and still holds many College of the Redwoods pitching records. He had a long career in the Atlanta Braves farm system after starring for the Humboldt Crabs during their glory days.

Randy Niemann is another lefty who had a long big league career, pitching for a number of teams.

He starred at Fortuna High (1973) and then headed to College of the Redwoods before signing first with the Yankees. Niemann is currently a pitching coach in the New York Mets' organization, based at the spring training complex in Florida.

Burt Nordstrom pitched at Arcata High and for Humboldt State. The right-hander wound up his career playing professionally for the Cleveland Indians system.

"Burt was one of the best pitchers of the era I played in, for sure," Lee Iorg said of his former Arcata High teammate.

Gary Wilson, Arcata High's versatile righty, was a star in the 1980s who went to Sacramento City College and, eventually, found his way to a stint on the big league roster of the PIttsburgh Pirates.

Wilson is currently a regional scout for the Colorado Rockies based in Sacramento.

Billy Olsen is remembered as one of the best high school pitchers ever here. He was a star at Eureka High School (1967), then jumped directly to be the No. 1 starter for the Humboldt Crabs where he dominated major-college foes. He was signed by the New York Yankees before arm injuries cut short a brilliant career.

"Billy Olsen was the best pitching prospect I've seen," said Crabs chief scout and former general manager Ned Barsuglia who spent his life following North Coast baseball.

"Olsen was one of the best pitchers the Crabs ever had -- and that's saying something," Terbush said.

Gene Johnson, out of Eureka High, starred for the 1949 Crabs as one of the finest hurlers ever produced here.

"Gene had a variety of deliveries," said Del Grande in that 1984 story. "He had a good fastball and refused to be intimidated by batters."

Johnson reached the highest level of minor league baseball in the Triple-A Pacific Coast League.

Head coach: This was the easiest choice of all, with Humboldt Crabs founder Lou Bonomini the clear choice. Bonomini was a star player at Eureka High School in the 1930s and, rightfully, deserves a spot for his exploits as an infielder and pitcher before founding and managing one of the greatest semi-pro baseball organizations in America.

"Lou's philosophy was that a club that doesn't settle for less than victory will be a winner," Del Grande recalled more than two decades ago. "That philosophy made winning a fetish for Lou and his teams. That makes for real enjoyment of the game. He wanted that effort from every player on the team."

(If you find value in the work you read here, please consider clicking the "Donate" button above. All you need is a minute of your time and a bank card. $1...50 cents...a little more or less...will help enable me to monetize this site. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

Health club humiliation knows absolutely no bounds

2011-08-27T00:09:00.000-07:00

(If you enjoy what you read, I hope you'll click the "Donate" button above to the left. This work provides my income so ... $1, 50 cents, a little more, maybe less ... will allow me to keep writing. A minute and a bank card is all you need. Regardless, thank you for reading. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

-----

It's not enough that guys like me are carrying 30 or 40 more pounds to go workout.

It's not enough that, really, my aching joints and muscles move me to want to punch the next jackass who says, "50's the new 30, you know?"

It's not even enough to have had a woman in her early 70s watch me lift weights and then remark, "Ohhhh! That machine isn't really big enough for a man ... like you!" (What? I'm fat? No? The 70-year-old woman in the teal sweatpants and "AARP" tee shirt was flirting with me?)

No. There's never an end to the embarrassment that comes with my having let myself get out of shape to the point that my primary goal upon visting the health club is to avoid making a fool of myself.

Don't you love how you can load your tiny, little iPod with all your favorite music? Isn't it so much easier to work up a sweat, feel the burn in your muscles and power on when Rick Astley's "Shout!" comes on. (Hey! Who put a Rick Astley song on my iPod?)

It's enough for me to pay to go to the gym after spending a lifetime staying fit running hills and trails by myself or doing sit-ups and push-ups on the living room floor. I refuse to pay for the little arm band to carry my iPod in while I exercise.

I think that thing that holds the iPod is right behind a white headband for making someone like me look utterly ridiculous. "It's not enough that his blood pressure's through the roof? He won't get on the treadmill without his music ... and something to hold his iPod for him? Loser!"

So, I typically set the iPod gently on the control panel of whatever exercise machine I'm using. If I'm upstairs lifting weights (relax ... that rarely happens), I'll clip the iPod on the waistband of my gym trunks. (Yes! I'm so old I call them gym trunks!)

I won't spend the $15 to buy the band that holds the iPod in place because it makes me feel like a workout clown. I did buy the plastic iPod protective cover. It has the clip on the back so I can connect it to my shorts. (And, yeah, so what if my love handles have knocked the iPod loose when I've been sitting on a weight machine?)

And, no, it's not enough that my love handles are sufficiently out of control so that if I bend just so that they fly uncontrollably over the waistband of my shorts.

Whether I put the iPod on the console of the exercise machine or whether I clip it to my waistband, I'm constantly sending the damned thing flying right in the middle of a cardio workout.

If it's on the console in front of me, I'll be 20 minutes into a workout at 24-Hour Fitness. It'll be crowded, of course. I'll absent-mindedly reach up to wipe sweat from my brow ... forget about the ear buds and get the wire caught on my hand and send that iPod flying.

Yes, in fact, yes an iPod with a hard plastic cover does make a great deal of noise when it hits the ground. And, in you're wondering, at least one of the ear buds stays in my ear but the other other one is always left hanging.

There's nothing worse than digging around a Stairclimber looking for the plastic cover or the iPod itself. I once had to ask a neighbor to stop her workout so that I could grab my iPod out from under her. There was a time when I could get a woman to stop working out so that I could get her phone number.

If the iPod is clipped to my waistband, there's still an excess of ... um ... ear bud wire hanging in front of me. I tried running the wire under my shirt, but felt like I was working undercover for the FBI. It didn't feel right. So, I leave the chord hanging.

And, two or three times a month, I'll be on the ski-glider contraption and somehow get the wire caught on the handles and ... it goes flying!

There's no cool way to respond to something so inordinantly stupid.

I have to draw the line on how much money I'll spend to try to get in shape.

I also have to draw the line where I refuse to admit that I'm such a damned dummy that I can't keep from sending my iPod flying across the health club. I might put somebody's eye out, but I'm determined to regain some measure of coordination to avoid the accident.

What could be worse?

Fringe group out to mainstream pedophilia; stay calm and be prepare to protect children

2011-08-26T23:25:00.000-07:00

(If you enjoy what you read, I hope you'll click the "Donate" button above to the left. This work provides my income so ... $1, 50 cents, a little more, maybe less ... will allow me to keep writing. A debit or credit card and about 30 seconds of your time is all it requires. Regardless, thank you for reading. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

Don't confuse pedophilia with homosexuality.

Normally, it would seem a given that pedophiles who committ sex crimes against children couldn't possibly be considered in the same breath as homosexuals. Homosexuality isn't a crime, after all.

It seems that there is a move afoot to try to normalize pedophilia in the United States. It's too ridiculous, too heinous, to take really seriously. However, being a member of the Association of Liberal Bleeding Hearts leads me to acknowledge that the move to somehow mainstream pedophilia could actually gain support.

B4UAct is the name of the organization working to have pedophilia changed legally from a perversion to a syndrome -- an official mental health disorder.

See? If you're like me, you're already thinking, "I can see how pedophilia could be considered a mental health problem." In fact, I made that case earlier to a clear-thinker on the opposite side of the political spectrum from me. If pedophiles are getting more attention from a more helpful mental health community, we're all better off.

Right? Pedophiles are going to live among us, so we might as well identify them and help those who want help before they committ a crime against a helpless child

Go to B4UAct.com and read the outfit's goals and plans for yourself. I checked the website and it reads in a way that seems to make sense. It seems harmless. And, it is harmless until we consider what my conservative-thinking pal explained.

Homosexuality was long considered a perversion. Hey, don't kill the messenger. I'm absolutely supportive of the gay lifestyle in America. I support gay marriage. Still, for many years homosexuality was considered perverted.

It took decades of effort for homosexual groups and supportive heterosexual organizations to show that homosexuality isn't a threat to society. Again, don't rant on about how different religions view homosexuality. OK? There's nothing illegal or perverted about the gay lifestyle in a country where there's a difference between religious beliefs and the rule of law.

It took media campaigns, work with medical organizations and the support of the mental health community for homosexuals to begin the long, painful, ongoing process of being accepted in the United States.

My friend, who is someone I trust to have done the research necessary to support his claim, explained that pedophiles are trying to take the same path to acceptance as homosexuals did years ago.

It's actually an interesting approach. Pedophiles are hoping to make talk of pedophilia accepted. They're hoping to get me and other liberals with hearts that bleed without ceasing to stop wanting to have them punished harshly and start trying to see them as victims of a mental health syndrome.

B4UAct, folks who have some reason to support the mainstreaming of pedophiles, forget that they can't take the path that homosexuals took. They can try, but the path that B4UAct and similar groups are on hits an insurmountable obstacle when even a liberal who can find hope and reason to help almost anybody says, "Pedophiles commit crimes against children. Sex crimes. There's no room in mainstream America for pedophiles."

At some point on the path, too, B4UAct will run into gays and lesbian who are upstanding members of communities across the country who will point out that they want absolutely no connection to pedophiles. They are nothing alike. Nothing alike at all. Pedophiles hurt children.

So, it's important that you take a moment and remind yourself that homosexuality and pedophilia aren't at all alike. You might disagree with the homosexual lifestyle and oppose gay marriage, but you have to see the grave difference between a sexual perversion that threatens children and a sexual lifestyle that you either don't understand or just don't like.

We, liberals and conservatives, don't have to agree on gay marriage. Non-believers don't have to agree with members of any faith that doesn't acknowledge the gay and lesbian lifestyle. It's imperative that, for once, we agree to disagree and keep our eye out for the bigger, potentially growing problem.

We have to be prepared with a reasoned response to the attempt to get society to normalize and accept pedophilia as a mental health syndrome that will lead to the crimes that result from the syndrome being punished less severely.

B4UAct can work with medical professionals to inform, educate and help treat pedophilia. There are surely pedophiles who haven't committed a crime. If they come forward for medical help, it would help society if mental healthcare providers knew as much as possible about pedophilia.

B4UAct can work with the prison system to get pedophilia whatever help is necessary on the inside to help them live among us without threatening our children. Pedophiles do live among us, right? So, certainly we can support them using their time serving harsh prison sentences preparing to live among us without acting on their impulses again.

There's no reason for alarm, but we need to be ready to agree ... all of us. Church folks and non-believers have to be prepared to stop fighting and respond in unison if the path pedophiles are on reaches them. Conservatives and liberals need to be ready to join forces to say, "Pedophilia endangers our children and will never be accepted as normal in our country."

Positive thoughts, self-image alone things better? Quick, tell the Giants!

2011-08-26T15:28:00.000-07:00

Every time a San Francisco Giants' hitter swings at and misses a bad pitch, I feel their pain.

Thousands of fans in the ball park boo batters like Cody Ross or Aubrey Huff -- sort of shouting, "C'mon! It's not that hard! Let's go! You can do it! Get a hit!" Then, after the game, they write and talk about how Huff, Ross and the rest just don't get it.

That's a great deal like what people are telling me. I've been unemployed more often in the last four years than in the previous 30 years combined. The five months that I've been out of work this stretch is the biggest professional slump that I've ever been in. Sort of like the 2011 Giants being in the biggest slump the club's been in since 2009.

"C'mon! Get out there! Don't feel sorry for yourself! You've got talent! You can find a job job! You just have to work at it! You can do it!"

Giants like Ross, Huff and Aaron Rowand shuffle, heads down, back to the dugout after a horrendous at-bat in the middle of the team's epic fall from first place to the point where stringing together back-to-back victories seems impossible. It doesn't do them any good to have fans shouting at them or berating them.

I've actually gone to bat, looked foolish trying to hit what seemed to be hittable pitches and had people shout at me. Then, I've gone right out and misplayed an easy grounder. I wasn't thinking about the botched at-bat when I booted the grounder. Honest.

It's my guess that it's no more helpful to have 42,000 people boo and shout at the failed hitter who then flops in the field than it was to have a small crowd at a high school or college game express their disgust with my effort.

Folks who are frustrated by the Giants' increasing inability to win are beginning to step into an area that I've really been thinking about lately. It's an area people go whenever they, in the name of caring for me and helping me, tell me that I just need to be positive, to believe in myself, in order to get that job that has been eluding me.

Giants' analyst Mike Krukow, a former big league pitcher who should know better, talked this morning on the radio about how the Giants' body language is beginning to show the depths to which they've fallen. He talked about how the club has lost it's confidence and no longer believes it can get the key hits and that the lack of confidence carries over to shoddy defensive efforts.

My initial reaction was to conclude that Orlando Cabrera and Carlos Beltran have probably tried striding more purposefully, standing tall, shoulders back ... after a pop out to second base or a called strike three. At some point in their long careers, I'm sure somebody would've mentioned that their body language impacts their ability to make solid contact at the plate and that their plate appearance must be disconnected from their play on defense.

Right? They couldn't have lasted this long or played this well if they needed somebody to tell them that sort of thing.

Still, Krukow and others who know a great deal less about baseball than he does are worried that Huff's shoulders are slumped.

People in my life are worried that my body language and my mindset are at the root of my being unemployed. They feel that five months without landing a job, after 38 years of active effort in the workforce, has shaken my confidence to the point that I'm now my own worst enemy.

Huff had a particularly horrendous at-bat Thursday night in a 3-1 loss to the Houston Astros. He took a Henry Sosa fastball, straight as a string, over the inner-half of the plate for a strike. Then, he swung wildly at a breaking pitch that landed in the dirt ... maybe even on top of home plate.
He was out right then, even though Sosa had to throw another pitch to make it official.

Huff is self-aware. Every big leaguer has to know himself to become a big leaguer. He, more than any fan or analyst, knows he's so out of whack that he let pass a pitch he should've crushed and then flailed at a pitch that bounced before it reached him. Given his keen sense of self-awareness, Huff knows he's in a profound slump. So does Ross ... Rowand ... Cabrera ... Beltran, etc.

Given my keen sense of self-awareness, and increasing debt, I know that I've been out of work for five months and that I need to generate income more than I've ever needed to generate it. I'm 54 years old. It's a given that I should be working or be retired, cashing checks that resulted from wise investments. (I actually wound up living on limited cash from wise investments when the employment slump hit four years ago.)

I'm unclear how Giants' hitters are supposed to feel good about their stroke, their batting eye and their ability to hit when they're proving time and again that they're largely confused and lost with a bat in their hands.

Similarly, how does a fellow who has been unemployed for five months convince himself that all those jobs he hasn't gotten, those interviews that he hasn't received, don't mean anything and that he can turn it all around if he just believes he can? I'm actually going to increase my chances of generating income by standing taller and thinking more positive thoughts?

Now, if somebody finds a flaw in a batter's swing ... the batter can fix it. That makes sense. The flaw has a clear impact on a batter's inability to hit the ball hard.

When a friend pointed out that my resume and cover letters were archaic and that, "I see why you aren't getting job interviews, let alone jobs. Your resume is old-fashioned," it helped. I can modernize my resume. That can lead to my getting more interviews that can lead to getting a job.

Huff and the rest of the Giants aren't sitting around thinking negative thoughts. They lost last night, but they'll all be at the ball park today taking batting practice and doing the same things they do every day to prepare to hit the ball, catch it, throw it straight, etc. They'll do what they've done their entire professional lives.

When I got up this morning to drive my son to school, I knew I'd work at the job that I've done my entire adult life ... even though it's not a job today that results in income to pay bills. (Writing is my work.)

I knew I'd do the same things today that I've been doing to look for jobs that I've done for months. I'd write, like I do every single day. My confidence in my ability to generate income today isn't hindered by the fact I didn't generate much yesterday. (Ted Note: The work reflected here has generated some income, actually. I thank the readers who've found monetary value in the work.)

I don't think it actually helps the Giants or me to announce, with confidence, that today's our day! We know how things have been going. We're professional. We know what we've done and we know what we can do. The successes we had, on far different scales in radically different professions, weren't predicated on positive self-talk. We're all convinced that we're pretty good at our jobs.

It's going to help us if we express that confidence, supremely, to the world? How?

A friend insists that even writing like this is hurting my cause. I'm explaining that I'm not sure how body language, frame of mind and expressing positive thoughts will help me find a job. They insist that even thinking about failure and how I got to this point will keep employers from hiring me.

Yeah, I suppose that ... no, nope! It doesn't make sense.

Those who are Giants fans insist that the Giants need to shake the lethargy that has become apparent, even Krukow called for lineup changes, "Just to get a different look ... to change things up in the clubhouse."

That sounds like folks believe that if manager Bruce Bochy confidently produces a lineup with young slugger Brandon Belt in the lead-off spot and the struggling star Beltran batting second ... it will be Bochy showing the Giants how confident he is that the slump ends today. If the club unloads Rowand and fellow veteran Mark DeRosa to replace them with unproven minor league successes like infielder Brett Pill ... that it just might be what the club needs.

Pill hasn't played an inning in the big leagues. Ever. Belt would only bat first to start a game, after that the batting order doesn't mean anything. Krukow insists shaking things up would help.

That doesn't make sense.

It's the work that matters. It's about plugging along. Never giving up.

Sooner or later, one Giants' hitter is going to run into a pitch ... a pitcher's going hit somebody's bat with runners in scoring position ... and, then, the club will start to feel more confident. The added pressure of playing defense with runners on base will force the other team into a mistake. That'll make the Giants start walking more upright, with the cocksure appearance they've been lacking.

The same thing will happen to me. It always has. The law of averages lean in favor of the guy who keeps chipping away, who doesn't give in to what appears to be the reality of another negative outcome.

It has to work that way because ... for it to work any other way just doesn't make sense.

Baseball fan suspects he's entering his last September with beloved Giants

2011-08-25T23:39:00.001-07:00

It occurred to me tonight, watching the San Francisco Giants suffer another agonizing loss, that I'm running out of seasons as a baseball fan.

What began in 1963 or 1964 as a curiosity, as a child falling in love with baseball and its heroes, turned into one of the cornerstones of my life. No, I didn't paint my face orange and black or call radio talk shows to rant about how "WE can still win the World Series" or "If the Dodgers can't beat US, we'll be OK." I fell in love with the nuances of the game.

To fall in love with the strategy of a game played at a snail's pace requires a fan to be absolutely immersed in a team, its players and the ebb and flow of a season. Everyone seems to think they know something about baseball strategy, but it takes a different level of knowledge to sit through a serious slump like these Giants have gone through without saying, "There must be something more productive I can do than watch them fail to hit the ball hard or often for 2 1/2 hours a day!"

And, for most of my life as a Giants' fan, I've understood the strategy. I know why pitchers sometimes take 20 seconds between pitches (it allows them to mess with the batter's mind). No matter how often a Giants player like Aubrey Huff strikes out on 3 pitches or pops up meekly to the infield, I understand exactly how hard it is to hit a baseball solidly. The pitcher, after all, is trying to throw the ball at a speed the batter doesn't expect and to a spot the batter can't reach.

In 1966 and 1967, I spent September watching the National League championship slip through the Giants' grasp in a way that only a 10- or 11-year-old kid could survive without wanting to jump off a roof. Although, in 1967, when Sandy Koufax beat the Phillies on the final day of the season (on 2 days rest, when the Giants simply needed the Dodgers to lose to force a one-game playoff for the league title) ... I was sitting on the roof of my house hitting rocks into the forest with a baseball bat.

When the score of Koufax's win over the Phillies came across my transistor radio ... the idea of jumping did cross my mind. How many painful Septembers could an 11-year-old take?

The Giants were my summer friend. Even when I was chasing girls, riding bikes all over town with my pals, playing baseball myself (knowing I was good, but that one had to be simply fantastic to play in the big leagues) -- the club and games on the radio were my most faithful companions. Oddly, I never talked to my Little League teammates or my junior high pals about the Giants. Heaven knows I never let a girlfriend close to my relationship with the Giants, with baseball. I was trying too hard to be cool, so talking about staying up nights listening to the radio broadcasts, then doodling out possible trades and potential Giants' lineups was just ... just ... something I didn't discuss with anyone.

I'm not a statistics nerd either. I don't care about all the new stats like OPS, WHIP, etc. Sabermetics helps baseball analysts determine the value of a player or a team using scientific formulas. They're really not interesting to me at all. I know when the Giants should, maybe, bunt ... and I know that bunting is just giving up an easy out in a game where every team only gets to make 27 outs before a winner is determined. If I see a slow-footed infielder let a ball roll into the grass, I don't need a formula to tell me that the Giants could have a better defender at that position.

My summers with the Giants are numbered, I suspect. At least, the summers I can spend as immersed in the agony and ecstasy of a team that will break my heart one night and remind me that anybody who claims to know what's going to happen in a baseball game is a moron the next.

I'm totally into this year's Giants. They're in position to reach the playoffs and defend the World Series championship they won in 2010 -- the World Series championship I'd been waiting for for 47 years. They're also playing so incredibly badly that I could make the case for them not winning another game all year. I understand the game. I know every player on the team's roster.

I have time on my hands, so I know about the teams they're playing, too. I'm unemployed, at age 54. I've not had this much time to pay this much attention to the Giants in decades. My knowledged of the club and the game wasn't as detailed the year I covered the Giants in the 2002 World Series as it is now. I have more time to pay complete attention to everything ... and I do mean everything. Covering the 2002 Giants in the postseason was my job. It was work. I wasn't into that team for me, but rather so that I could tell the stories to other Giants fans in a completely objective manner.

This year? I need the Giants to distract me like I haven't needed them ever before.

It's scary to be unemployed at age 54. It's more frightening given that I spent a career in the newspaper business, a dying industry. I'm looking for work and the work I do best is now being done for free, or for pennies on the dollars we used to make, by fans with blogs or newspaper writers who double as kings of Twitter, masters of Facebook and hosts on talk radio and TV sportscasts. I'm not sure why truly invested fans would read some foolish diatribe by a disgruntled Giants fan and consider it a news report. If I hear a professional writer tweet out a fact, then post it on Facebook, then mention it twice in the electronic media ... I'm not really interested in reading it in his story.

So, yeah, I'm scared. I've got little to do with myself, once I'm done job-hunting each day. I need the Giants like I haven't needed them since the summer my mom died in 1975 when I was 18.

While I'm not into stats or the Sabermetric formulas, I know the numbers don't lie. So, tonight, when I thought taking my dog for a walk might change the Giants' luck in the fourth inning, I realized I probably won't have another September with the Giants like this one.

If September of my 55th year rolls around and I'm back at work, Wal-Mart needs greeters and Sports Authority his hiring, I won't have time to give to the 2012 Giants. Don't get me wrong, I'd much rather have a job and an income (and health benefits) than to be this invested in the San Francisco Giants. I'm just aware that if I have a job next season, then 2011 will likely have been my last summer, alone with the Giants.

If I can't find a way to generate income (the idea of finding a job is too daunting, so I try to imagine just ... generating income), my 55th year will lead me to places I never thought I'd be. People need a television set, with some sort of cable of satellite connection, to follow the Giants. They need a house, with a room to put that TV in, too. While I'm certain I could follow the Giants on an empty stomach, I know that the ability to buy food, pay utility bills, etc. is important to following a team and ... if I'm 55 and I'm not generating income ... it just feels like investing in the San Francisco Giants will be difficult and, finally, impossible.

So, I'm going to follow the San Francisco Giants all the way to whatever end this season reaches. With each passing day, it feels like the playoff race ... the final weeks of the season ... could be my last September with the Giants.

No Neighborhood For a Lost Dog

2011-08-19T22:39:00.000-07:00

(If you enjoy what you read, I hope you'll click the "Donate" button above to the left. This work provides my income so ... $1, 50 cents, a little more, maybe less ... will allow me to keep writing. Regardless, thank you for reading. Ted Sillanpaa)

Dozer's a 9-year-old dog who my son saved from a shelter about four years ago. He has, through circumstances difficult to explain, become my most reliable source for attention and affection.

He is not, nor can he ever be, this man's best friend. My best friend wouldn't take off into the night and leave me calling his name as I flashed the light from my cell phone into neighborhood yards.

Hold it.

My best human friends, actually, disappeared completely and I haven't heard from them in awhile. So, I suppose I should leave open the possibility that Dozer is this man's best friend. I know why Dozer took off on me tonight. Who knows why my best pal from Eureka hasn't been in touch in years?

Wait. I'm mad at Dozer and don't want to stop being mad at him simply because he's a good pal who happens to like to jump into my bed and lick my face.

Dozer's part pit bull, part boxer part Indian shepard dog and part knucklehead. The years and time he's spent with me have chased from him the wild habits he had when my son first saved him.

Dozer won't walk out the open front door because, I imagine, he knows the people who feed him and pet him and let him sleep on their beds are inside the house. Four years ago, he was looking through the screen in our front window, saw a family walking past the house and leaped through the screen and onto the front lawn. He ran up joyfully welcoming the family to the neighborhood.

Oddly, the family didn't see anything but a pit bull-boxer mixing sprinting toward them. The mom and two daughters screamed.

I've grown to trust Dozer. We're both living in less than optimum circumstances, so I feel bad for him, too. He's got a yard to patrol, but I know he needs to run. I'd heard on the "Today" show that walks are good for a dog's mental health. We walk a fair amount. I like to let him run sometimes.

If walking around the neighborhood clears his mind, I've determined that letting Dozer ride in the truck to the grocery store should do the same. Tonight, for the first time in awhile, we went to Safeway together.

Upon arriving home, Dozer jumped over me and out the door of the truck. He landed on the street. He did not, however, take off running toward the neighbor dogs who are stuck in a yard, barking and whining day after day, night after night.

"Good idea, pal! Stay here!"

Dozer sprinted toward the front door.

"Atta babe ... ah, c'mon ... c'mon ... you can walk awhile!"

Every so often, I feel like I did tonight and believe Dozer understands what I'm saying. He spun on all four paws and quick-stepped it toward me. I walked alongside him to the corner. No leash. It was dark. Nobody's outside in this neighborhood at 9 at night.

Nobody's outside much after dark in Fairfield. There is a fairly high crime rate. Even in the nicer suburb where Dozer and I were strolling, there are break-ins, daytime burglaries, that type of thing. So, it would take a lunkhead who grew up in a small town and his big, goofy dog to be out walking after dark.

Dozer was ... he was just razor sharp tonight. He ran ahead, whizzing on every other tree. Sniffing every bush. I called his name a couple times and -- he hesitated, waited for me to catch up. I felt like the dog whisperer.

About 5, 6 blocks from home I figured that I'd given Dozer plenty of run.

I shouted, "Stop! Dozer!"

The darned dog stopped.

I walked to him, he sat back and I petted him.

"Way to go! That's the ticket! Let's go back!"

And, together, we turned toward the house.

I felt good about my friend.

My friend felt like exploring.

Dozer bolted toward the biggest front yard he could find. I thought I saw him taking a dump.

Uh, no ... I didn't have a plastic bag to carry his business home in. Heck, I couldn't see anything in the dark.

I didn't want to wake up the neighborhood shouting at Dozer. So, I whispered his name. I heard his footsteps.

I said his name out loud.

"Stop! Dozer! Stop!"

Hey, it worked once.

I heard his breathing as he rushed into some bushes. Which bushes, I wasn't certain because ... it was pitch black.

This was one of those times when Dozer was more parts knucklehead than anything else. He listened to me, until he didn't want to hear anymore.

My stern tone turned to the sound of a man pleading for his dog to come back out of the dark.

More bushes rustling, more dog sounds. So, I pulled out my cell phone and flipped on the flashlight app.

Handy little app.

It didn't shine a light on Dozer. Dozer was gone. I was certain that I heard his whimper ... from the other side of the neighbor's fence.

This isn't my hometown. Nobody really knows anybody in this neighborhood. I'm a guy out walking a big, mean-looking dog at night to everybody, you know?

Someone peeked out their front window, then pulled away quickly. There's no way to show people who don't know you that you're innocent ... that you mean them no harm ... that your dog's just an idiot ... not at 9:30 at night in Fairfield.

I tried to look as harmless and innocent as humanly possible. Then, I walked toward the bushes and crawled through them to find ...

... a gaping hole in the fence that could've given Dozer entry to somebody's backyard.

Oh, it could've given him a way back out, too. But, he's a dog. He once broke through our back fence, got free and realized he'd broken into the neigbor's locked dog kennel. He wasn't going to find his way back out of the yard.

It occurred to me that I was doing what a burglar would do and doing it where a burglar would be doing it ... at a time a burglar might be doing it.

I whispered Dozer's name and sounded as pathetic as I could. I imagined neighbors starting to call 9-1-1, then thinking, "A criminal wouldn't sound that pathetic ... that sound. He sounds like he lost his best friend!"

When I heard the dog whimper again, it sounded like Dozer. I peeked over the fence into the adjacent yard and ... there were two big, goofy mutts romping around.

No Dozer.

The guy who lives in the house with the two dogs actually heard, then ignored me. I'll remember that if I ever get into the burglary business. I rustled the bushes and thought the guy said, "Who's out there?" I said, "I think my dog's in your yard!"

The guy turned and walked into his house.

Thanks, pal.

Dozer had lost his mind, briefly, so I imagined he was in the other yard looking for his bed, looking for our patio door, looking for my daughter to let him inside. A yard's a yard to Dozer in the dark.

So, I brushed the leaves and gunk off my shirt and knocked gently on the neighbor's door.

"Who's OUT THERE?!?!"

See? In my hometown, they'd answer the door. Here, they shout at you and ... expect that a criminal would say, "I'm here to rob you!"

"I live down the street and I think I lost my dog in your back yard!"

That time, I didn't have to try to sound pathetic.

No one answered the door, but I heard the lady in the house shout, "Eric! Eric! Come here!"

I stood on the stoop for a few minutes. It occurred me to telephone my 13-year-old daughter to have her run down the street to help me look particular innocent of any intention of committing my crime.

The lady popped out from around the side of the house.

"Come on back and see if he's back here!"

She smiled.

Eric must've assured her that a robber wouldn't use the "I lost my dog" story.

The backyard looked enough like Dozer's regular yard to confuse him in the dark. I flashed my flashlight app. I called him. It's hard to be embarrassed and mad at Dozer while hoping he'd come rushing with that big, dumb grin on his face.

No Dozer.

I walked back toward the side gate.

"He's not back here! I'm so sorry for bothering you guys so late but ..."

The lady smiled and said, "Is this him?"

Dozer was standing outside the gate, headed toward the gate that looked like our gate at the next nearest house.

He'd gotten away, lost me, then doubled back and found me.

It is possible to be simultaneously pissed, embarrassed and happy to see a dog who made you mad in the first place.

I grabbed Dozer's collar, gently, and we headed home. After a few steps, I let him go and shouted.

"Hit the road, meathead!"

He sprinted to the house and met me at the front door. When I arrived he looked at me. His face seemed to pose the question, "Where did YOU go? I turned around and YOU were gone!"

Eureka Memories: Hometown dating doofus to lion king to disaster

2011-08-17T21:33:00.000-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever enjoyment you gain from reading by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. Writing is my life's work -- how I pay the bills. I hope you'll consider a financial donation. Regardless, thank you for reading! -- Ted Sillanpaa)

It's the type thing that could only have happened in a small town.

Knowing it could, really, only have happened in Eureka doesn't make me feel a great deal better.

Nearly 20 years later and I feel like a moron.

I'd gone through a messy divorce after I'd fouled up a marriage taking my wife for granted and investing all my time in my two sons and hobbies that most 34-year-old men wouldn't have time for after a long, hard day at work.

I was 35, raising two kids (having a blast) and divorced. After a self-imposed, six-month ban on even thinking of how women fit into my post-divorce life, it occurred to me that I'd never really dated.

Damn! I knew I should've paid more attention to my wife. I cared about her and I lost her to a one-eyed truck driver who carried a big knife in his boot ... because I didn't pay enough to attention to her in the final months of our 13-year marriage.

I was working out every day at Cal Courts to burn off the stress of life reimagined for my kids and I. I wasn't the single guy cruising the only health club in town trying to pick up women. I worked. I raised my kids. I went to the gym.

My frame of reference for this new life stemmed solely from work, the gym and being a dad.

Working out at the only health club in my hometown meant that I was seeing the same women all the time. And, the only place I'd ever see women was at the gym.

I knew that I wasn't ever going to be good at the bar scene. It was 1989 and Club West and The Ritz were Eureka hot spots for people much younger than I was. The fact that I hadn't had a drop of alcohol since about 1981 made making the bar scene a questionable decision for me, too.

The last time I picked up a woman, all I had to do was walk across the Eureka High School girls' gymnasium floor and ask her to dance. We danced. We dated. We got married. Then, she met the one-eyed truck driver.

In month eight of my six-month, self-imposed ban on thinking about women -- I saw the most beautiful female I'd ever seen at Cal Courts.

I'm not exaggerating, OK? She was beautiful.

She had long, dark brown hair that fell all over the place in long, loose curls. She had near perfect, dark-complexioned skin. Brown eyes. Stunning smile.

She was, I decided, exactly the female I'd want to date at this point in my life. The last thing I wanted was to get seriously involved with a woman. Well, the last thing I wanted was to be divorced, but that ship had sailed. So, if was going to date -- why not imagine it being with a woman who fit the simple-minded physical requirements every man keeps stored away in his mind?

Plus, the amazing creature frequented the only place I went outside work and home. So, she was perfect. Her being a club regular made her more attractive.

On the most surface level ... the woman with the long, dark hair and pretty smile was ... perfect. She was erotic.

I know. Eureka. I was 34. What did I know from erotic? She was small-town erotic. She was also exotic -- to a man who only knew the women at Cal Courts. A man defines exotic and erotic for himself.

No pick-up line I'd ever used would work with this woman. I couldn't walk up and say, "Do you wanna dance?" or "Hey, would you like to go to the winter prom with me?"

Then, one day, I noticed she was looking at me.

I'm not that guy who thinks every woman is looking at him. I've never imagined being that guy who thinks he brings to the table the things that attract women's attention.

I'd been married awhile so, really, I figured that I was invisible to women.

The first time I saw her looking at me, I turned away. Thus, I broke the first law of displaying mutual attraction. I learned over time that making and maintaining eye contact is the first step.

She wasn't one of the women who waltzed around the health club loving all the attention she got. She seemed impervious to it or innocent. I couldn't decide, but I liked the idea of her ignoring the men crusing the health club looking for women.

Our eyes met a few more times from across the club. I smiled. She smiled.

Oh, yeah, this took weeks. I saw her all the time, but it took weeks to get from, "Is she looking at me?" to "I think she might be interested in me," to "Oh, there she is ... I'm gonna go talk to her ... "

Then there was a period of talking myself out of going to talk to her. It's hard to be 35 years old with the social skill set of a 14-year-old boy.

One Sunday afternoon, her and I were the only people in the club. I built the nerve required to approach this lovely brunette.

I decided I would say something like ... ah, I had a whole thing planned. I'd say I'd seen her at the gym a lot, joke about working out alone on a Sunday, then introduce myself and then ... then ... then, I hoped she'd take over the conversation.

I finally managed to be in the same part of the weight room she was in and walked up to her. That was a victory, honest.

She looked at me and smiled. A second victory!

"Hi ... I've seen you around here ..."

Oh, God! She'd seen me see her around there. What an idiot! I trashed my plan and cut directly to introducing myself.

She was shy. Comfortable enough talking, but shy. I thought that'd make it easier for me because I was incredibly bashful.

I could've sworn she was slightly thrown by me approaching her.

I figured she was put off by the sweat running down my face or something. But, it felt, to a guy who hadn't really done that type thing, like she was surprised yet pleased that I would approach her like men were always approaching women at Cal Courts.

She introduced herself. Her name was Heather and ... I didn't catch her last name because all I could her was my heart beating in my ears. She had a Latino last name, I knew that much.

Oh, I had some moves.

"Interesting last name! My family came here from Portugal and changed their last name from Rodriguez to Rodgers. How do you spell your last name?"

It didn't come of my mouth as smoothly then as it easily as it springs to mind today.

Still, bells and whistles were going off in my head. She was still standing there, smiling. And, she spelled out her last name. I listened carefully.

I maintained eye contact, a little like Charles Manson explaining himself during his probation hearings, I'm sure.

She spoke softly and I couldn't hear much. I only heard myself saying, "Yippee! Hooray! I can't believe it!"

I decided I'd take my small victories and leave with a smile on my face.

She didn't give off any sort of, "Don't ever dream of talking to me again, jackass" vibe. I took that to be a definite go-ahead to spend days and days contemplating what I could do next to know her better.

It didn't take long to realize that we'd talked for five, six minutes but I didn't know anything except her name and that she spoke the same language I did.

When I'd last dated, tons of things were givens. We were all the same age. We had roughly the same backgrounds -- kids at Eureka High School, right? What was there to learn?

Ah, I couldn't sweat what I didn't know so I looked this woman up in the phone book. There it was Heather With the Latin Name I Could Spell ... in Eureka. I scribbled down her number as I sat, alone, at my kitchen table.

She didn't blow me off when we'd met. The worst thing she could say to an invitation to a movie was ... oh, I thought of lots of terrible things that could happen if I actually even got her on the line. Who was I kidding?

I telephoned any way.

Heather sounded legitimately happy to hear from me. Well, given that I hadn't called a woman out of the blue in decades I supposed she sounded happy. She sounded happier than my ex-wife had the last time I'd spoken to her.

The small talk I practiced went OK. I steered clear of stuff I was really interested in like, oh, my sons and my custody case. She wasn't hard to talk to but I still didn't have a ton of chatter in my brain so I cut to asking her if she'd be interested in a movie, maybe dinner.

"Yeah ... sure ... I mean ... when?"

There was extended silence as though she was thinking things through. Cool. I was in no hurry. As long she started by thinking enough to agree to go out because ...

I was king of the jungle! When she said, 'yeah..." I ruled my world. The black clouds disappeared. The sun came out! All I needed was a marching band to play the Lovin' Spoonful's "Do You Believe In Magic?"

Only in Eureka could a small-town Dating Doofus who couldn't even imagine speaking to a woman wind up on a date with the woman he chose first, a gorgeous woman, an exotic, erotic woman who would get him back into dating shape.

I rocked! Where was that marching band, baby?

"Oh, how about Thursday night?" I said, returning to earth long enough to remember that I worked Friday night and that my kids had games all weekend.

Silence from the other end rattled me, but nothing could have prepared me for ...

"Aww! Thursday? I can't! I've got lots of homework ..."

A college girl? OK. Cool. Men my age dated college girls all the time ... in the movies and stuff.

"My parents don't like me to go out on weeknights either ..."

College girls go out when they feel like it.

I'd asked a high school girl on a date.

My euphoric self-talk turned to something like, "You incredible jackass! She's not even 18 years old? No wonder she seemed naive and surprised and ... her parents don't like her to go out on weeknights???"

To my credit, I kept myself from crying out, "Please, tell me you're at least 18!"

Hey, I know lots of men with solid reputations who wouldn't have blinked at the idea that she was young ... a girl who looked like a woman. They'd have focused on the "Yeah, sure ..." and the "Aww ... I can't."

I had a prize catch on my line and she was hooked. All I had to do was be patient, reel her in on a weekend ... and be able ignore that her parents didn't like her going out on weeknights.

My not immediately suggesting a weekend night threw her, I'm sure. I don't think many guys who asked her out and had her accept stammered about the date and time.

Boys were surely falling over themselves to date her any old night she was free.

Briefly, I hoped that I seemed like a cool, sophisticated adult who lived life on the edge and thought she was more woman than girl. Ideally, she'd think, I had lots of women and if she couldn't make it, too bad. Maybe I'd impressed her as some type of swinger as I talked my way off the phone.

So, I felt beyond stupid? So, I felt like a complete jackass? She could at least have a good opinion of me.

I tried to believe that knowing a girl bursting with beauty and sexuality would date me was just a good thing. Finding out that she was 17 would turn the whole deal into a tawdry memory and a complete loss for me. I really needed a win.

First time out of the box ... landed the woman o' my dreams ... except she was a girl.

Time passed. I stayed away from Cal Courts at the times I typically had noticed Heather working out.

I had this vision of shooting baskets with my sons, then 10 and 8, and a girl closer to their age than mine walking up and saying, "What about dinner?"

"Dad ... you were going to dinner with my friend Bobby's sister!"

Six months or so after the phone conversation, I noticed a tour group forming in my newspaper office lobby. High school classes often killed a day touring the newspaper plant.

Of course she was in the high school tour group! Of course!

Still just ... you know ... gorgeous ... based on what I could see from hiding and peeking at her from around the door of the conference room.

Eureka Memories: Traumatic gym class divided otherwise really happy kids

2011-08-14T17:56:00.000-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever enjoyment you gain from reading "Eureka Memories" by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. The blog is 100 percent financially self-supporting so if you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

First rule of gym class ... don't complain about gym class.

Second rule of gym class ... it could be a lot worse.

Take, for instance, the popular game that is now judged so anti-social and violent that it is outlawed in most schools. Consider, the game of dodgeball as it was played at Eureka junior highs and at Eureka High School in decades past.

Dodgeball.

The people who enjoyed and were good at the game were athletes, not bullies. So, we preferred to call the game War. (Well, lots of the athletes were incredible bullies, too. I wasn't. We just called it War at Winship in my youth because we didn't rightly know what smearing a queer had to do with our game. We were blissfully naive.)

War was everything that I loved and lots of people hated about gym class in Eureka.

The physical education instructor would choose two team captains. He always chose from the same pool of athletes, so I would get more than a fair share of chances to choose a team made up of elusive kids who could throw accurately and spot a ball in the corner of their eye and catch it just before it hit them.

I loved the strategy of selecting a team. Friendship didn't come into play until we picked the best players. Get 7, 8, 9 players into the process and then being somebody's friend played a role in your selection or whom you chose to select.

Life was simpler in the 1960s and 1970s when all we knew about games is that we played to win. People who didn't try to win in gym class had grades that reflected their lack of interested in becoming triumphant at any cost.

My closest friends were captains and, for the time, sensitive young men. We weren't the athletes who were bullies. We didn't need education code revisions to insist that we treat others like we wanted to be treated. Still, we never paid any attention to the fact that the same kids wound up picked last or nearly last every time we chose teams for War.

Gym class taught us lessons about a chain being only as strong as its weakest link.

Knowing that you were being forced to stand in line waiting to be chosen because you weren't very good at a game you didn't like had to have been traumatic.

We were sensitive kids, but ... we weren't going to pick a kid too early just to help him feel better about himself.

The two teams spread out on opposite sides of the basketball court. It would've been safe and civil if we'd put a team on each baseline under the basketball hoops in the full gym. It was, literally, war with teams using half the gym and throwing the volleyballs from one sideline to another. There was no time to react and anybody with a strong throwing arm, and hands big enough to grip a volleyball, could do some serious damage. (Even to the kids who stood with their backs slammed up against the gymnasium bleachers.)

I loved War, perhaps, more than any other gym class activity. I didn't question the barbarism because the kids who were treated in a barbaric manner never complained. If they complained, the bullies just made their miserable experience even more miserable.

It didn't make sense to announce that one hated War and hated being hit by the ball and didn't like to throw a ball at other people. Somehow such a statement would've been interpreted in my youth like this:

"Please. Please! Give the 7 biggest, strongest guys the volleyballs and let them stand right up front and, please, make them throw the balls at me ... full speed ... all at once. And, don't forget to aim at my head!"

The P.E. teacher would say the same thing before every War game.

"Gentlemen ... we're aiming for the waist down."

The P.E. teacher must've figured that comment meant he avoided being subject to a lawsuit. We all ignored him.

The target was always the torso. If that meant the slightly angrier, more aggressive War specialists missed the discussion of anatomy where it was explained that the head wasn't part of the torso ... too bad for the easy targets.

I wasn't a headhunter. Unless, I got a chance to take out one of the bullies who was a headhunter. If team captain types turned on one another, it seemed to please the coach and the other kids. Honest.

When I became a P.E. teacher at Cutten School in the 1980s, I let different kids pick teams. I'd have the athletes/bullies sit out sometimes so that the others could enjoy the game. It wouldn't have been hard to make War fun for everybody, but P.E. teachers in the 1960s and 1970s were, arguably, less sensitive than most kids in their classes.

Distance running is trendy now. At Winship in the 1970s, I didn't know anyone who like running "The 600."

Before the class activity and after calistentics, we had to jog through the parking lot, around the island with the redwood tree in the middle and back. It was about 600 yards.

We all hated it. The fact that some gifted distance runners, usually bookish types who weren't good at games, took it as their moment to shine didn't help. We loathed The 600. We'd finish the run gasping for air, even those of us who were involved in team sports.

How on earth could a jog of 600 yards have seemed so inhumane? My son's 15 and he runs 2, 3, 5 miles -- for fun or to stay fit for organized sports. My daughter, 13, decided to follow her brother's lead for a couple weeks and ran a mile a day -- easy. The old man bitched like an old lady about a 600-yard run. Running was hard and running wasn't cool. So, we despised it.

Eureka High P.E. teachers made things easier by making us run around that area where basketball courts existed directly across from the gym. It was a small city block, not nearly 600 yards. We still griped and griped.

We laughed once, too.

Mark Parris was a tall, quiet, but truly funny kid from Winship. He said things we didn't expect. Did things no one else thought of and was, if a kid can be such a thing, pithy.

Mostly, Mark was funny. He was funnier than I ever remember him being by sheer accident, though.

The run around that tiny block at EHS required we file past the cement post that was used to help block the school driveway with a chain after school hours.

The posts on either side of the driveway were about hip high to most kids -- maybe a little higher for some. A little lower for taller kid like Mark Parris.

Kids likely jogged by those cement posts for 25 years thinking, "I should jump over that thing." I say it was likely because history indicates that high school boys had a boundless ability to come up with stupid ideas. And, trying to jump a cement post while jogging was about as stupid an idea as one can imagine.

Mark Parris was an A student and more thoughtful than most. Then, one morning, he decided to jog at the cement post, put both hands on top and try to vault it ... legs spread wide ... to impress us and make us laugh.

He made us laugh.

Little is funnier to a group of teen boys than to see a friend slam his crotch directly into a cement pole. I was there. I'm absolutely certain. It wasn't just the sight of Mark Parris slamming his crotch into the cement pole that was hysterically funny.

Boys know that nothing hurts like getting hit, ah, down there. I broke into tears and moaned for nearly a half hour once ... when struck in the nether region by a plastic baseball tossed gently in my direction. It hit a soft spot. Mark Parris slammed his boy body parts into a cement post.

It has been over 35 years and the story makes me smile more every time I tell it. I've only told it 100, 200 times.

The question that went unasked when playing War was, "Why are we playing a game where we try to hurt each other?"

The question I had about running 600 yards was, "Why are we running at all?" I'm not sure a P.E. teacher of that time could've explained cardiovascular fitness to me or anybody else. Not that jogging 3, 4, 5 minutes was a cardio workout. We ran because, you ran in gym class. You played a game. You took a shower.

Who didn't despise school square dancing?

Oh? We all hated it?

Square dancing was to some just as traumatic as being chosen last for War was to others. I dreaded the long walk toward a long line of girls to find one whose eyes didn't shout, "Don't ask me! DON'T ask ME to dance!"

In my square dancing youth, every girl's eyes seemed to be shouting that at me. And, I was in the middle of the pack of boys girls could tolerate, I figured. There were guys girls wanted no part of ... ever.

Square dancing was supposed to teach social skills. However, just forcing a group of boys to each pick a girl and ask them to square dance doesn't do anything but reinforce to the cool kids that they stayed together because they were superior and to remind the rest of us that we didn't understand anything about ourselves, our primal urges or the other sex.

Winship was nightmarish for me. I had worry warts on my hands. The only reason I never had a girl refuse to dance with me is that I was a good judge of where I stood in the social order and asked girls in their gender's corresponding order to dance.

Square dancing actually taught interactive gender diplomacy.

I would never in a million years have rushed over to ask Brenda Anderson or Rene Rosenberg to square dance. Never! I decided who was in which league and they were way out of my league. So, I'd leave room for the popular dudes to get to the popular girls and get on with it.

If P.E. teachers wanted to teach social skills, they could've let us pick partners and then shook the couples up so that the popular boys had to dance with girls not their equal in the brutal high school societal structure. Brenda Anderson or Rene Rosenberg would've had to dance with me and found it was tolerable to dance with a guy too nervous to speak to them. Maybe, I'd have found Brenda Anderson a chatterbox and not just a girls I thought was prettier than any girl at Winship.

But, teachers just stood there and started the record player.

Nothing happens in gym class these days, you know? It's all different. It's like a free period to most kids who balk at games and don't care what the P.E. teacher says.

My son insisted that 98% of the kids in his middle school class refused to run the mile ... ever. The mile run at Green Valley Middle School became my son trying to run down a magnificently conditioned eighth-grade girl who could run like the wind. The other kids walked.

"I would've caught her in the final 400 yards today," he once said, "but, I had to weave in and out of the kids who just walk."

Last year at his private Catholic high school, he complained that P.E. class was wasted walking around the track.

"I feel like an idiot. If I walk, I hate it. Today I ran the entire 15 minutes and ran past a girl who give me trouble for showing off," he said. "I'm just getting a workout in. What should I do?"

I told him it could've been worse. He could've had to ask her to square dance with him.

Eureka Memories: Carnival atmosphere all summer, every summer

2011-08-11T02:21:00.000-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure and enjoyment you gain from reading "Eureka Memories" by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

Butler Amusements was to Eureka kids in the 1960s what Nintendo is to youngsters of today.

Butler Amusements was the outfit that operated and, I assume maintained, the rides and attractions at the dozen or so carnivals that popped up in Eureka every spring and summer for decades.

Well, there were likely other carnival crews that set up at the Redwood Acres Fairgrounds, the parking lot at what was Disco before it became Bazaar before it morphed into Beno's and Pay Less before it became "that county office building on Highway 101 headed toward Arcata."

Butler Amusements is the only name that springs to mind, however.

Carnivals popped up in empty lots, too. Whenever a carnival hit town, it was an attraction. When my kids and I see carnival workers who look like escapees from a prison road crew piecing together the Ferris wheel and pint-sized roller coaster at the Westfield Mall in Fairfield, they ask things like, "Who would ever go ride those rides? They're not fast. They just spin in circles and ..."

I used to interrupt my older sons when they'd go off on the inherent stupidity they perceived to be involved in enjoying two-bit carnival rides.

I'd tell them about how my mom would take me to the carnivals in Eureka all the time to ride the rides, play the games and eat cotton candy. Mostly, as I recall, to eat the cotton candy, the popcorn, ice cream and to drink the most sugary soda a fat kid who lived for such delicacies could ever imagine.

There's no real way to make a little carnival interesting to kids who'd spent the morning playing life-like video games on a 64-inch, high-definition television. There was little to be said for spinning in tight circles for three minutes on some sort of whirly gig ride when the kids can entertain themselves with a mind-boggling, rockin' stereo sound system that fits in the palm of their hand.

The carnivals like the one that used to set up in a vacant lot on Broadway, headed out of Eureka to the south, were exotic and entertaining to us. Of course, we also got all geeked up to buy a vinyl LP with 3 "Herman's Hermits" hits and 7 or 8 intolerable tunes by the same group. Most of us thought the world started spinning backward briefly when we got our hands on a circular piece of vinyl with two Elvis Presley songs on it.

My kids make their own music collections on their space-age, hand-held sound systems. They'll never listen to "Meet The Beatles," and suddenly wince, "Why is Paul singing 'Till There Was You,' on here! That song's from 'The Music Man.' "

If we'd had iPods, we'd never even have been exposed to the music Col. Tom Parker forced Elvis to sing in those fer-schnizzly bad movies The King made to avoid competiting for radio air time with the Rolling Stones and the Beach Boys in the 1960s. (I did like "Follow That Dream," however.)

The dozen or so Eureka carnivals were exciting because ... there wasn't much to do in Eureka so we all turned out for every carnival. In Eureka's heyday, we made nothing into something because it seemed that we all did it together.

The carnival that was part of the Redwood Acres Fair every June was better than the carnival in the Bazaar parking lot because there were thousands of us at Redwood Acres.

The Humboldt County Fair carnival was the best, for people who enjoy bigger, better rides, than the carnival in the vacant lot on Broadway. More people meant more friends and more fun and ... there was an exotic selection of food in Ferndale. Give me a chance to eat a dog on a stick and follow it with pink popcorn and an ice cream swirl and I'd forget the rides. After the merry go round ended, it wasn't a long walk to the exhibit hall where they were selling homemade cookies.

This carnival that sets up in my new town is ... empty. The only thing more depressing that all the carnival lights and the roaring heavy metal music blaring into the night two blocks from Macy's is the sight of 6 or 7 teenagers wandering aimlessly and alone inside the carnival gates.

We had to line up behind more than 6 or 7 kids to even take a shot at throwing ping pong balls trying to land one in a goldfish bowl to win the goldfish inside. (Most traumatic existence, all-time, ever: Goldfish who lived in a carnival gold fish bowl.)

We could've bought a goldfish at Fin N' Feather for a quarter. But, we'd spend over a buck to stand for a half hour trying to bounce a ping pong ball into a fish bowl filled with water. If we did win the fish, we'd bitch and moan about having to carry it around the carnival.

Every game was rigged. I'm certain my mom, all parents, knew that. They didn't tell us, all the time. It seems like each of my friends and I individually figured out how different games were fixed to make it near impossible to win, but we did it over years and on our own. If our parents said, "You can't really win that game ... " we'd have just argued.

We threw darts at under-inflated balloons that were impossible to pop. Then, when we did pop a balloon, we'd learn that the accomplishment meant we didn't win one of the many colorful stuffed animals, but rather bought us a chance to pop 2 more balloons to win ... a 3-inch tall stuffed tucan.

The sounds of the carnival distracted us from the games that, really, almost nobody could win. I was a baseball player. I could do nothing if not throw a ball straight and hard, hitting whatever target was placed before me. When my mom tried to talk me out of taking 50 cents to try to knock down milk jugs, I completely ignored her.

"I throw strikes mom!"

The logic of a 9-year-old Cutten League baseball pitcher.

The music, the laughter, the screams from teens riding what seemed to be death-defying rides hadn't given me a chance to pause and watch how the game with the milk jugs worked. So, when I finally got to the front of the line I had talked myself into really wanting a big, stuffed, brown monkey. Really! I wanted that monkey!

When the carny reached down under the counter that separated me from the milk jugs and came up with three, heavy, old, 16-inch softballs ... I died a little on the inside. Heck, I could throw any kind of baseball straight. But ... gee whiz ...

I couldn't even get my hand around a softball 16 inches in circumference. I was too young to even know what circumference meant so I just turned to my mom, with my wee, chubby hands grasping the huge, heavy ball.

"Dammit! See? Next time you'll listen to me!"

Well, I wouldn't actually listen, but I wouldn't knock down those jugs with those monster softball balls either.

The games got easier when we got older and understood how to beat them ... er, understood when we had a chance to beat them. I figured out the dart game angle. One of my basketball-star buddies figured out how to shoot lopsided basketballs through a hoop that a ball could barely fit through that was atop a 13-foot high pole. (A regular basketball hoops fits a basketball and has plenty of room the spare. Honest.)

We were even able as we aged to ignore the sleazy barkers who would say anything to get us to stop and try the games.

When I started double-dating at carnivals, my Becoming A Man card was always at risk. Karen liked the rides ... all the rides. I hated spinning in fast circles. I didn't like going high off the ground. I never got sick to my stomach when I was a tub o' goo waddling around from food seller to food seller. I'd become nauseous the minute I saw the Tilt-a-Whirl.

I had to make sure that I performed with some measure of grace as we'd stroll past the barkers. By the time I was 15, at the carnival with a girl I wanted to impress, I always envisioned this to be the ideal interaction with a carnival barker:

Barker: "Hey! Mr. Letterman's sweater! Afraid you can't knock down the milk jugs in front'a yer girl? She wants a pretty stuffed animal, right? You afraid to win her one?

Me: "Shut the f$#@ up! Nice fingernails, by the way."

The attraction to the girl who, through sheer coincidence wound up being my only date to any carnival ever, was that she didn't care if I won the stuffed animal. She, inexplicably, liked hanging around with me and accepted I was a gigantic candy ass. So, before every carnival, I also envisioned responding something like this:

Me: "Look ... you sit in yer trailer with 5 other guys every night getting drunk, but I'm going home with her because she likes ME! Take that 10-cent stuffed giraffe and stick it up yer ..."

Whoops! Sorry. I fogot. Every memory about everything from my youth is golden...warm and fuzzy...loved those glorious Eureka carnivals. Loved them!

II'd waste time pointing out to Karen, her brother Berk and his date Merijean, that there was simply no way those carnival rides could be safe. I gave the same speech about stoned carneys using unsafe equipment to put together a big wheel that was going to take them around and around in a giant circle 60 feet off the ground.

"Good luck with that! Count me out!"

My friends laughed and went on the ride.

It wasn't as easy to maneuver the carnival when I ran with my pack of boyhood buddies. If one guy wanted to ride, oh, the Tilt-A-Whirl ... we rode it. I'd make it clear I hated the Tilt-A-Whirl, but I'd go on it.

There was a measure of pride to be maintained in the pack. Conversely, there was a measure of grace for a young girl to attach to a sensitive boy willing to admit he was afraid of the rides.

The carney's were not to be trusted. I knew that. Nobody believed me.

At Redwood Acres, when we were in ninth grade, we had a particular blast on the Tilt-A-Whirl because a bunch of cute girls had gone on and paid attention to us. I'm sure a march across frozen tundra would've been a blast in 1970 if pretty girls paid attention to us in the process.

I even forgot that wave of nausea that hit me just looking at people in a half-shell shaped seat that spun in circles on a big, wooden platform that was also spinning in circles.

When kids went to carnivals in Eureka, where the same carnival workers would stop multiple times every summer, we got to know some of the workers. The guy running the Tilt-A-Whirl that night in ninth grade was a carney we loved to laugh about.

That became a point of concern after we'd riden the T-A-W five, six times and were entering for one final spin before closing time. We were ... ninth graders ... big swingin' doinks at Winship Junior High, baby! We'd actually talked to cute girls from Zane. We were bullet-proof when we loaded up, just the six of us, one last time.

Somebody, I don't know who, said something about the carney running the ride. The carney looked crestfallen, then he looked ... really angry. I gave him my ticket and he gave me a stink-eye to end all stink eyes. I realized this wasn't a teen blonde carney trying to talk 9-year-old Teddy into winning a goldfish.

I felt the carney literally slam the T-A-W gate against my rear end, hard, and stomp about to lock my pals into the ride. When he slammed that thing we held on to into my lap, he did so with malice aforethought. My ride-mate Dave Lovfald was a good dude. Quiet. Unassuming. He likely didn't see the fear in my eyes.

The guy cranked up the Tilt-A-Whirl. No music. Something was wrong. There had been music all night. We were going faster, too. I started to tell Lovfald that we're supposed to start slow, then speed up and ... he had his head back with his eyes closed.

Somebody in our crew shouted, "Is this as fast as this thing goes? C'mon, buddy!"

The carney was in my line of sight and his eyes narrowed. He pushed down on one button and pushed forward on what appeared to be a gear shift to his right.

We started spinning faster and harder and in more erratic circles than I imagined a two-bit carnival ride could ... I threw up a little in my mouth. Nice.

I hung on tight. Lovfald woke up. A group of older kids stopped by the Ferris wheel and were just watching us spin out of control. A voice came from another friend and I shouted, "Shut the f^%%$ up! Shuddup!"

My friend apparently didn't realize we were at the mercy of the carney who we'd pissed off on the way into the ride and then angered further by challenging his willingness to crank the ride to warp speed.

There was quite a crowd of people around by the time we got off the ride, dizzy, dazed, confused. It tended to attract a crowd when the Tilt-A-Whirl man let one group of riders go out of control for 10 minutes. Still ... still ... one of my friends said something to the carney on the way out ... we weren't necessarily all that self-aware at age 14.

Me? I just wanted to puke. But, we still had to find a phone to call for a ride and ... the nearest pay phone was a long walk west on Harris Street to the Safeway at the corner of Harris and Harrison. I remember nothing, nothing, but driving home in Jerry McKeown's Oldsmobile station wagon with my head hanging out the window.

Mrs. McKeown shouted, "Oh, Ted ... I don't want you throwing up in my car!"

I wasn't thrilled at the idea either.

"So, you boys have fun? We always had so much fun at the carnival when you kids were little!"

Mrs. McKeown was insufferably upbeat, which made her lovable.

"Teddy, you win anything?"

On that night, I didn't bother to explain that the games were rigged. I just took slow deep breaths out the window.

"We don't play games much," was all I could manage.

"These carnivals ... I loved going to them with my girlfriends when we were little."

Oh. OK. I loved them when I was a kid, too. As a teen, I rethought the love of the carnivals that marked the beginning, middle and end of summer in Eureka for decades.

Support pours in for Justin-Siena's new baseball coach

2011-08-09T21:23:00.000-07:00

There has been an outpouring of support for new Justin-Siena High baseball coach Allen Rossi on this site in the last few days. Former players, willing to attach their names to the praise, are extolling the virtues of the head man returning to the Braves' top job after five years away.

The letters of support for Rossi can be found in the "Comments" section of the story about Justin-Siena baseball that appeared here in June.

Rossi wouldn't be a high school coach if he didn't have critics. A couple wrote here, anonymously, to complain about things they allege that he did on the field and off. It's admirable that former players would rally to his support.

It's unclear how all those former players heard about two isolated anonymous citics or brief online conversations I engaged in to make sure those critics realized that their voices will be heard in this space.

A piece appeared here in June detailing my experience with the Justin-Siena baseball program in the spring of this year, when my freshman son split time between the JV and varsity. Beyond that piece and online conversations with folks who responded to it, no attention has been paid to the school or the baseball program.

To be extra clear:

1) My son transferred to a public school in June at roughly the time Allen Rossi was going through the hiring process. My son's decision had nothing to do with Allen Rossi returning to the job he did well for so many years at Justin.

2) Allen Rossi contacted me via e-mail to ask me to give my son his best wishes for success at his new school. We wished Rossi nothing but good things for Justin-Siena's baseball program.

3) Anyone who thinks the June story was about my son, missed the point or chose not to get the point. So, I won't be engaging in a debate over the value of playing wiffle ball at varsity baseball practices with the former player named Travis who wrote.

I'm compelled to urge those writing in support of Rossi to write to Napa Valley Register, too. Their views of Rossi would reach a bigger audience of Napa Valley baseball folks and such positive and high praise would run in total in the newspaper. (Anyone writing with criticism of a high school coach would have trouble getting their stuff printed online or in the newspaper pages.)

Some who wrote in support of Rossi blasted those who were anonymously critical. The Napa Valley, I realized quickly, isn't a place where criticism or even questions about prep sports are welcome. So, if folks want to use this spot to share their feelings ... they're welcome. I'd prefer names, but if folks remain anonymous I will still respond.

I appreciate folks paying attention to this site and hope they'll check it to see if anything beyond the one story about Justin-Siena baseball is appealing to them.

(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)

Eureka Memories: '70s theater scene all boys watching girls and waiting ...

2011-08-09T02:52:00.000-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure and enjoyment you gain from reading "Eureka Memories" by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

---

In the 1970s, the Eureka and State theaters were places to see and be seen.

My pals and I were at Winship Junior High School from 1968-1971 when the coolest of junior high cool kids filled those big, beautiful theaters in the early 1970s.

Oh, my friends and I went to the theater a lot then, too. They sold tickets to goofballs and dorks, too.

The Eureka Theater's box office, outside the actual theater, was surrounded by glass-cased posters of coming attractions. On weekend nights when a new movie hit town, the line of theater-goers would stretch south past the old Eureka Library and wrap around and down Seventh Street to where Bill Beasley Sporting Goods was initially located.

It took one ticket-seller a long time to sell a thousand tickets at $1.50, $1 and 50 cents a pop.

There was electricity in the air when we knew a big, blockbuster type film was debuting. If the line was really long, and it sometimes stretched 3, 4, 5 blocks, we knew the Eureka Theater might sell out before we got to the front of the line. No matter how long the line, we jumped out of the car and left whichever parent had driven us to pull away in silence.

"No! No! Don't wait!" the son of the parent driver would shout. "Just go! We'll get in. It never sells out."

The parent would sigh and drive away. We all knew the theater sold out quite often, but if we saw Mary Sue Ludtke or some other pretty girls in line ... come hell, high water or sending an emissary to try to get us cuts further up in the line, we were getting into the theater.

On nights when word started to filter back toward us that the place was getting close to full, we argued over which of us would have to find a pay phone and call their mom or dad to come right back down and pick us up. They'd pick us up, but there was verbal hell to put up with all the way home.

It was 1970, 1971 ... so, no, we didn't hop on our bicycles, put a sack lunch in the basket and peddle to the theater to watch cowboy movies. We didn't ride a bus either. (We would have if there'd been an evening bus service in Eureka. Our parents would've, most certainly, strongly suggested we explore that option.)

I knew kids who walked from the Jacobs Junior High side of town, a healthy trek just to see a movie, and then walk home in the dark.

That walk gave trouble too much time to find kids. Thus, my friends and I wanted no part of a long walk in the dark from the Winship part of town. We didn't want any part of a long walk from anywhere at any time really.

A star player on the last Jacobs Junior High baseball team ever fielded made the walk to the theater in 1984 or so, but didn't make it back. The kid and some pals from his rough neighborhood had encountered a teen on a bicycle around 10 p.m. on a Saturday night. The baseball player knocked the kid off the bike, smacked him around and made the bike his own until police eventually tracked him down. Since a friend and I coached that last team, we were the guys who eventually found our star locked up in juvenile hall.

That former Jacobs baseball player wound up in prison for murder in his 20s. I took it as a lesson to all parents who insisted their kids walk long distances in the dark. Eureka wasn't as safe as we like to remember it being.

The State Theater had ticket windows at each of two street entrances. No lines, really. Well, there was a line so long for "Love Story" that my friend Dennis Bills and I had time to come to the realization that it was a movie for girls and couples. We joked that we looked like two fresh-faced guys out on a date nate. We didn't know enough in 1970 to realized that men dated one another frequently in other parts of the United States.

In the 1970s, movie theaters showed films twice each night. A double feature was still common, so we were still decades away from today's practice of having dozens screens showing a given movie dozens of times a day. Friday or Saturday nights at 7 or 9:15 ... or we weren't seeing that movie that week.

The action was inside the theater where cool boys and pretty girls coupled up. Packs of boys would sit near packs of girls to begin the early stages of the mating process.

My friends and I didn't know anything about the mating process, beyond that we longed to be part of it. We liked to ogle hot girls and make fun of guys no better than us, but just a step or three further up the social ladder at our school.

We'd routinely give one another hell for scanning the crowd inside the theater to obviously, looking for the prettiest girls or a couple that we figured would be worth watching once the lights went out.

"I'm just looking at the paintings on the wall, asshole! Geezus! Shuddup! This is classic art you prick."

We were looking at girls. Always.

Junior high kids in my youth saw, without question, some of the worst movies ever made. Once boys and girls coupled seriously enough to have long-term (3 months?) relationships, they'd go to the movies every single weekend. It was the one of the few places to be together in the dark. We didn't worry about the hundreds of other people in the dark with us.

Once I escaped terminal dorkdom and had a girlfriend I really, really liked ... I mean a girl I like LIKED ... I spent more than a few mid-week nights convincing my mom that "J.W. Coop" and "The Culpepper Cattle Co." were indeed quality films worthy of her paying for me to take Karen McKeown to a double feature.

I distinctly remember my mom, who was really hip, saying, "Oh, you just wanna go so you two can kiss!" And, I remember turning in an acting performance that surpassed any from either film.

"Are you insane? Kiss? In the theater? With people there? Just because my sisters did that crazy stuff doesn't mean ..."

Kids don't bother hiding that type thing today. They are more forward, more aggressive now. My youngest son was invited by the hottest girl in his middle school to go ice skating. Then, she offered him his first kiss the same night. Then, a few days later, she broke up with him saying, "We don't have enough in common."

It took me and my friends months, years, from the time we wanted a girlfriend and a kiss to actually get a girl and then think about the kiss and then have them dump us.

In most all cases in the 1970s, getting the kiss and subsequent kisses involved going to the Eureka or State theater.

It was never as easy for us as it was for the popular guys. Popular guys were all about getting a girl and then getting everything she'd give him. The story of Winship's top eighth grade athlete receiving oral sex from a homely, stoner chick at the Eureka Theater became legend in 1970. We gathered that his friends were pretty busy with their own girls for that to have gone down in a packed theater.

My friends were ... different. We wanted a girl and we wanted that first kiss, but if we could keep busting each other's balls and make it hard on one another to get those things ... tough luck for the one of us who happened to land a spot in the dark with a girl.

Amy Waldsmith called me on a Friday night in the summer of 1970 to ask if I would take her and her friend Cindy McManus to the Eureka Theater.

I'd never been to a movie with a girl and Amy "liked" me. She mostly, though, wanted to go to the movie and knew my mom was quick to give me rides. She'd met my mom when she invited herself to sit with me at a baseball game in Arcata and then belched, "I'm going to need a ride home."

My mom said, "That girl is a slut. What kind of girl gets dropped off in Arcata and then finds a ride with a boy?" She wasn't an Amy fan.

Imagine her response when I told her that it was the type of girl I wanted to go to the movies with at the last minute on a Friday night.

"What about Berk and Jim? You gonna send them home now?" my mom wondered as I ignored two grea friends and lobbied for the complicated process of getting the three of us and two girls to a movie in less than 20 minutes.

"Nah ... send 'em home? They're comin' the show! Please?!?!"

I was a mama's boys so I got my way. I was also, on the night, an idiot.

Amy had already had lots of boyfriends and, I was certain, lots of kisses and kissing. I was a novice feeling my way around, but I felt fairly good about the possibility of her grabbing me and kissing me during the movie, thus getting the painful process of me working up the nerve to touch her, then kiss her, out of the way.

I didn't stop to consider what Berk Brown and Jim Tyler would do while they were at the theater while I was with Amy.

Of course! They would sit four rows behind us and throw candy at us, make fun of me and otherwise act as human deterrents to my getting anywhere near Amy.

"C'mon Ted. Psst! Ted! What're ya waitin' for?"

They laughed and laughed. Amy's friend laughed. Amy even laughed. I didn't laugh.

(Amy and I laughed about it together eight years later when we got married.)

For all the warm, wonderful memories of Eureka that have crossed my mind lately, thoughts of the hoppin' theater scene in the 1970s brings to mind the most heartbreaking night of my young life.

My first for-real girlfriend Karen's family was leaving Eureka for San Diego after school ended in 1972. I was a sophomore in high school. How it happened I remain unsure, but I had fallen absolutely in love with her.

Oh, yes, I was in love? We were in love. We were great friends and she made me laugh, took my shit and the kissing thing went great. Love.

How much in love?

Beyond the first kiss and holding hands, I never made an effort to pursue a physical relationship with her in the six, seven months we dated. All that time spent in the theater wishing girls would look our way and I stopped thinking about getting to second base and beyond because I suddenly found virtue in waiting until I was married.

Did I mention that I was 15 years old?

On the last night Karen was in Eureka, we went to a double-feature at the Eureka. We sat back there kissing, in the back row of a near empty theater, for over 3 hours. I knew I'd spent many years hoping I could get lucky with a pretty girl at the theater, but that night my heart was breaking. We kissed like we'd never see each other again ... because I figured we wouldn't.

Not every memory of Eureka warms my heart.

Sensitivity to others' feelings is not same as being politically correct

2011-08-08T19:02:00.000-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure, insight or other value you gain from reading my work by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

I'm told that the word "faggot" is to members of the gay community what the n-word is to members of the black community.
hat
So, while I generally feel that words only have the power that we choose to give them, I'm backing away from my use of "fag" and "faggot." I didn't really know what the words meant when I first heard them in junior high in 1970, so they were quickly added to idiot, moron, dumbass and other words my pals and I used to indicate our real or mock displeasure with one another.

If my recreational use of those words cut to the soul of the gay community, I can find other words to use. I would never, ever, use the n-word to describe a black person. My mom used racial slurs for effect to get a laugh, like so many who grew up in the 1940s and into the 1950s. She told me that I wouldn't use the n-word to describe a black because it was wrong.

Her motto was, "Don't do as I do. Do as I say!"

As I came to develop my own racial sensitivity, I referred to folks as black or African-American. It didn't matter if I grew up talking about "colored men" or "negroes" who were my big league baseball heroes. I wanted to be sensitive to people -- all people of all colors.

I'm adopting the same attitude toward the homosexual community. It doesn't matter if I know I meant no harm, wasn't even referring to gays. I'll no longer use the f-word. There's no limit to the thought and energy I should expend to be certain I'm not hurting someone's feelings.

My decision to steer clear of what minority groups feel represent stinging epitaphs is not a matter of my being politically correct. People who confuse being sensitive to the feelings of others for being politically correct are wrong.

Way wrong.

If Native Americans decide that athletic teams shouldn't be called Indians or Redskins, the decision to change the team names is an example of being politically correct. Native Americans still cheer for the Washington Redskins and Cleveland Indians. So, those Native Americans who forced Stanford University to switch from Indians to Cardinal are just being overly sensitive.

If sports teams' nicknames were a big problem to Native Americans, the NFL and Major League Baseball would have responded by ridding themselves of Redskins, Braves and Indians.

A group in Mendocino County pushed to have Squaw Rock, a local landmark, officially renamed.

It's hard to imagine anyone feeling real pain over a landmark named Squaw Rock. Changing the name is an example of being politically correct.

Political correctness is pushed to the limit now. However, Americans who confuse being PC with showing the proper amount of sensitivity to other Americans need to rethink their positions.

It's not an over-abundance of political correctness that resulted in my children growing up without hearing such common schoolyard taunts as, "retard" or "M.R." It's the result of society slowly coming to realize that developmentally challenged human beings have feelings and that we are wrong to reach a point where we're mocking a peer by using a phrase that compares them to a developmentally or learning disabled American.

We don't have to give words more power than they actually carry. But, we do owe it to one another to be as sensitive as can be to each other. And, if you're incapable of being sensitive, admit that you don't give a damn. Don't blame your willingness to ignore others' feelings on the pressure to be politically correct.

Eureka Memories: People, open space, unique sensitivity made Eureka special

2011-08-08T15:38:00.000-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure and enjoyment you gain from reading "Eureka Memories" by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

Tree swings.

Homemade bicycle ramps.

Forests where most towns had buildings.

The clerks at the stores who knew shoppers' names.

Those are the things that made growing up in Eureka special.

My youngest children are growing up in the San Francisco Bay area. They can go shopping at their choice of department stores, so I can't make the case that they're missing much not having shopping at Daly's or Bistrin's.

The kids can pick and choose hamburger joints. They've have just exactly the number of intimate conversations with the person who cooked or served their burger as I had conversations with the workers at the Fresh Freeze, Deb's or Arctic Circle. Kids stopped hanging out at burger joints in Eureka before I even hit high school in 1971. My children aren't missing anything.

So, much as I've enjoyed sharing memories of Eureka, it doesn't necessarily seem like the buildings and the businesses separated growing up there in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s from growing up anywhere right now.

My kids, however, will never enjoy a tree swing. They don't live in a house bordered by forest filled with stumps, fallen trees and a little stream.

There's no one like Gary Grannis to drag a long, thick rope down to a tall tree for them. They don't have a friend who will climb that tree and secure the rope. They won't go looking for a piece wood to use as a seat for the swing.

There's not a forest within walking distance of where my kids live. It's a healthy drive to the nearest forest, really.

The swing we so enjoyed right outside our front doors sent us swinging out over a little gulch. We started by swinging off of a steep, little hill and wound up swinging and spinning far out over the top of trees and lush, green ferns. Before we lost momentum, we stop ourselves back safely on the hill.

We all liked the big swings at Sequoia Park, but we loved our tree swing. Whenever I'd see Gary dragging the rope to the forest or, better, when I'd find the swing hanging from the tree with no one around -- I was euphoric. It felt like I'd gained admission to the finest amusement park.

That reminds me, the forest was so filled with things to do that we'd lose ourselves. I once climbed a tree I'd seen bigger kids climbing. I was alone. Getting up was easy. Getting down seemed impossible. I was 7 years old, stuck far up a redwood tree ... and calling to my mom to come and help me down.

The city dismantled the most memorable little rides from my years playing at Sequoia Park. The swings, the big slides and more were judged unsafe. There were no judges of the risk versus reward involved in riding that tree swing for hours. Thank God.

I was in my back yard one afternoon throwing a rubber baseball against the wall. I heard what sounded like a groan, maybe a cry. I walked into the woods and saw Brian King, a neighbor kid from around the corner, laying flat on his back at the bottom of the big hill below the tree swing.

"I slipped off," he said, trying to catch his breath and wiping tears from his eye.

I was old enough to help the younger boy, off the ground and up the hill. He'd never been on the swing because, well, not just anybody could jump on that tree swing. There was a protocol for earning the chance to swing on it just any old time a kid felt like it.

There were obviously no official rules, but the 2, 3 older kids didn't let me just get to swinging over that gully all by myself. They were willing to tolerate my presence, so they told me how to secure the seat between my legs and how to hold on tight. They showed me how to avoid having the swing stop swinging with me hanging out over the gully.

Brian King didn't know what he was doing.

Knucklehead.

I felt, suddenly, like one of the older boys. One thought crossed my mind watching the neighbor kid limp away from the tree swing, "Serves him right."

My older pal Rocci Barsotti was the most creative play pal a kid could have. Yes, we had bicycles. Yup, we bought 'em at Western Auto or Bill Beasley's. Whoopee!

Those bikes weren't so special. Heaven knows those stores weren't.

Rocci's ability to take a couple bricks, maybe a big rock, and some pieces of wood and turn them into ramps for kid bicycle daredevils was special. I'll forget where we bought the bikes well before I'll forget how much fun we had riding them.

The bicycle ramps kids all over town would piece together made Eureka special. There aren't many plots of land where my kids live with wood, bricks, big rocks or anything else they'd need to build a bicycle ramp. Even if there was, there's not a quiet enough street to allow kids to really enjoy wildly, recklessly, mindlessly speeding their bikes off the ramps and into the air. Even if there were, somebody would run them off because it's not safe to jump and fly through the air on bicycles.

I thought I had to be the only kid who had that much fun riding a bike. We'd built a ramp to jump from and a ramp to land on, well before Evil Knievel became an internationally-known daredevil. Lots of kids did that type thing, and more, in Humboldt County then.

Rocci thought of places to race on bikes that required more than just speed. He devised a way to make riding our bicycles as fast as we could around Gary Grannis's square driveway an absolute blast.

The square driveway was only built for two cars, so ... it took ingenuity for Barsotti to turn it into a raceway for a kid like me.

Rocci theorized that there was some peril in riding as fast as we could as closely as we could to the very edge of the slightly raised driveway. I imagine, he realized there was peril when I tried to copy him and zip around the square driveway faster and faster. I remember, still, having my front tire slip off the cement, drop hard onto the grass and send me ass over tea kettles into the big bush by the Grannis mail box.

So, we'd race around that driveway 2 or 3 at a time and stay as close as we could to the edge. It was more fun that I can make it seem, I'm sure.

We all remember every store, clothing and grocery, we ever frequented in Eureka.

So?

Just remembering that Cutten Market or Shears/Kacy's/Murphy's existed isn't a particularly meaningful memory. Children are growing up with easier access to more competitive prices now. They don't, however, know the clerks and baggers at any grocery store. They won't walk in to a department store to buy school clothes and have a clerk say, "Oh, you've grown since last year! Your favorite Hush Puppies are in stock!"

I knew all the clerks at Cutten Market and Shears/Kacy's/Murphy's. My pals and I ran around Cutten for years. The clerks knew us as well as we knew them.

Still, that's not really memoriable either. We couldn't have cared less about the clerks. We wanted to get away from adults. I didn't realize how special the intimate relationships with people who served us in Eureka stores was until I was a parent myself.

My older sons and I lived in Cutten, down the street from Murphy's Market. The younger of the two older boys was in third grade at Cutten School. He walked the mile from there home. Typically, he'd make the walk while I was at work. One afternoon, I'd come home early.

A full hour after school got out, he still wasn't home. I'd lost his mom, but I didn't want to lose him. It was what I perceived as a more dangerous time -- 1989. I hopped in the car and went to look for him.

I drove the route from the little shack duplex to Cutten School and back -- three times. I circled off Walnut Drive to drive down Cypress Street. Then, I drove down by the old slaughterhouse where 2 giant, mean dogs kept me from ever daring to take a shortcut home as a kid at Cutten School. I couldn't find my son.

In desperation, I stopped at Murphy's Market. My kid didn't have any money, so I held out little hope he'd be in the store.

I walked in and saw the tall, big-haired blonde woman who was always so friendly to my kids and I. I was an adult in 1989, so I wasn't the one with the intimate relationship with her. She just knew that I was a single dad with polite sons who helped me shop.

She saw me enter the store and looked up from her customer.

"Hi! He's right over there," she said, pointing at the magazine rack where my son was sitting on the floor cross-legged reading a college football preview magazine. He might as well have been sitting in our living room.

"Hey, Trent! Your dad's here," she shouted down the aisle.

He paid no attention.

"He stops in here almost every day and looks at the sports magazines," the clerk said. "It's so cute. He's not hurting anybody and he always puts the books back exactly like they were."

She assured me he caused no trouble, making sure I wasn't too mad at the boy. Mad? I was happy that my biggest parental problem, thanks to the clerks who knew my boys, was that my seven-year-old son was unusually interested in sports magazines.

My youngest kids wouldn't be allowed to sit on the floor at the nearby Safeway or Raley's. If they did, they'd be kicked out of the store. In Eureka, in Cutten, no sweat ... life was a little slower and folks had time to care a little more time and my older sons were in the best of hands at any business anywhere near our home.

So, the businesses and clubs and TV shows of our youth were important. The memories are important. They aren't what made Eureka, or Humboldt County special, though. Not really. The people, the pace of life, the extra spaces we had before everything was paved over and built up is what some of us remember most.

Eureka Memories: Groceries with a smile -- Handee Market & the Park Store

2011-08-03T20:36:00.000-07:00

Eureka Memories: Humboldt National Bank, Bill Beasley's & Other Big Business

2011-08-03T20:32:00.000-07:00

Youth baseball stories aren't what they seem; Solano, Napa has top players playing across the country

2011-08-02T16:25:00.000-07:00

It's nearly impossible to read a newspaper sports section online or in print without reading about some baseball team winning a championship, often a state or national championship. There are multiple sponsoring organizations holding national championship events for players of all ages and, really, it takes a long, hard look at things to determine if the championship actually carries any weight.

For instance, the Little League World Series that makes its nonsensical appearance on national television this month, doesn't mean much in regard to showcasing the best young baseball players in America. Little League long ago stopped being the predominant youth baseball organization in America.

The Little League all-star team that won the Solano-Napa counties championship would have trouble competing with a good tournament team. Many of the area's top 12-year-old players don't even finish their Little League careers locally before moving to play for travel teams that play in tournaments throughout the region and the country.

The Fairfield Daily Republic featured a nice story about 12-year-old Tyler Reames, a Fairfield star who helped the Lamorinda Monarchs win the AAU 13-U national championship in Florida recently. (The story about Reames' considerable accomplishments appears at http://bit.ly/qaC22P.)

Readers would guess that young Reames and his mates are the best team of players aged 13-and-under in the country. Readers might be wrong. There are dozens of organizations who charge entry fees, rent stadiums and hold national championships. Reames played with Lamorinda at the baseball complex at Disneyworld.

My son celebrated his 12-year-old baseball season playing for the Lamorinda Baseball Academy at a 98-team national tournament held in Cooperstown, N.Y. A baseball businessman in Cooperstown hosts 98 different teams every week in the rural home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. So, clearly, Disneyworld and the Cooperstown, N.Y. tournament outfit makes a healthy profit on giving young players a national spotlight.

We just have no idea how big the spotlight is or what succeeding in the spotlight means.

As baseball players grow older, the most important tournaments are hosted at the homes of Major League Baseball spring training complexes. Games aren't played near an amusement park and don't come with a trip to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame. The games are played on practice diamonds in front of a few parents, some coaches and loads of college and big league scouts.

My son's Nor Cal Baseball 15-under team played in a big, national tournament co-sponsored by Rawlings in June. There were games at a number of spring training camps. It's really handy for scouts who deal with Rawlings and, of course, with sponsoring organizations who field teams.

There were concurrent tournaments in Arizona, at the same sites, for players from 18 years old on down. So, arguably, the showcase for the top high school players in the nation was held in near private in Arizona.

So, what does it mean if a town team wins an American Legion baseball championship? The Napa 17-and-under Junior American Legion team finished second in the California tournament. Fairfield boasts a thriving Legion program. Clearly, though, the best players in the country were in Arizona in June (and in Chicago in July, followed by a tournament in Florida) while Legion tournaments that draw media attention were being hailed as state championship competition.

It's confusing, isn't it? Over time, let's sort out the different levels of baseball competition ... the value of a national championship teams have to pay to win ... and whether or not baseball is best served with top players traveling the country or with them playing close to home with their best pals.

What's a writer worth these days? Something more than nothing, right?

2011-08-02T11:49:00.000-07:00

It feels like having linked this site to my PayPal account amounts to me begging for donations to the Help Pay Ted's Bills fund. Really, the idea is to see if I can generate some income doing the same work I've been paid to do my whole life.

That button to the upper left that enables readers to kick me a dollar or two or 20 should say something other than "Donate." Readers used to routinely pay to read what I wrote in newspapers. Times have changed.

I'm trying to keep in mind that while I need to ask people to consider paying me for any value they get from my work, I also have to work even harder to remember that there are huge voids in media coverage in communities around here. So, there actually could be some value (50 cents? A quarter?) in the work you read here.

There isn't a writer in Humboldt County who can write about the history of the Humboldt Crabs summer college baseball program. I can write about it because I grew up following the club, then writing about it for years.

Since I shop at a Wal-Mart, it seems like I can address the controversy of a Wal-Mart moving into my hometown in Eureka -- over the loud protests of folks who feel Wal-Mart will ruin everything up there.

There's no place in the Napa Valley for an opinion on a news event that might cast the business community in a negative light -- and, honest, sometimes somebody needs to ask hard questions about tough topics and not just cater to advertisers.

When the high school football summer workout season starts, I can go out and talk to players. There's no need for me to wait for the advertising director to tell me when the special football section runs. I can go find stories about, well, someone other than coaches who tend to repeat themselves ... as soon as they put on pads.

Solano County is not lacking for columns about the good, old days. There's a lot to be said about generating copy that makes us smile about television in the 1970s or what Fairfield and Vacaville were like in 1967. It just seems like there's more to living and being in Solano County in 2011 than thinking about "I Dream of Jeannie" and the old bowling center on North Texas. Isn't there?

I'm a sports dad and a guy who coached for decades. So, I can determine how there can be a national championship event featuring 12-year-old baseball players that runs concurrently with a different national championship tournament for 12-year-old players. There are lots of national championships and World Series events sponsored by different organizations. I can actually find out if a 12-year-old pitcher in Fairfield is one of the best his age in the U.S. or whether his folks just paid a ton of money to get him on a team that paid a ton of money to enter a tournament that they subsequently won against average competition.

I'm sure that what you read here is worth a buck or two, once in awhile.

Convincing myself of that will be an ongoing challenge.

Eureka Memories: Media plays along to diminish how Crabs' glory has faded over time

2011-08-02T11:34:00.000-07:00

From afar, it's hard to take Humboldt Crabs seriously

2011-08-02T11:04:00.000-07:00

The Humboldt Crabs are the North Coast's summer college baseball team. It's the oldest such baseball program around. In the Eureka-Arcata area, the Crabs are treated like a professional minor league baseball team.

Solano County baseball fans would be surprised to know that the Crabs get loads of media attention, have games broadcast on the radio and that they routinely play the Fairfield Indians and Solano Mudcats. The two Solano County teams play men's adult league baseball at Allen Witt Park in Fairfield, a park without any bleachers.

Crabs fans take the club completely seriously. Much is made of the league the Crabs play in. When even the Fairfield Indians or Solano Mudcats go north, hundreds of fans turn out to cheer on the home team and heckle the visitors who got a day or two off work to go play baseball in Arcata.

There was a time when the Humboldt Crabs attracted the finest college players from the best college programs in the United States. The Crabs would routinely have stars from UCLA, USC, Fresno State, Stanford, Cal, etc. Now, the Crabs are made up of mostly underclassmen from less prominent baseball schools with the core of the team being the locally-produced stars who couldn't crack the lineup for decades when the Crabs were truly an attraction to national-level stars.

The Crabs' league affiliation changes a lot, probably because they play 95 percent of their games at home. A couple quick road trips in recent seasons gives the appearance that whatever league they're in now is for real and legitimate.

As has been the case since the Crabs simply became a local show for fans isolated hours and miles from an alternative form of summer sports entertainment, this year's league tournament is set for Arcata. No other team in the league could draw a big enough crowd for the league tournament to make any team any money. In Arcata, the tournament will draw 1,000 fans a day, maybe more.

Typically, the tournament field is unraveling. Teams that qualified for the event have dropped out. The media up there is treating it like a bit of a scandal, but it's more a matter of the expense of players from hours and hours away not wanting to foot the bill to travel to Arcata for a second time in just a couple of months.

There was a time when the Humboldt Crabs would've been as entertaining, facing the finest summer college baseball teams in the west region, as any level of baseball. Now, after spending a lifetime following for and cheering for the Crabs, folks who've gotten away from Humboldt County see the club is a local attraction for local fans and little more.

One wonders how much interest there would be in the Crabs summer college club if folks on the North Coast knew that they were playing collections of junior college players, men's adult teams, etc. A Solano County team representing Solano Community College went north and plastered the Crabs in July. Only folks who follow SCC baseball would know where that team came from. There was no explanation made available to Crabs' fans.

I miss what the Crabs were in my youth and hope that, someday, they can be taken seriously again.

Wine industry drives Napa Valley, attracts controversial illegal immigrants

2011-08-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

TV, movies & music didn't ruin my children

2011-07-28T12:11:00.001-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever enjoyment you gain from reading by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

There's no such thing as bad TV, just TV that I'm not interested in watching. So, I watch a lot of TV and always let my children watch it, too.

It would impress many if I explained that I watched news networks and PBS. However, I watch "Dancing With the Stars" and "Project Runway." I'm very familiar with MTV's "Road Rules-Real World Challenge" series. If it entertains me, I'll watch it when I have time.

My older kids watched just about anything they wanted on TV. I even took the boys, when they were 6 and 4 years of age respectively, to see "Platoon." It was the violently epic, award-winning Vietnam War movie. I wanted to see it on my day off and guessed they'd be fine seeig it, too.

My oldest sons are grown men now, so the result are in from my allowing them to watch everything on TV while freeing them to sit through R-rated movies, too.

They kids are alright. They aren't violent and they don't curse with any particular frequency. They treat women with a great deal of respect.

What other pitfalls have they avoided that are associated with kids who watch too much TV or watch the wrong movies?

They didn't quit school, in fact they did really well in school. They've never committed a crime. They respect authority. Looking back, I can't really think of a single time either of them caused me or their mom any problem.

My youngest kids are watching just as much TV, eating just as much junk food and playing more video games than their much older brothers did.

They're non-violent and do as they're told. My 13-year-old daughter causes a little more stir than her 15-year-old brother, but I'm told that's a "girl thing." And, for now, I'm still trying to figure out what a "girl thing" is.

My 15-year-old son responds to authority so completely and without question that I remind him that he can think a second before he does exactly what adults he doesn't know tell him to do.

He actually chose to attend a private Catholic high school in Napa because the institution billed itself for having rules and regulations that are administered impartially. He spent a good year there, but decided the rules are no more black and white at the tiny school than anywhere else in the world. The rules are bent, twisted and applied differently to suit situations. He's headed to a public high school this year.

My daughter spends hours watching the Disney and Nickelodeon shows that, theoretically, ruin young girls.

Her personality stems more from her being an outgoing kid with a huge vocabulary and her parents' temperment than it does from her watching "Hannah Montana." When I have tried to insist she's acting out like a character on a TV show, she becomes very upset and insists her raising hell has nothing to do with TV. She can become angry as quickly as her mother and argue endlessly as well as I can.

I imagine that television and movies can have a negative influence on kids. It just hasn't had a negative influence on my kids and they've been drowning in all forms of media through their entire lives.

There's no logical reason they've turned out OK while there are caucasian kids from Eureka to Napa to Vacaville to Roseville walking around dressing and talking like extras from an MTV special about living in Detroit or South Central Los Angeles.

That reminds me, I don't understand why caucasian kids try to mimic the representation of inner-city black America that they see on TV. I never see black kids of color trying to act and sound like they were born and raised in suburban, white America. Odd isn't it?

I've always made sure I watched the TV shows and films my kids watch. That might've helped them understand that the stories and characters they enjoy onscreen have nothing to do with how they live their lives in the real world.

My youngest son started telling "Family Guy" stories, so I started watching "Family Guy." My daughter started watching "Hannah Montana" and so did I. As mentioned, my kids have watched R-rated movies -- but, they've watched them with me and, usually, with me holding the remote control in case I need to stop or fast-forward the movie and say, "This is bad. We don't need to see this."

The result? Well, when I took my younger boy to see the remake of the 1970s violent, crime drama "Walking Tall" some years back, he complained during a fight scene that, "This seems too violent ... I don't like the fighting."

I've never done anything that any parent couldn't do. I just figured a dad should know what his kids are watching and listening to -- although, it's easier to just blame the media outlets for not providing good role models for my children.

I don't think even some very caring and concerned parents know what their kids watch and listen to these days. That, I think, is how I keep stumbling on suburban high school athletes from rural areas who talk with a sort of ghetto drawl. It's why I see girls wearing clothes that would be too much for a stripper, but just right for Rihanna or Beyonce.

Nobody said it didn't take time and committment to be a parent. But, if I can sit through "The Suite Life of Zach and Cody" and "America's Best Dance Crew" -- or record "Tosh 2.0" to watch with my youngest son -- any parent can do it.

Sure, the media's a problem ... but, my kids are my problem and I guess I just made sure my kids never became somebody else's problem.

(Ted Sillanpaa can be reached at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)

Word of my demise was greatly exaggerated

2011-07-27T20:00:00.001-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure and enjoyment you gain from reading by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

So, I was driving back from the store with my youngest son and got a telephone call from work.

"Ted? This is Andy. Hi!"

Yeah? What? I called in sick. Flu or something that, alas, doesn't take away the need to do dad stuff. (Dads can't call in sick.)

"Yeah...Marty just got a call ... um...from the Times-Standard up in Eureka...and..."

What? Gee whiz? I know the guys I worked with were thoughtful, but I didn't need to hear about every communication between them and folks at my old workplace.

"...and, um, the sports editor up there said you were in a car accident..."

Say what?

"I ... huh? No! I'm driving home right now. That's weird."

Weird didn't accurately describe how it felt to hear a rumor that I'd been in a car wreck, perhaps 350 miles away in my old hometown. Weird might've applied if I had any personal relationship with the sports writers in Eureka. I don't really know them at all.

"...actually...um..."

Andy tends to meander through a conversation, but he was really struggling. He'd pause when he's saying something that he's uncomfortable saying. Nice guys are like that. They know they're going to say something potentially upsetting so ... they ... hesitate. (Thus, I tend to blurt things out and think later.)

"...actually, they said you'd passed away."

The Times-Standard guy called the Napa Valley Register guy to tell them that I'd died.

OK.

"He called to see if I'D DIED!?!?!?! That's insane. I'm alive, unless something happened I don't know about. My son's in the back seat of the car and he's in trouble if I'm dead..."

I laughed it off because my parents' deaths skewed my view of death. I'm a little afraid of dying, like lots of people. I know it makes people who are left behind really sad, so ... sure ... I'd say the thought of my own death is unpleasant. I have, however, come to grips with the fact I'm going to die and that the world will go on...my family and friends will get over my death and, in the majority of cases, continue to prosper.

Hearing word of my own demise didn't send a chill down my spine or anything. Well, maybe a little chill down close to my spine ends in my lower back.

The story of my death apparently started in Fairfield, another former workplace. However, no one there cares enough about me one way or the other there to start a rumor about my death. Word is that somebody else with a connection to Eureka called the Times-Standard with some news. When asked what he was calling for, he remembered that I'd worked up there a long time and joked that, "Ted Sillanpaa died in a car crash."

I have a morbid sense of humor, but it's impossible to imagine that ever being funny.

Hearing I'd died did not make me laugh. It all made me wonder how word of my passing would actually travel, once I actually passed.

In just a few minutes, I'd learned that someone I don't know well spread word that I'd died. Then, someone I really don't know at all telephoned a work friend to tell him I'd been in a car wreck and died.

That's not the weird part.

The work friend in Napa knew I was at home sick and that the possibility that I'd died in a crash 300 miles away was ...

The story started to make people seem ... stupid.

I'd worked the night before and called in sick that day. How could my work friend accept as fact that I'd died in a wreck hundreds of miles from the office? Then, let's say it was possible that I'd died, what would possess another co-worker to call me to allow me to confirm or deny my demise?

If my co-worker had telephoned 15 minutes earlier, I'd have been in bed and not answering the phone. He would have, I can assume, guessed I was dead. Right? Or, would he have left a phone message.

"Ted ... just calling because we heard you died in a car crash. Um ... if you ... I mean ... can you ... will you ... er ... give me a call if you're alive?"

They'd probably have gone that route since they'd have wanted to cover my next shift as quickly as possible.

Solano, Napa counties in trouble if disaster requires media help

2011-07-27T14:58:00.001-07:00

Media coverage of the six-alarm fire Tuesday at a Fairfield plastics manufacturing plant hints that Solano and Napa counties residents will be in trouble if a real disaster ever strikes the region.

The community newspapers that cover Vacaville, Fairfield, Vallejo and Napa were slow to keep pace with the fire that sent a huge cloud of black smoke toward highly-populated areas. They didn't get quickly changing, breaking news to residents living close to the the site of the fire.

It's not that hard these days to give readers up-to-the-second news. A Twitter account gives those newspapers, and reporters on the scene, the opportunity to hear news now and post it for residents and readers seconds later. Without a social networking site readers and residents could follow, newspapers slowly updated stories on their websites. The process of updating posted stories takes time that, eventually, a disaster in the area will not allow us to waste.

Sacramento and San Francisco television coverage was atrocious.

Anchors blabbered on and on about live video of the awe-inspiring inferno in Fairfield. Based on the locations from which they provided live remote updates, reporters couldn't have had access to decision-makers. News filters very slowly from a fire at a plastic plants near Travis Air Force Base and a safe, smoke-free spot along Air Base Parkway. One TV reporter couldn't even explain how far she was from the fire that, shown in the background, was 4, 5 miles to her east.

Residents and viewers know that fires burn really hot and that a fire so hot that it creates a mini-weather pattern of its own is really awesome. However, they need to know things like how the dark plume of smoke would affect air quality. TV anchors talked to environmental protection agencies, explaining only that the air was being tested.

By 4 p.m., 2 1/2 hours after the fire started and as the smoke began to hover over my Rolling Hills neighborhood (west of I-80) in Fairfield, there was still no word on whether the smoke presented a health risk. Viewers and residents were simply told to stay inside, with windows closed and air conditioners off, if they lived within a mile or two of the blaze.

Anchors let folks who should know the danger of smoke from a fire at a plastics plant off the hook, never pressing them to use what they do know about the smoke from burning plastic to give us some hint of what we should expect.

The TV coverage, instead, let the wrong folks talk too much about things that led us to expect the worst. KOVR Channel 13 in Sacramento had an interview with a man who owned a plastics plant that had a large fire some years back. Good idea, right?

Well, the interview aired around 2:30 p.m. and the man said a plastics fire "would burn and burn forever ... they might as well just let it burn itself out."

The fire was contained by 4 p.m.

The plastics guy said there are different kinds of chemicals that present in plastic that provide different levels of danger in a fire. He guessed that the region would be facing a toxic hazard for some time.

There was no toxic hazard reported, at any point, on Tuesday. Twenty-six hours after the fire started, there was still no toxic hazard.

To be fair, the environmental protection agencies were as slow and out of focus as media coverage.

Does it really take 2, 3, 4 hours to get a report from a hazardous materials crew? If so, what are we going to do if there's a poisonous chemical spill or worse in these parts?

The media missed even the obvious things that residents near the fire would need to know. TV coverage included worded that traffic was backing up on Air Base Parkway during rush hours because people were driving toward the fire to take photographs and shoot video. At that point, it would've been a public service to remind people that the last thing area residents and firefighters needed was to have a traffic jam caused by morons who found a potentially tragic fire a simple curiosity.

The media missed what people in my neighborhood could see. The smoke, all TV stations insisted, was headed to the south and southeast over Vacaville. There was no mention of the growing black smoke cloud that was headed west toward Fairfield's Rolling Hills and Rancho Solano ... or that the smoke cloud was potentially going to reach the Napa Valley if the fire continued out of control.

People in the Napa Valley likely had no idea that the black smoke was going to reach them, or could have reached them. Fortunately, the fire was contained and the smoke began to disappear.

If there's a disaster in San Francisco or in Sacramento, fine. The media will cover it and folks will be able to respond accordingly. If a disaster strikes Solano, Napa, Yolo or any other county without a strong media presence ... residents will be on their own.

It would've been nice to have put the fire's location to all neighborhoods in the area in some perspective.

Napa paper reports news -- readers move to pass sentence

2011-07-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

Reader comments about a newspaper story show how wildly folks misunderstand how the media works.

The Napa Valley Register has reported that a Napa High School junior varsity softball coach was arrested on suspicion of child molestation. The Register staff has handled the story by the book, with comment from school district officials and an explanation gathered from the Napa Police concerning the allegations and circumstances surrounding the arrest.

It's news. It's public record. The coach hasn't been convicted of a crime.

The newspaper is doing the job the way it is supposed to be done.

As one reader commented, "This is exactly what should be reported in a local newspaper not who stole what from Wal-Mart last night." (Note: The newspaper reports the latter type tale, too. One story on the Register website reports an arrest involving an alleged counterfeit prescription request. How does that impact the community?)

Other readers responded to the coach's arrest and explanation of the charges as if the newspaper staff is doing more than providing information that is already public record.

"This is very dangerous for the paper to do. Even if not guilty, she (the coach) already got convicted by the community," one reader wrote. "In this case, innocent until proven guilty does not apply ..."

The newspaper staff gathered information from the police, then reported it to the community. Is the story of the arrest of a coach for alleged child molestation newsworthy? Seems like it would be in most any town. So, the reader is wrong to state that the newspaper did anything that is "dangerous."

The reader comments about the story and the allegations run wild, border on convicting the coach, and that is where the problem begins.

It is reported that the female coach was arrested after being involved in an ongoing relationship with an underage female athlete.

Readers insisted the school superintendent should've made immediate comment on the arrest. What could Barb Franco possibly have said about the arrest of a JV softball coach? Franco wouldn't have had more information than a reporter initially.

A reader wrote, "I would feel much better knowing the school was taking action ..."

Woa!

The coach hasn't been found guilty of a crime. The school shouldn't be doing anything. No action should've been taken, but readers jump to conclusions.

Almost immediately, a reader made the assumption that the coach was a certificated school district employee. School districts typically hire part-time coaches who aren't otherwise employed by the district. The coach isn't, as it turns out, a teacher.

It would've made it a lot easier for readers to lash out at the district, however, if the case did involve a teacher. So, they conclusion was drawn that a teacher was involved when the story reported no such thing.

The newspaper staff gathered information and reported it. Readers make assumptions and connect assumption to fact to create chaos. That's why the Napa Valley is better off relying on the Register staff for news than it would be with even the most conscientious community member armed only with interest in the case and a computer.

Reader comments don't reflect the work of the newspaper staff. Readers are too quick to judge and pass sentence based on facts the police provides the news staff.

Leave the news-gathering to news professionals.

Remember, always, that reader comments come from anonymous folks who don't know a thing more about the case than what was reported by the news professionals.

(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)

Napa Valley College star Cravy sparkles in Brewers' organization

2011-07-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

Just because he hasn't gotten the media attention he deserves doesn't mean that Tyler Cravy isn't one of the most elite athletes to have called the Napa Valley home recently.

The ex-Napa Valley College pitching sensation is Tyler Cravy struck out 12 in five innings of relief work for the Class A Wisconsin Timber Rattlers as he continues his climb through the Milwaukee Brewers' organization. Cravy fanned a dozen in a 9-2 win over the Idaho Falls Chukars.

Cravy is 3-2 with a 5.75 ERA for the Timber Rattlers after being promoted from the rookie level Pioneer League in May. Cravy has 29 strikeouts and 16 walks in 20 Class A innings pitched. He fanned 29 and walked just six in 21 innings of work in the Pioneer League in Helena, Montana.

Cravy, who flew under the radar for a lackluster NVC baseball program, was drafted in the 17th round of the 2009 Major League Baseball draft. He was 6-6 with a 5.87 ERA in 15 games for Helena in the Pioneer league in 2010. He whiffed 70 and walked 28 in 76 innings.

** Tim Stegall, who also has Napa Valley baseball ties, has apparently been released by the Texas Rangers. He was signed as a free agent in 2009, but is not mentioned on the www.web.minorleaguebaseball.com site that chronicles the exploits of every minor leaguer.

Napa Sports: Some feel entitled, but not all valley kids are soft

2011-07-19T23:48:00.000-07:00

(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure or insight you gain from reading by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)

"We stay away from Napa kids when we recruit," the community college baseball coach said. "They're soft."

One coach wouldn't be able to prove his belief correct in all cases.

"Oh, the Napa girls have skill, but they don't want to leave the valley and play basketball over here," one East Bay assistant college basketball coach said. "For every one who comes over here and plays well, two or three leave because they ... it's hard to explain ... they're soft."

Two coaches from two different colleges agreed that Napa Valley high school athletes are soft. It didn't take much to get the coaches to explain that they understood that youngsters who grow up in comfort and socio-economic safety of the valley would naturally feel entitled to a certain, more gentle way of being coached.

"They learn to play ball and play for different reasons than kids from inner-city areas, I think," one of the coaches said. "That doesn't make them bad kids. They just expect to be treated a certain way. I get it. I just can't expect a kid who feels entitled to playing time or even a roster spot to play for us."

Kids who grow up in the projects of Solano or Contra Costa counties are looking for a way out and, right or wrong, they usually think sports provides the best path. Those kids can't be soft and survive.

Don't believe it? OK. Go to a high school basketball game at Fairfield or Vallejo high schools. Now, go to a game at Napa, Vintage or Justin-Siena. See if you notice any difference.

My son played baseball for Justin-Siena this past spring. He mentioned that "people in the stands don't really get into the games." Then, we went to watch Rodriguez High's baseball team play in the Sac-Joaquin Section Division III championship game. Instead of a small group of parents and boosters like that which followed Justin, Rodriguez filled have the Sacramento City College baseball stadium with loud, excited fans who hung on every pitch.

Wait. The intent here is not to conclude that Napa Valley athletes are self-entitled and too soft to succeed. Not at all.

A portion of the elite level athletes in the Napa Valley are, indeed, soft. They don't want to go take on the basketball or baseball worlds in most cases. There's nothing wrong with that, unless they expect to succeed as collegiate basketball or baseball players.

Napa Valley football players are far from soft. There's a disconnect between the self-entitled, soft athletes many outside Napa see in most sports and the gritty, determined football talent that comes from the Napa Valley. Napa's John Boyett stars at the University of Oregon. Undersized Jake Croxdale has built a career for himself against long odds at Sacramento State. They're just two kids who leap immediately to mind.

Two baseball players left the Napa Valley and are succeeding in places where there's no room for being soft. UC Davis sophomore CJ Blom and University of Michigan sophomore Ben Ballentine have bright baseball futures ahead of them. They're succeeding at big-time sports schools when their peers couldn't even get recruited outside the Napa Valley -- save for the kids who stream to Santa Rosa Junior College.

Guess what?

Blom and Ballentine were starters and stars for Napa High's traditionally powerful football team. Blom was an all-league lineman. Ballentine was a tall, gifted receiver. They carried the grit and determination needed to star as a Napa High football player and carried into another sport. Blom, in fact, had planned to play college football, but had such a brilliant senior baseball season that he changed his mind and is a key to the UC Davis baseball future.

Blom is a 6-foot-4, 230-pound chemistry major at UC Davis. Chemistry majors are rarely soft.

Blom pitched in 14 games, with three starts, as a freshman. He really didn't pitch a great deal in high school because Napa High had two good starters in Ballentine and Steven Nagy. When Blom had to pitch regularly in the playoffs as a senior, he was magnificent. So, he just scraped the tip of the iceberg on the mound as a college freshman.

Then, Blom became a full-time position player as a sophomore. He batted .345 in 22 games with a .379 slugging percentage and a .441 on-base percentage. Guys who pitch one year, hit the next and can probably do both just fine in college can't be soft.

CJ Blom .345 22 games 29 at-bats 10 hits 1 2B 4RBI .379 slug .441 OBP 6-4 230 lefty sophomore chemistry major

Ballentine led Michigan with a 3-1 record in 18 starts this spring. It's ironic that a pitcher from football-crazy Napa would wind up pitching in the football-crazy Big Ten Conference.

Ballentine, who is a 6-foot-7 righty, made 18 appearances. He struck out 46 and walked 21 with a 4.91 ERA. He made consistent progress after making 11 appearances as a freshman. His victories came over Notre Dame and Penn State after striking out three in two innings against powerful Texas Tech. The pitcher is enrolled in the university's School of Kinesiology as a physical education major.

Blom and Ballentine aren't the only athletes who disprove the general theory that Napa Valley kids are soft. Heck, there are dozens of kids coaches named whose college performances show that, perhaps, growing up playing in the valley did leave them too soft to compete elsewhere.

As is usually the case, two things can be equally true. Napa Valley basketball and baseball players can fall short in the area of desire, work ethic and toughness. However, CJ Blom and Ben Ballentine prove that Napa Valley athletes can succeed anywhere if they really work at it.

It must be the football.

That doesn't sound like the effort of a kid coaches would consider soft.

Eureka Memories: Wal-Mart's OK If the Market Demands It

2011-07-18T19:06:00.000-07:00

Quake survivors are real Japanese heroes

2011-07-17T18:33:00.000-07:00

We always try to make even the most compelling sports events seem to carry more importance than they actually have.

Japan's women beat the favored United States to win the women's World Cup soccer title in Germany. The game was dramatic, compelling at every turn. The champions went all the way to sudden-death penalty kicks after playing to a 2-2 draw through 120 minutes of play.

That isn't enough for sports fans or the sports media, though. The game had to mean more than a 2-2 draw that went to penalty kicks in the World Cup finale that resulted in a major upset. So, we're going on about the ridiculous notion that Japan's victory somehow makes life brighter for a country four months removed from an earthquake and tsunami disaster that killed and displaced thousands.

The quake and tsunami killed more than 15,000. Thousands of Japanese lost their homes. And, as they try to rebuild and start new lives after their towns and homes were destroyed those poor folks are going to find victory in a world soccer championship match some solace?

Really?

The nuclear power plant that was nearly destroyed remains a problem on the coast of Japan. There will be fallout from that disaster for decades to come. Large portions of land around the plant remain a wasteland. It's absurd to think sport, even the World Cup title game, can take the minds of Japanese off of the reality that crops could be contaminated and that future generations could face an increase in birth defects after nuclear radiation filled their air and blew across their country.

Sure, the Japanese victory brings pride to the people of Japan. Yes, it was an inspirational show of determination and heart by the champions. It was brilliantly-played soccer by a team the Americans seemed to have beaten twice, only to see the Japanese rally to tie.

It's hard to imagine how anything NHK, Japan's national broadcasting network, said after the win can make any sense.

“They kept saying they would bring courage to the victims of the quake disaster,” NHK said after the win.

Yeah, homeless people fighting for survival everyday ... in need of food and water ... will find courage in the fact that the Japanese soccer kept playing its hardest for 120 minutes on Sunday.

Fans in Tokyo, reportedly, hugged and cheered in the streets on their way to work after the victory so many time zones away. There are no reports of mass celebrations among the displaced, the hungry and the sick.

Frankly, it's ridiculous to insist that a soccer match can give courage to people fighting the type fight for their lives the Japanese have waged in the wake of the quake devastation. A soccer match doesn't compare to fighting to rebuild a life destroyed by natural disaster.

In fact, the Japanese who are battling to survive in the coastal regions should be inpirations and heroes to the soccer players.

We always have to make more of the games than is necessary.

When Sequoia Park rocked in the 'Summer of Love'

2011-07-16T21:40:00.001-07:00

I spent the "Summer of Love" -- and the two summers that preceded it -- rolling single day to Sequoia Park in Eureka. And, while I was just a child, I knew something really cool was going on amidst the redwood trees in the mid-1960s.

The redwood ampitheater stage was still fairly new and rock bands would plug in and play over there all the time. There were benches were people would sit and listen to music, smoke dope and drink wine. Last I was there, only grass and a tiny gazebo remained. I tend to think the city, in a very art-centric area, could've afforded to pay for redwood to keep that stage in tact, but it was easier to just tear it down.

Actually, I spent most of my passing through Sequoia Park. I lived out in Cutten and had to bicycle through the park on the road that used to allow cars to drive from the back entrance down to the duck pond. We'd haul ass on our bikes -- sting-rays with those banana seats -- against traffic. Then, we'd zip onto the trail adjacent to the road that's still there.

Our destination was always The Park Store -- owned by Rex Bohn's late father. I'd ride over there a couple times a day just to buy Gooscicles (I preferred cherry, but settled for blueberry) or Topps Baseball Cards. In the 1960s you could get 5 cards and a piece of gum for 5 cents. We raised the money to buy cards and sweets by rummaging for empty soda bottles we'd return for the deposit. (My friend was good at putting one six pack on top of a basket at old Shear's Market or Cutten Store and then convincing the clerk we'd brought in 4, 5 six packs.)

Sequoia Park didn't have redwood chips and soccer-mom-safe kids' rides back then. There were two really, really long slides. There'd be a line waiting to ride them and the climb to the top scared some people to the point they had to have somebody help them back down. How tall and fast were those slides? I broke my leg when I was 6 simply by flying down one of them and slamming my foot too hard at the bottom. I broke my fibula in my right leg. Seriously. The slides were out about 20 feet off of T Street where there's nothing but grass now.

We used to take wax paper with us to the park. We'd tear a big strip and sit on it to turn the already long, fast slide into a thrill ride.

The slides were actually close to the old train engine they parked at Sequoia Park when they took out a cherry (hey, it was the '60s) ride. There was room for a dozen kid to grab onto rings hanging from chains and just fly around and around and around in circles. I never did it, but it must've been seriously dangerous because it was one of the first rides to disappear.

There were two sets of those really big swings then, too. There was nothing as thrilling and life-altering as swinging as high as we could on those swings. We were 9, 10, 11 years old ... the older kids were expanding their world listening to psychedelic rock and smoking dope. We were finally free of our parents swinging so high we touched the trees with our feet ... and nobody was there to say, "Be careful!"

There were always kids who'd do crazy stuff like jump out of the swings when they were just flying way above the ground. Not me. The urban legend that I completely believed was that the teen-aged bad-asses could swing so high that they'd actually fly all the way and over the top of the bar ... which, I later figured, most surely defied gravity.

In the 1960s, there was a big sand box type thing on the east side of the park. Before that, the sand box was a public swimming pool. That was before my time. The pony ride -- ponies that just went around and around in a tiny circle -- was there until the mid-1960s. I dug those ponies. I really dug the tiny train that circled tracks that seemed long and elaborate out behind where the bathrooms still stand.

If you walked behind the dirtiest bathroom in town in the early 2000s, you could see a trail and that trail is where the train tracks used to run. It didn't cost a dime to ride that train, so you can imagine how busy it was all day ... every day ... all summer.

The "curly slide" was wrapped around redwood trees over on the west side by the hideous bathrooms. The little tube slide made of plastic slightly amused my kids, but I told them it was nothing like standing in line to get on the "curly slide." The wax paper came into play there, too. That somebody was smart enough to build it in and around two trees that still exist over by the big rock that honors war veterans was mind-boggling.

The merry-go-round was as hellacious as we wanted it to be. It was right in the middle of where all the play things are now ... or were when I last checked in on the ghost town the park had become.

During the summer, the heavy metal merry-go-round would be filled with kids. There'd be a band covering psychedelic rock at the amphitheater. It blew my mind before I was old enough to know my mind could really be blown. It wasn't as though anybody cared who else was on the merry-go-round. We didn't wait for friends. We didn't take turns. Some kids with strong stomachs could spin and spin and spin for an hour and never get off. And, nobody was there to shout, "Take turns kids!"

There were always bigger, stronger kids to grab hold of the merry-go-round and spin that monster 100 mph! I was afraid of injury and could see how easily somebody could fly off simply as a result of the force created by the thing spinning so fast in such a small, tight circle. Still, I remember later, say in 1967, when I was one of the guys who straddled the upside-down U-shaped bars, held on with both hands, and had the big kids spin it with us leaning backward, toward the ground, heads tilted to the sky.

It was simply out of this world. Families barbecuing at the stone barbecue pits. Music playing. Kids sipping wine and getting high.

Another urban legend, or scary story, had a kid slipping off the merry-go-round and somehow falling underneath it ... while it was spinning at warp speed. That thing was sturdy and the ground was hard. I can't imagine the injuries a kid would've suffered. But, then again, we didn't spend a second thinking about hurting ourselves. If we were supposed to worry about hurting ourselves, we figured the people who ran the park wouldn't have put such bitchin' scary rides there.

Then, one day, we showed up and there were wood chips ... and these tiny bouncing horses. The grass and dirt was covered with foul-smelling wood chips.

Then one of the big sets of swings disappeared. Soon, the big slide was moved -- and shortened. Of course, the law of averages resulted in a car finally hitting a kid on a bike on the road behind the zoo, so the road closed. The park folks didn't realize that while they were protecting us on that road, we were congregating at the top of a dirt hill above the duck pond on our bikes trying to test fate.

That's how boys started becoming men, I guess. We put ourselves in dangerous, exciting, precarious positions ... and acted like it was no big deal. We'd push our bikes to the top of that hill and then roar down -- with no idea whether or not a car was coming! We never met a car, but we always hit the steep portion of the hill that led to the pond going faster than hell. We could barely maneuver the corner at the bottom, which was the whole idea.

See, we didn't need dirt bikes and road bikes and racing bikes. We had one bike and it was good for all terrain. So, as they removed the adrenaline-rush rides, we came up with our own ways to rock.

Sometimes a driver would bitch us out, but it was generally accepted that boys on bicycles were all crazy brave and bulletproof back then. I clearly remember having to struggle to keep control of my bike on the way down the trail, then barely keeping the damn thing on the road ... then rushing back to do it again. And, there were guys who were far more brave than I was who threw in jumps, wheelies and all kinds of stuff that would result in closing that road, blocking that trail and lawsuits through 2025 these days.

Sequoia Park used to rock, but ... then again ... so did we.

(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)

Oh, now I'll find out what I'm worth

2011-07-16T20:41:00.000-07:00

Two really big pieces of news to report.

First, you'll notice the "Donate" button to the left here. (Over there! See?) It takes you to may Pay Pal account where, um, you can, er, ... um ... shoot me a quarter or a dollar or whatever seems fair if you enjoy what you read here. (You enjoy it, right? Right?!?)

Second, my stomach is churning because of that "Donate" button to the left here. (Yeah! That button!) Podcasters have routinely used a "Donate" button on their web sites for listeners to compensate them in some small way for whatever pleasure they receive from the podcasts. One of my favorite writers has a web site where he presents previously unpublished stories and asks readers to donate through Pay Pal for his efforts.

I'm not sure if my favorite author or those podcasters put the "Donate" button on their page and immediately get the sinking feeling that comes with anticipating that no one will actually pay for their work. I've always written what I knew people wanted to read. There wasn't any talent involved in attracting readers to game stories or features about local athletes. Essays, news tidbits ... they require me showing from flare for this type thing.

That's where the sinking feeling in my stomach comes in because ... it's one thing to read about your kid in a sports story or laugh at a story I write in an e-mail. It's another thing to read my stuff and dig into your pocket (for a credit card) because you think what I write has value.

I liked this writing business a lot more when a dopey managing editor just handed me an envelope with a paycheck in it every two weeks. (They weren't all dopey.) In those envelopes were amounts that enabled me to raise my kids, pay my bills and go out for a meal now and then.

The idea, generally, is that readers find the writers and material they want to read. So, if ... oh, say ... a writer like me attracts your eye and my work meets the standard once used to determine the cost of a newspaper or magazine, maybe you'll click that "Donate" button and offer whatever you think is reasonable compensation.

It only requires an ATM/debit card or a credit card and punching in a few numbers on the ultra-secure Pay Pal website.

People who know such things insist a blog spot only develops if the writer is patient. I figure the writer should be talented, too. At this point, four months unemployed, I'm convinced I'm lacking both.

I've never had to ask people if what I write is worth a dime ... now I'm pleased to explain that the cost of a newspaper (50 cents? $1.50?) would be a nice way to show you enjoyed the work.

Really, I've never really wanted to know for sure what people think of what I write.

That "Donate" button indicates I'm going to find out a lot about myself. I just need to be patient.

--
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)

Napa Legion team ousted by El Dorado

2011-07-16T13:49:00.000-07:00

From the Times-Standard newspaper in Eureka on Napa's American Legion baseball team losing in the Area 1 tourney on Friday night:

El Dorado 11, Napa Riverdogs 4
After losing a slugfest in its opener, El Dorado won its second straight game, eliminating the Riverdogs.
Hunter Gallant and Stephen Barisone each smacked four hits, while Jerrod Bravo, Jeffrey Miller and Shane Murphy contributed three hits apiece to the 16-hit attack.
El Dorado scored four in the bottom of the first inning and five big runs in the sixth. Danny Muzzi went 5 1-3 innings to pick up the W and Murphy followed with 3 2-3 innings to earn the save.
Blake Zuniga, Eddie Aguayo and Nate Edwards each stroked three hits for Napa, who got a complete-game pitching performance from Brian Webster.
Box score:
Napa 002 020 000 -- 4 12 4
El Dorado 420 005 00x -- 11 16 1
Pitching
Napa -- (LP) B. Webster, CG, 8 IP
El Dorado -- (WP) D. Muzzi, 5 1-3 IP (SV) S. Murphy, 3 2-3 IP
Hitting
Napa -- Zuniga 3-5; Aguayo 3-5, 2B, 2R; Edwards 3-5, 2B, R; Keen 1-4; Keown 1-4; Wieldraayer 1-4, R
El Dorado -- Evanoff 0-5, R; Gallant 4-4, 2B, 3R; McMahon 2-5, 3B, 3R; Bravo 3-5, 2B, 2R; Dillon 0-4, 2R; Miller 3-5; Barisone 4-5

Everybody's so (&%$*# mad!

2011-07-16T12:21:00.000-07:00

People are getting madder every single day.

I don't know what they're so mad at, but they're really, really angry.

There was a time when I'd never seen people publicly holler in anger. I'm 54 years old, so that meant years and years of people keeping their cool and turning the other cheek.

Three times in the last week, I saw and heard people lose their temper for God and the whole world to see and hear. I mean, they were red-faced and madder than hell.

You won't believe what led people to morph into raving maniacs. You can, however, help me figure out why people are so damned mad.

The Safeway shopping center parking lot near the house is always busy. There are traffic signs and arrows painted on the ground to help drivers maneuver their way onto Waterman Road or out of the parking lot toward Rolling Hills, Rancho Solano or the highway. The folks who built the shopping center didn't leave room for two cars to pass each other in the parking lot, so they compensated with the confusing maze of traffic signs and directional arrows.

People are always backing into somebody else's path.

The other day, I was walking to mail a letter (OK ... to mail a bill payment that was long overdue) at the UPS outlet. I heard someone just lay on their horn. No one honks their horn for that long and that loudly. It crossed my mind that one of the stores had an alarm, that sounds like a car horn, going off.

I turned around to see a newer white van, the kind you see filled with kids headed for soccer practice, stopped in the middle of the driveway. A black SUV, one you'd typically see filled with camping gear or groceries, was stopped with it's front bumper almost touching the driver's side door of the van.

The woman driving the SUV was shouting out her window, leaning on the horn.

Remember, people are pulling out in front of each other in that parking lot all the time.

"Watch where you're going!! You *&^%$ idiot!?!!! You almost hit my *&^%$ van?"

It turned out that the woman driving the white van was shouting out her window, too.

"You %$#@#$%^ ... *&(**%!! *&^%$## *&*# car!"

The woman driving the van was unwilling to let go of the idea that blame had to be placed and accepted for the non-accident. I'd never heard one woman call another woman a *&^%$## *&*# before.

The drivers had attracted the attention of everyone in the parking lot. I'm not sure, but I couldn't have been the only one thinking, "What's the big deal?"

The woman in the white van pulled forward into her parking space -- still shouting to nobody from inside her car. The woman in the black van certainly couldn't hear her.

The woman in the black van rolled her window up and pulled away. Her face was ashen as, I'm sure, she realized that whatever she was really angry about had prompted her to make a fool of herself in the Safeway parking lot. Nobody gets that mad about a mixup in a parking lot. I suppose taking care of kids, rushing home to make dinner and being taken for granted by her husband could account for the altercation in the parking lot.

When the woman in the van finally backed out, safely, she was still shouting out loud to nobody. She was so upset that she was mad at ... well, mad at nobody. She was alone in her rig still shouting.

The next morning started like all mornings. I wondered where my next dollar would come from and went to spend one of my last ones to get gas. I wound up at the traffic lights at the four-way stop on busy Travis Boulevard across from the Raley's shopping center.

Suddenly, a little, late model pickup truck scorched through the intersection. The passenger had his head stuck out the window, twisting awkwardly looking to the rear. He was berating the driver of the little white car behind him.

"You *&^%$n' stupid *#tch! Keep your *&^%$ eyes on the ..."

I guessed that the guy in the black ball cap wanted the lady driving the little Toyota to keep her eyes on the road.

The guy was in his early 30s and he looked like the guy who goes from zero to throwing punches really fast. His cheeks were red, like every guy who drinks beer like cherry Kool-Aid's cheeks are red. There had to have been a beer belly hidden behind the passenger side door.

The black ball cap is the kind that men like him typically wear when doing something foolish. It's unclear whether black ball caps make men angry or if angry men wear black ball caps. (The incident hinted that there was certainly a bumper sticker with the white silhouette of a naked woman or a Playboy bunny somewhere on that truck. I'm virtually certain.)

The lady was driving that teeny, tiny Toyota. Not the Matrix, but the Toyota that was a Matrix before Toyota sliced the Matrix in half to make an even smaller car. The car would've fit in the fat, angry man's front pocket.

The woman had both hands on the steering wheel and she stared straight ahead and rolled through the intersection. The horse's ass in the truck was all twisted and contorted as he tried to stick his head further out the window to glare back at her.

In fairness, that guy's probably got problems in life. Like me, maybe he's unemployed. Maybe he's getting a divorce. Heck, he probably lives in his mom's basement. Still, hard to understand how anyone could be that mad at a woman who accidentally nosed too far out from the stop light at the I-80 off ramp onto Travis Boulevard.

Dixon's a tiny town to the east of Fairfield. It's located right along I-80, breaking up the farmlands that lead the way to Davis and, then, to the urban sprawl that starts in Sacramento. Nothing much happens in Dixon. It's quiet, usually.

Faithful Safeway shoppers like me get a discount on Safeway gasoline. There's no gas station at the Safeway in Fairfield, so I always stop in Dixon to get the cheapest gas that I'll probably ever get anywhere in my life. The Dixon Safeway gas station is always busy, as busy as anyplace in Dixon can be. Still, for $3.47 cents a gallon ... I'm willing to wait in line to get to a pump.

It's uncertain why the little guy gassing up his Ford Taurus was looking at the gas pump behind him and talking. He could've been talking to himself, I guessed, but he'd have to have been reciting one of his favorite speeches to have talked into the air for so long.

"Shut the hell up and get gas!"

Oh? The little guy was talking to the great, big, muscular man at the pump right behind him. The man with the muscles in the tight, tight polo shirt was talking on his cell phone. Aren't there warning signs that insist we not use cell phones while pumping gas? What are the odds that the cell phone would spark an explosion?

Ah, either way, I hoped my gas would pump quickly and, moreover, that the little guy would be quiet.

"*&^# you! There are open pumps! Nobody's waiting you &^%$#@!"

Oh, again ... the little guy was aware of the warning signs about cell phones and standing up for drivers who might want to use the pump the big dude was occupying. About the time the big fellow reiterated that the small man was a &^%$#@, I noticed that the man with the muscles was done pumping gas and just standing in the shade talking on the phone.

Why don't etiquette policemen like the little guy know when to stop talking? There really is no law against being thoughtless or selfish. How is it that they think that they'll be so reasonable that even a burly guy in a paint-stained polo shirt, a guy with a ragged goatee, will listen to them?

"Seriously, dude ... shut the *&^% up!"

Guess how many people were watching, listening and wishing they could shout, "Man, just get in your car and leave! The guy's getting ready to kick your ass. Give it up!" Well, there was me ... that's one who was thinking that way.

The smaller man just wanted to have control over something, I'll bet. Rules are rules -- at least, they used to be. Maybe he followed the rules and lost his job or his wife or his house. Then, he saw the big guy talking on the cell phone taking up a pump at a busy gas station and he couldn't take it.

The big man was a guy I'd fear in such a circumstance. He wasn't ranting or raving, but rather explaining loudly that he wasn't moving and that he wasn't hurting anybody. The inference, clearly, was that he'd be willing to go beat that little guy up and stuff him in his Taurus if the guy insisted on pushing things.

My mom taught me that there are times to just walk away. Too bad the little guy's mom didn't teach him the same thing.

It was an ugly incident made surrealistic by the fact that the big fella' never moved the cell phone from his ear. Who argues in public while carrying on a phone conversation? Either super cool or simply stupid, I figured. He kept the other party on the line and, it seemed, would shout down the little dude and then tell the person on the phone what he'd just said. I hoped that the person was suggesting that strangling the little guy wasn't an option.

People are so mad.

Bonds, Clemens should meet the press together

2011-07-14T13:02:00.001-07:00

Roger Clemens' perjury hearing was declared a mistrial, giving him and Barry Bonds one last chance to save themselves from baseball purgatory.

We all can agree that Clemens and Bonds are guilty, in the court of public opinion, of using performance enhancing drugs. They did so better than any of the hundreds and hundreds of baseball players who turned a 10-year period into the Steroids Era. Bonds set the all-time home run record in his 40s. Clemens bounced back from his career stalling in his early 30s to a dominant run with the New York Yankees and Houston Astros at ages well beyond those when fastball pitchers typically dominate.

Virtually every other baseball player who was found to have used PEDs has found some level of acceptance in the baseball community. Once found out, the players offered non-specific apologies for vaguely acknowledging they did the wrong things. Fans forgive and, sometime, forget. The media bashes even those who apologize, then moves back to vilifying Bonds, Clemens and a few others who were never actually fingered despite clearly having shown the same level of performance as those who used. (Sammy Sosa, for instance, survived the Steroids Era unscathed, but ... hey, he was right there buffed up and bombing home runs out of the blue with Mark McGwire.)

Bonds and Clemens remain poster boys for all the evil associated with the Steroids Era. Bonds acknowledged he used PEDs, but insisted all the way through even his perjury trial that he had no idea he was using them. Clemens had his DNA and steroids residue on a syringe introduced as evidence in his perjury trial, yet he maintains he was framed and that he never used PEDs.

They were both among the greatest players of their generation before the Steroids Era even started. If Bonds had finished his career as something far less than the Ruthian home run hitter, he would still been ushered into the Hall of Fame on the first ballot. Clemens was as dominant as a starting pitcher can be for over a decade. He just stayed bigger and stronger, and threw harder, into his mid-40s because he used PEDs. (I know. I know. Nolan Ryan pitched and threw hard well into his mid-40s, too. You be the judge.)

Bonds and Clemens could be denied entrance to the Hall of Fame if they don't make amends with the media and the fans who insist they acknowledge their use of PEDs.

Here's an idea that should appeal to them both.

The two baseball legends should offer themselves, together, for a "60 Minutes" style interview with a respected member of the sports media. Bob Costas would be the best choice because he's most offended, still, by those players who used PEDs and broke baseball's storied records.

When Costas asks if they used PEDs, the two should admit that they did. If one starts to waver or stray from a short response, the other can step in and explain how hard it is to admit that they did the wrong thing. (And, no, they don't need to actually believe they did the wrong thing.)

When Costas asks why Clemens lied to Congress and Bonds lied to a grand jury, they can explain that they knew they'd let their fans down and that their teams had really come to rely on them. It's always effective to explain away questionable acts by blaming them on the pressure one felt. So, Bonds could say something like, "The Giants' organization had built a brand new ball park. The organization needed me to perform at the highest level to fill that stadium in every night. The pressure to do more and more overwhelmed my sense of right and wrong."

See how easy it is?

This is the last chance Bonds and Clemens have to ease back into baseball and, eventually, the Hall of Fame. Sadly, their egos are so large that they'll likely go to their graves claiming they didn't use performance enhancing drugs.

(Ted Sillanpaa can be reached at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)

My pal can still save newspapers from hyper-local nightmare

2011-07-13T21:10:00.000-07:00

One of my best friends has always known how to turn around the sagging fortunes of community newspapers. It's simple, really, but all the people who've wasted years watching newspapers die have failed to grasp what my pal knows to be true.

People buy small newspapers for the same reasons that they buy metro newspapers or check their favorite web sites. They want to be informed, entertained, inspired, amused and to feel like they're getting some bang for their buck.

My friend was the sports editor at a Solano County newspaper for years. Even when he built a staff of writers that produced an abundance of hyper-local copy, he knew that many of the Fairfield Daily Republic's 18,000 or so readers couldn't have cared less about the local Little League or high school teams.

He knew that there were folks who'd never buy his newspaper if all he could provide them were stories about kid and amateur adult athletes those folks weren't interested in at all.

What? You think community newspapers will grow strong featuring nothing but small-town, local sports? OK. When was the last time you went to watch a Tuesday night bowling league event or a youth club's swim meet?

See? You don't care about that stuff, so why would you read about it?

So, my friend Brad Stanhope kept his eye out for national and international stories that he considered "water cooler stories." He knew it was foolish to think everyone who could buy the Daily Republic only wanted to read about the events and people in Fairfield, Suisun City, etc. It was simple, but it was genius ... and the editors and publishers who are strangling the lives out of their community papers now still don't get it.

No, really ... they don't get it. I've been a sports editor more recently than Brad Stanhope has been and my effort to keep his "water cooler story" theory convinced me that the people who can save small papers are actually without a clue as to what can save them.

One day Brad, my boss, decided that our featured story should be an Associated Press piece about people in Great Britain who wager on squirrel racing.

"People are going to stop and read this story," he said, smiling because I rolled my eyes, speechless at the thought of a community paper featuring a piece about gambling ... on squirrels ... in Great Britain.

Brad knew that people didn't buy the Daily Republic to read Associated Press stories. He just thought that not all AP stories were created equally.

"If you didn't work here would you read that story about the 49ers that you want to put in that spot?" he asked.

Excellent question. And, no ... I wouldn't read a generic story about the San Francisco 49ers written by a wire service reporter who, I knew, doesn't give much time or thought to the team or the story. And, I read about the 49ers in a dozen other spots, so why would I read about them in the DR?

Clearly, Brad had thought through his theory, which is more than most of today's small-town editors and publishers have done.

Today's Daily Republic sports section featured a Little League all-star game featuring 9- and 10-year-old players.

Everyone who read today's DR got to that sports page, thought, "Isn't it nice that they're writing and taking photographs of the local children," then turned the page without giving the story a second thought.

The only people who care about a baseball game between 9- and 10-year-old players are their parents, immediate family, a few frienda and, well ... wait! It's uncertain if anyone beyond parents would read a game story once they figured out the final score.

I can't remember a thing about that Little League all-star story or any of the other dozens of hyper-local high school or other sports featured daily in the Daily Republic. I can't remember much about hundreds of similar stories I've written myself.

I remember that story about squirrel racing. It was different. It caught my eye and stopped me on the page.

How do I know that hyper-local doesn't sell? Well, I know the circulation figures haven't risen in Fairfield or Napa (or Vallejo or Vacaville) very much or for very long in the last decade or two. If the all-local, all-the-time nonsense was truly appealing, circulation figures would rise.

Interesting stories sell papers. Stories that appear to be interesting generate web page views.

The squirrel racing story was interesting. I remember people who read it and thought, "This is ridiculous." Still, they read it. When they put the Daily Republic down they knew they could count on finding stories in there that they might not find anywhere else.

I'm certain that people would have discussed it around the water cooler if there were still water coolers in many offices.

I was reminded that my friend can save community newspapers, if they'd let him, when I looked at the Daily Republic today.

My friend has a new gig at the DR, on the news side. So, I wasn't surprised to see an A1 story from the Associated Press about a move that could result in overly obese children being taken away from their parents. It was tucked in amongst those hyper-local stories I never read.

I read that story about the fat kids being snatched away from their parents and realized that my pal's still finding the interesting story -- and then selling it to managers who are looking for local names and local news and, apparently, to bore me to death.

Brad is probably explaining his "water cooler" theory to a new generation of co-workers. And, he's starting by telling the younger staff members what it was like when offices had water coolers.

Just because it's local doesn't make it interesting. I hope my friend can convince more people of that quickly, while newspapers still have a chance.

(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)

There's Only One Game on List of Top Youth Sports

2011-07-13T01:03:00.001-07:00

Take away soccer and there's not a team sport that really does for the very young player what organized athletics claim to do to benefit children.

It takes hours and hours and hours of practice for a 6-year-old even to learn to hit a baseball off a tee. Basketball is a pointless exercise until a kid can dribble the ball and has the strength to shoot the ball anywhere near the basket.

Soccer allows even beginners to play by standard rules and still get the benefits of exercise, teamwork while learning whether or not they enjoy competition.

There are loads of room for failure in activities like tee ball, mini-hoops basketball and other similar miniaturized team sports. Having coached both sports for kids who often hadn't played even in their own yards showed me the angst involved in a 6-year-old swinging a bat at a stationary ball, three times, and missing it each time.

Kids who are willing to run can't really fail on a soccer field. How hard is it for a pint-sized player to understand that they just need to keep the soccer ball from getting near their team's goal? My daughter and her teammates ran themselves ragged and had a blast when, really,

The other day I watched home video of my then 5-year-old son playing quarterback on touch football team for boys so young that they really didn't know the point of the game. I coached the tiny team with the idea that my son would distribute the ball to make sure every player got a chance to touch and run with the ball.

Small problem, though, because I trained my son to throw the ball short distances or to hand it to his teammates ... but, there was no way to teach the other children to hold on to the ball. The league didn't set aside practice time, not that practice would've helped a great deal.

The video shows my son throwing a pass to a little teammate that hit the tiny fellow right in the hands. The boy dropped the ball. The video shows my son drop his head into his hands, just devastated that the pass had fallen incomplete. It showed the little would-be receiver watch the ball bounce away, crestfallen.

There isn't a second of home video that shows anything but my daughter having a blast chasing the ball around the too-big field, laughing with her teammates and loving the orange slices at halftime.

Kid sports have to be fun and be fun all the time when kids are only out there because we send them out there. That makes youth soccer the only sport on a short list of team sports that really little kids should be playing.

(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)

Justin-Siena baseball's mini-controversy far off point

2011-07-12T17:57:00.000-07:00

There are lots of nice people who aren't suited to coaching high school athletics.

Just because a guy was a baseball star in his playing days doesn't mean he can organize a practice, keep up with modern coaching techniques or is possessor of communication skills.

Your best friend might be a sociable fellow with a variety of interests and considerable intellect. That wouldn't, however, have anything to do with his ability to run a high school baseball program.

It's important to note these truths before wading into the mini-controversy surrounding the Justin-Siena High baseball program in Napa.

Justin-Siena just rehired head baseball coach Allen Rossi. Rossi returns after Scott Wright's five-year tenure running the Braves' program ended with the former Vintage High and Cal State Fullerton baseball star being fired this spring.

There is debate swirling around the Justin-Siena and Napa Valley baseball communities over Wright's dismissal. It's like every controversy that follows a coaching change at any high school.

Wright's supporters are upset over the way he was just sent packing despite his being a good friend and with a storied baseball background.

Others who follow Justin baseball are jumping for joy over Wright's departure and the return of the highly-successful and respected Rossi. All they know of Wright is what they know of him as a baseball coach.

The bickering goes on because no one wants to address what led to the coaching change. Folks fear that pointing out a coach's shortcomings are personal attacks on the coach as a human being. So, they argue about that which they don't understand.

The quality of community journalism has digressed to the point that coverage of Wright's termination shed no light on the details. It seemed as though the school had nothing but the highest regard for the former coach's work. The coach, himself, said simply that their were differences of opinion.

Coaches are fired over small differences of opinion.

If readers care enough to comment on newspaper stories in support of the old coach or the new coach, it's incumbent upon the media to try to find out why Wright might've been terminated.

Shedding some light on why the coaching change was made will be the only way to quiet Wright's critics and those who will now set about trying to undermine Rossi.

My son was a freshman left-handed pitcher at Justin-Siena in the spring. He started and ended the season on Wright's varsity team, enjoying the middle of the year playing for a coach he really liked named Mark McLeod.

I've spoken to Wright two or three times in the last three years. Once my kids reach high school, I expect their coaches to be diligent and communicative. So, I didn't talk to Wright this spring. I talked to my son about how to wade through the ups and downs of his first high school baseball season.

The folks who are bickering on the Napa Valley Register web site about Wright being treated unfairly or about the need to move forward with no further talk of what Wright did to lose his job can keep bickering -- or they can read on for a better understanding of the painful process of firing a high school coach.

My son called home in the middle of one of his varsity baseball practices. He said he didn't want to waste another practice watching his varsity teammates playing Wiffle ball instead of doing indoor baseball drills at a rainy-day practice.

Yes, Justin-Siena's baseball practice turned ito a backyard Wiffle ball game on rainy days. If someone would like to defend a varsity baseball coach who allows Wiffle ball games to account for a practice session, more power to them.

My kid wouldn't have been outside playing Wiffle ball at home, he'd have been doing homework to keep pace at the highly academic private school. So, I drove to Justin-Siena to pick him up. He wound up staying at practice to run relay races at the end of practice with his teammates.(Relay races aren't conditioning drills.)

High school baseball players playing Wiffle ball during varsity baseball practice doesn't make the coach a bad guy. Parents like me just expect more from a baseball coach, that's all.

Pitchers need to having a throwing schedule to include their game appearances and work between game appearances. Watch a practice at school with a quality program and you'll see kids throwing in the bullpen under the watchful eye of a pitching coach at practice. Even if it's wet outside, an indoor pitchers' mound allows for young pitchers to get their work in.

Justin-Siena pitchers didn't have a throwing program.

When my son's pitching, and his coach is calling his pitches, I would expect the coach to know that he's a fastball-curveball pitcher with a still-developing change-up. I'd expect the coach to know he's a freshman who throws a lot of pitches and goes deep in the count even when he's at his best. Last spring, my son was playing for a coach who clearly didn't take time to understand his pitchers.

It's impossible to find a college or professional hitting instructor who thinks pitching machines help hitters prepare for game situations. So, Justin-Siena's coach and his staff missed the mark by having the kids hit off machines almost exclusively. Live batting practice came on the field, with players standing around waiting their turn to hit.

The game has changed. First-rate coaches run practices built around fast-paced drills that balance work on hitting and the nuances of defense. Justin-Siena's coaching staff didn't run practices that quality coaching staffs run throughout Northern California.

Hey, it's not easy to run a first-rate, 2011-style high school baseball practice. Parents with sons who are serious about the game expect first-rate, new era workouts.

There are reasons to question how the 2010-2011 Justin baseball team was coached. None of those reasons have a thing to do with Scott Wright's character or his standing the community.

At mid-season, my son pitched a complete game and threw just over 100 pitches in a complete game JV win on a Wednesday. He was called to join the varsity and be prepared to pitch the following Saturday -- on two days rest.

Two days after pitching a complete game at Justin, my kid warmed up and threw maybe 40 pitches, after warming up in the bullpen, in Walnut Creek.

If all that I knew about the former coach and staff was that they allowed my son to throw 140 pitches in three days, it'd be reason for me to call for and approve a coaching change.

I should have complained to the Justin-Siena coaches in the spring. My son was overworked ailing. I opted not to go through the baseball staff protocol of meeting with the head coach in the presence of an assistant coach. My bad.

In the final week of the season, with my kid's arm still sore from the two outings in three days, he got the call back to the varsity. He warmed up to pitch three times in four days. He pitched twice in three days until, finally, he felt like he couldn't be at all effective and told the coaches he couldn't work in a game that determined the league's final playoff entry.

See? It's not about whether a coach was a great player in his youth. It's not about whether he a nice guy, a good friend. Coaching moves are made based on how a man tasked with nurturing young athletes handles those athletes.

My son, obviously, didn't respond well to the care he and his pitching arm were given this spring. He's sidelined with an arm injury after he could only manage 1 2/3 innings in the first game of a national summer tournament in Arizona.

Put yourself in this dad's shoes. Would you be worried that the former coach was unfairly dismissed?

Justin-Siena's decision to change baseball coaches doesn't reflect on Scott Wright's standing in the school or community. He's still a great and valued friend to many. Some Justin baseball parents could only judge him based on how he handled our players.

The Justin-Siena administration made a personnel decision that is believed to have best served the athletes and their families. The bickering should end or more people will be moved to tell more stories and, really, that would get ugly.

Let the controversy end. It would be best for all.

(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)

Fairfield natives Keown, Sciacca earn Napa baseball honors

2011-07-11T16:52:00.000-07:00

http://napavalleyregister.com/sports/high-school/all-county-baseball-first-team/article_5a8168ec-a3b2-11e0-a404-001cc4c002e0.html

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Fairfield baseball stars Alex Keown and Tony Sciacca have been placed on the All-Napa County baseball team by the Napa Valley Register. (The full set of first team selections can be found at the link above. Ideally, I'll figure out how to embed links directly soon.)

Keown was, without question, the best player on the Justin-Siena High team that struggled in Marin County Athletic League play. He was honored by the Napa newspaper as sort of a utility player, but had a banner season as Justin's No. 1 pitcher. The junior threw four pitches for strikes only to have his won-loss record marred by a shakey Justin-Siena defense and lackluster offense.

Keown was the team's lead-off hitter. The newspaper all-star selections, which are based on coaches' individual all-league nominations, don't reflect that Keown is one of the finest receivers and throwers to go behind the plate this spring. His quick release and powerful, accurate throwing arm helped the Braves stay in the MCAL playoff race.

Keown also saw extended action in the middle infield during a chaotic season at Justin where his leadership helped maintain a semblance of order in a campaign that ended with the dismissal of head coach Scott Wright.

While Keown played in the Tri-Valley Little League in Fairfield, Sciacca played for Fairfield Pacific. The sophomore pitcher-infielder had an outstanding season in Napa for tiny Trinity Prep. He also starred for coach Bob Greene's varsity as a freshman.

Fairfield connections go deeper at Trinity Prep. Greene graduated from Armijo High, is a lifetime Fairfield resident and coached JV baseball at Armijo High before former varsity head coach Marcus Franco was inexplicably sent packing after one glorious season at the helm at Armijo.

Keown played in the Bay World Series invitational tournament as a pitcher and catcher. He spent the summer playing for the Napa American Legion team that finished second in District I in tournament play at Laurel Creek in Fairfield.

Sciacca plays summer baseball for the best-kept secret among the many summer programs. He is in his second season for Solano Community College baseball coach Scott Stover's Solano Junior Falcons squad that features players, like Vanden star Elway Santisteven, from throughout the region. Stover's club includes players from Fairfield schools, Trinity Prep, Justin-Siena and other schools.

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Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com

Sillanpaa on Sports707: Sillanpaa on Sports707: Scholtens in the Daily Republic

2011-07-11T16:32:00.000-07:00

href="http://www.dailyrepublic.com/sports/highschool/rodriguez-hurler-scholtens-named-to-all-state-teams/

Fairfield Daily Republic link to sports editor Paul Farmer's story about all-state pitcher Jesse Scholtens of Rodriguez High School.

Scholtens, Rodriguez baseball stars shine in summer

2011-07-11T14:05:00.001-07:00

All-state high school baseball pitcher Jesse Scholtens continued his stellar career this summer, after sparkling for Rodriguez High School. He just did it under the media radar because he joined a growing number of Solano County players to play summer ball outside of Solano County.

Scholtens, shortstop Devon Golden and other keys to the Mustangs' Sonoma County Athletic Conference champion spent the summer playing for the Sacramento Whiplash.

Since he didn't play for a Fairfield-based American Legion team, media coverage of Scholtens only extends to his Fairfield-based high school play. The 6-foot-4 right-hander, however, is the elite level baseball player who typical spends his summer in showcase events and playing throughout the state, region and the country.

Scholtens shined at the Rawlings National Invitational World Series in Stockton in June. The senior righty drew rave reviews from one Bay Area coach who said, "He is legit. He throws hard. He throws strikes. He throws multiple pitches for strikes -- and he's aggressive. He works quickly and that's really appealing."

Scholtens also played in the Bay Area World Series for prep stars sponsored by Northern California scout and coach Blaine Clemmens. Scholtens was joined in that showcase event by Fairfield's Alex Keown, who played in the Tri-Valley Little League before going on to star at Justin-Siena in Napa. Keown is a senior catcher and pitcher.

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Hey! If you found this online, leave a note. Please! The more interest attracted by this effort to differently spotlight Solano and Napa county's athletes will result in more in-depth, hopefully interesting looks at area players of all ages. Contact me at: tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.

Oncourt Culture Clash

2010-01-06T12:58:00.000-08:00

Napa High School's girls basketball team is a supremely gifted group. Every player on the roster is white in a town where people of color still stand out.

Vanden High School is located on the outskirts of Fairfield, just off I-80 about 45 miles from Oakland. The girls basketball team is one of the best in Northern California. Every player on the Vikings' roster is black and lives in a place where, odd as it sounds, minority groups have become the majority.

Those of us who still choose to believe basketball, and sports, success has to do with something more than race and economic status figured Napa's girls were in good position to win the game. Heck, it was the group from Napa that hooked up the booming hip-hip and rap mix to blast through the gymnasium speaker system during pre-game warm-ups. If basketball was about funk and soul and whatever else apparently lies at the roots of rap and hip-hop -- Napa's kids chose the music to back up their game.

The only thing separating the two highly-rated teams was that one had all blacks and the other had all whites. Race and the neighborhood a kid lives in didn't seem to make any difference. Both teams had great records and star players. Play on.

When warm-ups ended, Napa's girls skipped back to their bench. Vanden's girls huddled in the middle of the court and chanted loudly as they swayed back and forth. That, as it turns out, was the all-black Vikings serving notice that sports success is actually a lot about race and background because race and background influences confidence, desire and skill.

The crowd, made up largely of Napa fans, went immediately silent as the Vanden chant began. The Vikings were greeted with smirks and raised eyebrows when they walked over to their bench. They, as it turned out, had no idea because it turns out that Vanden's girls make every gymnasium their gymnasium. Attitude and focus do play a role in basketball, so ... OK ... the team from the inner-city had an edge. Those smirks and raised eyebrows were actually nervous reactions from Napa fans who aren't used to, um, seeing...you know...er...a team with...with all...uh...girls in green uniforms who stomp the gym like they own it.

Now, there are people who saw the Napa-Vanden game who'll insist that the Vikings' near-30 point victory had nothing to do with race, heritage and social status. There are those, though, who could see that it had everything to do with the victory.

The players and teams do have largely equal skill sets and were equally prepared as units. Why, then, did Vanden's fullcourt pressing defense result in every Napa player giving the ball up almost immediately in the face of pressure?

When the game really started to turn Vanden's way, each player in Napa's lineup slowly backed down. (After the game, even the Napa coach said, "Our team just folded.") By the end, only one Napa player was still challenging Vanden. This player, who isn't normally in position to handle the ball, became the lone ballhandler. When her peers stepped back, she stepped up. (She's one of the finest female athletes in the state and, thus, has had to get past preconceived notions of what should happen when gifted black, inner-city athletes compete against more privileged suburan white kids.)

At one point, one of Napa's key players was knocked to the ground. She sat there long enough for the aforementioned Napa standout to shout, "Get up! C'mon!" The look on her face seemed to show that she hadn't considered whether winning a basketball game was worth getting knocked down over.

Just seconds later, one of Napa's primary scorers and rebounders jumped for the ball -- exactly when Vanden's 6-foot-1 center jumped for it. The Napa girl went flailing out of bounds as the Vanden player grabbed the ball and dropped it through the hoop. Again, the look on the Napa player's face showed that she and her teammates aren't accustomed to making every fight for a loose ball a fight for life in microcosm.

Most all agree that blacks are quicker and jump higher than whites. So, we hesitate to rate quickness and leaping ability on what seems to be skin color alone. But, Napa's got a pretty productive fullcourt press and big rebounders. Vanden responded to them with quick passes and bursts to the basket. Take away the one Napa all-state type athlete and there wasn't a single player in a white uniform as quick or as quick to get off the ground as any girl in a green uniform.

Napa's girls seemed intimidated by their all-black opponent. That was the difference in the game. Napa's girls wanted to win and were prepared to win. Vanden's girls played like they had to win, as though victory was the only acceptable result.

It was a clash of cultures. There are probably culture clashes in gyms all across the country on any given night.

In Napa, and other more privileged spots in America, kids grow up being taught that a "good try" is the goal. They are surrounded by adults who try to coach out of them a desire to play as though victory is the only acceptable result. The youth sports culture in white, suburban America has taken too far the notion that it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.

Go out there thinking about giving a good try and believing that winning and losing doesn't matter will get a girls high school basketball team run out of the gym.

Vanden's girls basketball team pushes and bumps and scores and scores and...they understand that opponents will push back. They live in a world where lots of pushing and pulling goes on every single day -- sometimes just to survive. So, go ahead, play hard...push them...knock them around. They can handle it. Heck, they expect it.

It's 2010, but an all-white team still doesn't necessarily want to throw down when they can back down against a confident, aggressive all-black team.

It's culture thing.

Kids who grow up in the inner city under harsh economic conditions will get run over and forgotten if they get knocked down, so they rarely back down. Youngsters who come from more affluent areas maybe feel like they have a fall back position if they get knocked down, so they'd just as soon back down.

Yeah, it's a culture thing.

Got The Boy a Big League Foul Ball

2009-08-08T19:27:00.000-07:00

Little strikes me as more absurd than a grown man taking his baseball glove to a Major League Baseball game in hopes of catching a foul ball hit into the stands.

Nothing strike me as more ridiculous than a group of men wrestling for a foul ball hit into the seats at a big league game.

I've really thought it through. And, I realize, most men reading this are thinking, "Hey, asshole...I take my mitt to the game all the time! I'd kill to get a foul ball at a Giants game when I'm in San Francisco!" It's fine with me if grown men are interested in trying to catch a foul ball, but I think the notion's absurd. I don't care if 12 dudes from four different sections dive over rows of seats to fight over a ball -- as long as they don't dive on me or anyone else who might be injured in their childish rush to get a game-used big league ball.

The ball only costs $7, maybe $10. I can buy a brand new one and not have to look foolish to get it. What makes the game-used ball special? Well, umpires rub them down with a special mud concoction that makes them easier to grip. And, of course, they've been touched by the pitcher and the bat that the batter used to hit the foul ball. So, I can't see myself coming out of a scrum in section 106, row 4 feeling good because I got a ball that Bobby Howry touched right before Johnny Gomes hit it my way...

Wait, that's not true. In most cases I wouldn't go out of my way to get a ball that a journeyman pitcher like Howry touched before a former Petaluma High School star like Gomes blooped it into the seats. Today, at AT&T Park in San Francisco, I went a bit out of my and grabbed a ball that those two big leaguers had been warring with.

Is it techinically going out of my way to turn halfway around, see the ball bounce on the ground behind me and then grab at it? I didn't leave my seat. I didn't turn the full 180 degrees needed to really make a full effort for the ball. My lone thought was, "It's right there and Kellen always wants a foul ball..."

I grabbed a big league foul ball -- my first one ever -- and handed it to my 13-year-old son.

Hooray for me! Huh?

We got free tickets from my son Trent's co-worker. I really only go to big league games when somebody gives me tickets. I love the game and love those Giants, but I won't pay $78 for two tickets to get close enough to enjoy the game. Sitting the press box off and on for years spoiled me. I root for the Giants, but I don't cheer out loud. So, if I'm in cheaper seat far from the field, it's really no fun for me.

Let me stop, briefly, to thank my older sons who have friends who have access to amazingly good seats that sometimes come my way free of charge. Kellen and Tyren have sat in the dugout seats -- the seats at ground level that you can see on TV every time they show the batter from the center field camera. All four kids went and took turns sharing those premium freebies and two seats in the lower box seats right behind home plate. Trent's co-worker gave him two tickets today that put Kellen and I just past the Reds' dugout, four rows from the field.

My primary concern about foul balls is getting out of the way of those line drives that get laced into the seats. Trent's mom Amy got hit with a ball fouled straight back at Candlestick Park once. It thumped her thigh and shoulder before she could flinch -- and before I could fight my natural reaction to duck. A guy in front of her grabbed it and celebrated. She got a bruise. Those high, high, sky-high pops are of no interest either. At best, it's going to sting like hell if you catch one.

I won't fight for a foul ball.

Today, around the sixth inning, Howry threw a pitch that Gomes popped in our direction. I've spent a lifetime figuring out if a foul ball's coming at me or whether I'm safe. As the ball started curl back toward the field, as all pop fouls do, Kellen said, "Heads up," and leaned away and said, "Hey! Heads up!" That was him telling to me try to get the ball without saying, "C'mon dad! Don't be a candyass! Stand up and catch it!"

I didn't move. The ball came down on a woman in the row behind me. She was flanked by two grown men who sat there, apparently, and let her duck forward and take the foul ball in the square of the back. I didn't see it because I didn't turn around. Kellen's second, "Hey, heads up," did spur me half-turn and...the ball was coming to a rest right behind my seat.

It took no effort...none...to reach back with my left hand and grab the ball. It was so simple that I grabbed with my thumb and two fingers...not with a full, five-finger, I-gotta-have-this-ball death grip. Before I could move the ball, some horse's ass from 10, 12 rows behind me came sprinting down the stairs and leaped at the ball.

A full grown man who, I figure, was about 6-foot, 210 pounds was so damned determined to get that foul ball that he dove onto the cement and got both hands on the ball...on top of my hand. My first thought was, "Screw it, asshole! Take the ball!" I imagined a brief tussle that would be shown in replays on television. Yeek!

Then, I realized I actually only had the ball in a thumb and index finger grip. It was then that I heard Kellen say, "Get it!" And, it was then that I had one of my rare bursts of intentional machismo. I was going to fight over the ball...as much as I could with my weaker arm and a tiny, little grip.

Until I heard Kellen say, "Get it," I didn't believe the stories of super-human strength that some folks show when they're helping their family. I didn't exactly have to lift a Volkswagon off of Kellen, but I did need to pull the baseball away from a guy who had a better grip and a whole lot more gotta-have-it than I did. The dumb shit just kept pulling at the ball that I had pinned to the cement.

I was at the point where I was going to look at the guy, tell him he could buy one for $10 and then say, "Take it...maybe Bobby Howry can autograph it for you." But...I got my middle finger (which I wanted later to use in a much different way in regard to my foe) on the ball. I realized, "Hey, this jackass is giving it everything he's got and I'm pulling the ball from him!" I never win battles of strength and even less frequently win battles of will. One tug, with a twist that came to mind late, and I had the ball.

I handed it to Kellen and started watching the game. He was excited. It must be cool to see your old man do something so macho and dad-like. He almost never gets the chance. Then, the two season-ticket holders who treated our section like their living room looked at Kellen and said, "Give her the ball. It hit that lady behind you."

He looked at me. I looked at him. Clearly, the season-ticket holders know baseball etiquette requires every foul ball be given to the little kid. And, clearly, they looked at my 6-foot, 145-pound 13-year-old with slight sideburns and in need of a little shave and thought a 17-year-old was stiffing the old lady who took the blow.

"I'd keep it. You're only a kid," I said. "It's up to you."

Left to his own sense of fair play and common courtesy, he turned and offered the ball to the woman. She politely declined and ... happy ending all around. The season ticket holders, and all who saw his gesture, lauded him for doing the right thing. (After his father essentially said, "Screw 'em! Keep it!")

So, that's how I got the foul ball I figured I'd never get at a big league ball park.
I'm pleased with my effort because Kellen's got dreams, you know? So, he held that damned ball and stared at it off and on until the final out. He called everybody in the immediately family to tell them about the event. He showed it to me and said, "Feel how flat the seams are...it seems so tightly wound...must be hard to make it curve..." Then, he finally got ahold of his little sister to tell her the tale.

"I got a foul ball at the Giants game," he said.

"YOU got the foul ball?"

I nearly missed the I-80 exit onto the Bay Bridge.

"YOU got the ball? Tell her how you got it!!!"

I felt a rush of testosterone.

Self-Loathing On the Jogging Trail

2009-08-06T23:34:00.000-07:00

When I was a runner, in my 20s and 30s, I mocked the overweight dude out slogging along at a snail's pace. Dude'd be sweating through his gray t-shirt and the white sweat band he wore around his bid, old head. More often than not, he was carrying a cassette tape player or a walkman CD machine because, God knew, there was no way he'd make it a mile or two without music to drastic him from the discomfort.

At that point, I was running five miles in a hair over 30 minutes. Living in my hometown of Eureka, I'd go out of my way most days to find more, steeper hills to run. On days when nothing felt right, and there were many, running hard and fast and for five or six miles saved me. I felt alive. I felt good about myself, which was and is rare, every step of the way.

Now? I'm that overweight dude shuffling along with an iPod playing tunes to keep my mind off how it difficult every step has become. Worse...I'm an old, overweight dude. Way worse...I'm suffering shin splints -- or some other malady that stems from asking my legs to carry more weight, too far and too fast. And...shit...I'm barely even jogging two miles.

There's a truly serious runner working in my office. He's about my age, but he's never allowed himself to balloon to 30 pounds over his ... er, 40 pounds over his prime running weight. (Actually, I've gained 90 pounds since I first ran six hard miles a day at the height of my battle with panic attacks in my early 20s.) The guy runs half-marathons and he trains with a team that has a coach and, heck, I remember when my pals and I laughed because the only real athletes on our high school cross country team were David Wells, Mike Whitehead and Rick Hrdina. Beyond those three studs, it was a bunch of guys who could run and couldn't play ball.

"What's wrong with being that guy?"

Figures that the runner I work with would have sympathy for the devil I think is the overweight, old, lard ass I've become.

"You're out there...you're doing it..."

That's exactly what I used to hear people say about the fattest, slowest, dopiest looking runners in my running heyday. "Oh, be nice...at least he's out there running!" (I'd point out that it's not running if you're barely moving.)

What's wrong with being that guy?

I'm an athlete. I play ball. The guy who bats cleanup and leads the team in home runs doesn't wear a white headband. The guy who goes in the game to defend the leading scorer on the other basketball team wouldn't have a pot belly. I'm the guy who goes out to play flag football, once every couple years, and absolutely tears it up at quarterback...so, everything's wrong with me being that guy because...I'm not that guy...I'm those guys I just described.

Damn!

I jogged again tonight, doing just about everything the runner told me to avoid as I get back in shape. I didn't start with a speed walk. I jogged 1.5 miles and stopped only to walk one little upward slope just before my shin splits began to ache. Then, I shuffled all the way home...2.3 miles...listening to my iPod and wishing that "Lunatic Fringe" could inspire me to acknowledge who I've actually become and, thus, move me to be who I've always felt I was.

See, now...I'm a walking, talking A-1 heart attack waiting to happen. It's not a matter of if I'm going to have one -- everybody in my family had one or more. It's simply a matter of when I'm going to have a heart attack. I've known it for years and, thus, ran all those miles simply to add a few minutes or a few days or a few weeks to my life. I was running five, six miles and...I thought...running away from the heart problem I knew was right behind me.

My risk factors for a heart attack probably couldn't be higher. I'm genetically predisposed. And, thanks to getting away from fitness, my blood pressure has risen to Stage One hypertension. (No...it doesn't stop me from jogging when others would walk.) I'm overweight and my cholesterol levels are high. Actually, my overall cholesterol level is OK...my bad cholesterol level is high.

Dammit, I'm not that guy. I'm not that guy who goes for a walk and hopes that, maybe, in a couple months he can jog a little. I'm not that guy who's afraid to run because it elevates his heart rate. I'm smart enough to know that I'm not running so hard that I can't control my breathing. Remember the famous running doctor? Dr. Jim Fixx? He was an early proponent of distance running for health, then died at the start of a short run of a heart attack. It turned out he ignored pains in places that indicate a heart problem. To date, I've had no such pain ... and I'm not that guy who walks and checks his pulse all the while because he's fuckin' afraid of dropping on the jogging path.

I got in shape once, when I really was an athlete, outrunning depression and panic attacks. Maybe I can do it again, even though I'm not an athlete at all, because I'm not going to give up and just sit around eating cookies until the heart attack hits. Only a candy-ass in a gray sweatshirt, with a walkman, black tennis shoes and a really, really, really red face who takes walks for fitness would do that.

I'm not that guy.

Baseball, And What Not....

2009-04-27T12:26:00.000-07:00

The Fairfield Expos youth baseball organization poured money and hard work into turning the town's Laurel Creek Park into their home field.

The organization constructed batting cages -- one down each foul line and restored the dugouts. There were two tiny bleachers, now there is a high-rise seating area behind home plate. The seats have backs, just like the seats at a big league ball park.

Most interestingly, the organization installed all-purpose turf in the infield. The number of first-rate youth baseball facilities in the area with grass or dirt infields is dwindling to the point it's apparent that the cost of all-purpose turf is offset by the ease of maintenance and its availability even after some wet weather.

I stopped in to see the ball park and caught an inning of men's league baseball. The Solano Mud Cats were playing a team from the Bay Area. The Mud Cats featured a couple of former minor leaguers, one was a catcher who bounced around pro ball for years because he remains a sterling defender. It occurred to me that my hometown Humboldt Crabs always open their summer collegiate season against the Fairfield Indians. The Indians just added a young player who was selected in the first five rounds of the Major League Baseball draft, then struggled in the low minors for years. But, the Indians are just an average men's league baseball team, not even as good as Solano County's other men's league team -- the Mud Cats.

It would serve the Crabs college talent and their fans if the Mud Cats and Indians threw together the best 18 players (and a boat load of pitchers) to go play the Crabs in June. It would be great baseball and, potentially, the visiting team might even win a game.

The Sunday afternoon game I watched drew a pretty good crowd for a men's league game in Fairfield. There were probably, oh, 30 or 35 fans.

My son and I noted players who were standouts in Solano County, including the kid who's actually returning to play in an independent minor league team today.

I noted that one former college star looked like he'd put on 40 pounds. My daughter asked, "How can you tell if they're out of shape?"

"If they're built close to the way I'm built," I said, "they're out of shape. Baseball players don't usually have love handles or pot bellies."

"We Heard You Died"

2009-04-16T14:09:00.000-07:00

So, I'm driving back from the store with my youngest son and get a telephone call from work.

"Ted? This is Andy. Hi!"

Yeah. Hi. OK. What? I'm sick. I called in sick. Flu or something that, alas, doesn't take away the need to do fatherly duties. (Dads can't call in sick.)

"Yeah...Marty just got a call ... um...from the Times-Standard up in Eureka...and..."

What? Gee whiz? I know the guys I work with are incredibly thoughtful, but I don't think I need to hear about every communication between them and my old newspaper.

"...and, um, the sports editor said you were in a car accident..."

Say what? No.

"I what? No. I'm driving home right now. That's weird."

Weird didn't accurately describe how it felt to hear a rumor that I'd been in a car wreck, perhaps 350 miles away in my old hometown.

"...actually...um..."

Andy pauses when he's saying something he's uncomfortable saying. Nice guys are like that. They know they're going to say something potentially upsetting so ... they ... hesitate. (Thus, I tend to blurt things out and think later.)

"...actually, they said you'd passed away."

The Times-Standard guy called the Napa Valley Register guy to ask if I'd died.

Oh. OK. Whew! I thought it was something important.

"He called to see if I'D DIED!?!?!?! That's insane. I'm alive, unless something happened I don't know about. My son's in the back seat of the car and he's in trouble if I'm dead..."

I laughed it off because my parents' deaths skewed my view of death. I'm a little afraid of dying, like lots of people. I know it makes people left behind really sad, so ... sure ... I'd say the thought of death is unpleasant. I have, however, come to grips with the fact I'm going to die and that the world will go on...my family and friends will get over my death and, hopefully, prosper.

Hearing word of my own demise didn't send a chill down my spine or anything.

I am on the case now, though, trying to figure out how the story unfolded. I know there are folks in my home area who likely relish the notion of my passing. But, the story apparently started in Fairfield...and, really...nobody cares enough about me one way or the other there to start a rumor. Word is that it could be a joke...

Now, I'll acknowedge, hearing I'd died did not make me laugh.

The White Shadow: 2009

2009-02-21T22:12:00.001-08:00

It was like an episode from that CBS drama "The White Shadow." Remember? The caucasian guy coaches the all-black high school basketball team?

The difference here was that my 13-year-old son was the only caucasian on an all-black AAU basketball team coached by four black men. They played in a tournament up in northern Sacramento and southern Placer County -- in the Rocklin, Roseville area.

Things were cool playing at Foothill High just off I-80, not far from the ghetto that stands where McClellan Air Force Base once stood proudly. It's a mixed-race area and the only racial delineation came on the court where 10 white kids from Rocklin ran and passed circles around my kid's team.

The little kids on my son's team are told to do one thing and one thing only when they get the ball, "Push it! PUUUUUUSH it! Run! Faster!" Great concept, but lack of body control and plan really makes the balls-out fastbreak problematic. Then, on defense, they press -- for 32 minutes. They're a quick, scrappy bunch but, again, lack of body control and an incredibly well coached team from Rocklin routinely beat the press without the ball ever touching the court...pass...pass...pass...layup! Impressive.

My son looked like Shaquille O'Neal out there. He's 5-foot-1, 155 pounds and he's gone through puberty...he's going through the tail end right now. When he was in the game, it just didn't look right. Everything changed. He seemed too strong and seemed like he got too much higher than the other kids. Not in a good way, either, it got me to thinking because...my son should never, not for one second, dominate a basketball game involving kids his age.

Ah, then I remembered...the guy who recruited him hemmed and hawed about ages and birthdates and said, "Oh, every team has one or two bigger, older kids." My son's a seventh grader. The Rocklin team plays in the sixth-grade division.

"He's illegal," the coach said, thus explaining why my son looked like he was so much bigger, stronger and older.

It didn't matter if he was a year too old, the team's not very good. So, they headed for Rocklin -- an affluent, almost solely white enclave just off I-80. It's a sea of cookie-cutter homes, in sparkling new subdivisions. Rocklin High School is beautiful and clean and ... it's not like Fairfield or any school in Fairfield.

The Warriors played another well-coached bunch of white kids. I got to see why, sadly, normally clear-thinking white folks are put off by equally well-intentioned black folks. There's a societal difference -- we're all just people, but...we're different in how we communicate and how we, oh, cheer at a kids basketball game.

The black folks, and their kids, cheered and played like teams from inner-city black neighborhoods. The coaches yelled a lot, and really loud, and the kids couldn't understand them. They knew, "Push it!" and "Pressure!" That was it.

What comes off as everyday speak between the coaches and kids sounds really harsh to the people who live in Rocklin or Lincoln or Auburn, you know?

Hey, we all speak some form of broken English. Bloggers have made broken English into a writing style. But, when the Rocklin fans heard the coach shout, "C'mon, use your head! Come over and sit on the bench. You're not giving full effort," it came out sounding like:

"What'chew doin' out there! Git yo'self on the bench where you belong! You ain't even tryin'!"

And, it echoed in the gym.

Parents in the stands shouted advice to my son. "Get your arms up. You're so big ... can't nobody get the ball from you!" (But, can't always get that ball and hold on to it when you haven't played much basketball either.) I got the distinct impression that my Fairfield-based peers feel that every kid on their team should know how to play basketball and should play it well. And, they seemed to give the white kids (yeesh, I know this sounds racist) no credit for moving the ball around, being dead-eye shooters and playing a disciplined brand of basketball that some high school teams couldn't manage. (When you pay $1,000 to get your kid good coaching...you get really good coaching.)

The poor little point guard from Fairfield felt he'd been fouled...a lot. When his dad finished hollering at him and the lady behind me finished shouting that her son, "Needs his minutes" -- the kid stormed off the floor and blurted, "This is bullshit!"

The fans from Placer County let out an audible gasp. It didn't phase me or my son. We curse, er, I curse around him and he's heard and said every curse word imaginable. Yet...he's an honor student, so...go figure.

I just knew those affluent, white adults were thinking, "Typical! That's why I moved out of the city! Those people are ..." Then they added what they think minorities in general, and blacks specifically, are doing to society.

They're making it ... more colorful. They're no different and it pissed me off thinking the people looked down on them.

Then, after a huge loss, the coaches did a deal that you would see in a Will Ferrell movie, or maybe something where Jonah Hill plays a team manager. The kids were all sitting on the curb, tired and defeated...and a father who likes amazingly like the comic Cedric the Entertainer started talking...and, I've heard him talk...he's a really bright, articulate man. He explained the basketball team's offense to me and I couldn't have understood every word more clearly. Somehow, though, in front of all those kids in public...he started shouting things like, "Lemme' axe you sumthin'..." and, "Ya gotstuh' represent Fairfield" and...other stuff white kids in Placer County say to emulate the black kids in Fairfield who, once they hit high school dominate the teams from Placer County.

My son might never been in a team meeting where's urged to "represent," but those Placer parents will hear another coach talk to another group of players and completely misunderstand everything they hear.

I think basketball in the inner city is a bit of a lifestyle choice, maybe an avenue out of bad times. If my son's see an NBA game...they see hope and they see heroes...they only see guys who look like them. You know? We have a black president, but it's going to take time for sixth-grade kids to start aspiring to become Barack Obama. They will, some do now, but it'll take time. For now, they all want to be Kobe and LeBron -- and their parents are digging the idea.

So, basketball's just another game...another activity to the folks in Placer County. It's a lifestyle...it's THE game...to the folks who run with the Warriors.

It's too bad we judge each other without knowing each other.

It's also too bad I sort of expect my son to follow the rules and that, thus, his time with the Warriors was brief. There's no misjudging breaking the rules in youth sports.

Former Star Feels H-DNL Coaches Could Do More

2009-02-16T22:20:00.001-08:00

This note from former Eureka High football star Cardedrick Foreman (Class of 1998), says the things that I've long believed about the challenges even the most gifted athletes face on the North Coast.

Cardedrick lives in Utah, with his family, now. He spent four years playing Weber State — and I actually heard some knothead who follows H-DNL football try to say that Weber State doesn't play big-time football. Those, I think, are the type people Foreman addresses:

"Thanks so much for the consideration...People don't know I didn't play my sophomore year (at Eureka High) because my grades weren't good and my parents said 'no-go' to teach me a lesson! Now I have a 4-year degree and had a great career. I'm a proud father and husband. I often wonder how much better I could have been if the coaches didn't hold me back and just let me play and supported the fact that I wanted to go to a bigger college program. There is plenty of talent in Nor-Cal just little support...talk about a guy who put up numbers and got zero credit/support Reggie Menniweathers would be a great story!"

Foreman played wide receiver as a freshman on the Eureka High JV team where, at that time, the JV club passed for far more yardage than the varsity. The majority of the pass yards came on passes to Foreman. Then, he sat out his sophomore years when his peers who'd starred on the JV team were called up to play varsity football. He was, honestly, by far the best of those sophomores. How many parents would keep their sophomore off the team, over grades, if they were keeping them off the varsity team?

In his junior year, with Eureka play 22 different starters on offense and defense, Foreman was a full-time defensive back. He was the quickest, most elusive player on the team -- but, Eureka used 22 different starters, so Foreman didn't play a down on offense. That would, for modern-day fans, be the equivalent of Mo Purify only playing defensive back in his junior year. Foreman was the team's best receiver, too, but he only played defense.

Well, when injuries hit the running backs before the North Coast Section semifinal game between Eureka and Amador Valley, Foreman finally got the call and got some reps at flyback in the playoff game. Before his senior year, Eureka's starting quarterback (my oldest son) transferred to St. Bernard -- and Foreman spent his final year at EHS playing quarterback. And, he ran the complicated fly offense well -- as the best running quarterback the Loggers had ever had.

Foreman could've played both ways -- and starred. He had the speed and strength to have wowed college scouts -- especially once he got to the college camps and combines. But, it didn't happen that way. He played wherever he was told. It seems like the result should've been coaches helping showcase him on both sides of the ball -- and then at camps and combines. If Foreman had his 1,000 yards rushing -- or his 50 catches -- and his inate ability to play DB ... he'd have been a big-time recruit. If he'd gotten to camps and combines, there's no telling how far he could've gone.

He got to Weber State, which is clearly commendable, on his own. And, he's making a nice life for himself on his own.

Reggie Menniweathers was a great running back, with great speed and power. He ran for over 1,000 yards a year for three years on raw talent. He played fullback, halfback, flyback...but never a down on defense. He was built to run over and tackle kids in high school. Playing defense would've helped give him that extra edge if a college came calling. He wasn't nearly as gifted as Foreman, but he was a raw talent who could've used his ability as a running back to play in college. And, if he could've been coached into a serviceable defender -- and, really, it wouldn't have taken much -- he'd have been one of those guys everybody talked about for years.

I believe after rushing for over 3,000 yards, Reggie spent a year at College of the Siskiyous. Then, that was it.

There's no doubt that there are great athletes up there now, but ... there couldn't be athletes better than Foreman. There wasn't a running back in the H-DNL the last 3, 4, 5 years as good as Menniweathers. I saw the best back this year and, honest, Menniweathers was at other-worldly by comparison. Give him the ball, teach him to tackle...get him that college attention...and he'd have played four years and, maybe, everything would've been different for him and his family.

We'll never know, though.

H-DNL to College ... more

2009-02-16T22:10:00.000-08:00

Some more college athletes from the H-DNL, courtesy of readers...; Jim Berning, Montana basketball
**Ted's Note: Eureka's Berning was a 6-foot-3, maybe 6-foot-4, sky-jumper from 1973-1975 -- by H-DNL standards. He blocked more shots than any H-DNL player I can remember...and he played all three years in high school...and he was an outstanding student. The world's filled with great players who "coulda' been somebody" if they'd managed that 2.0 gpa and stayed off the police blotters. Berning was just a truly great student-athlete.: Mike and Ron Spini, University of Washington baseball; Stacey Morgan U Washington baseball; Rick Lundblade, Stanford baseball.; Rob Harrison, Sac State football; **Harrison initially accepted a full scholarship to play at San Diego State University out of Eureka High School.; Kenny Maire - Cal baseball
**Ted Note: Maire was the best pitcher of his era in the H-DNL.

H-DNL athletes to DI schools: 2008

2009-02-15T14:00:00.001-08:00

D-I Athletes Since mid-1980s...Updated 5/8/08

fw1997 asked about Humboldt-Del Norte League athletes other than Mo Purify and Ray Maualuga who've gone onto NCAA Division I athletics in the last 20 years...here's a list that I don't claim is complete...it's close, though:

Here's the list...

Maualuga, Eureka/USC, football
Purify, Eureka/Nebraska, football
Cardedrick Foreman, Eureka/Weber State, football
David Sharp, St. Bernard/Virginia Military Institute, baseball
Gregg Reynolds, Arcata/University of Pacific, baseball
Travis Fleming, McKinleyville/University of Pacific, baseball
Matt Nielsen, McKinleyville/Sac State baseball
Gary Wilson, Eureka/Sac State, baseball
Mark Gorge, Arcata/Sac State, baseball
Jeff Borghino, Arcata/Sac State, baseball
Mitch Walter, Arcata/Kansas State, baseball
Ryan Johnston, McKinleyville/U. of Arkansas, baseball
Matt Tomlin, St. Bernard/University of Nebraska, baseball
Brandon Marcelli, Eureka/Fresno State, baseball
Mo Charlo, Eureka/Nevada, basketball
Trina Bindel, Eureka/Wake Forest, track and field
Brandon Bieber, Del Norte/U of Alaska-Fairbanks, basketball
Vicky Fleschner, Fortuna/Oregon, cross country & track
Heidi Bowman, South Fork/Marquette, basketball
Trina McCartney, McKinleyville/Oregon, basketball (She graduated in '87)
Matt Creason, Eureka/Georgetown, cross country & track
Debbie Templeton, South Fork/Stanford, track and field
Megan McMillan, Del Norte/Oregon State, volleyball
Morrie Roe, Arcata/Hawaii, football
Scott Eskra, Eureka/Mississippi, baseball
Gina Loechl, Eureka/Wisconsin, swimming
Dustin Smith, golf
Ashley Curry, McKinleyville, UC Davis
Buck Pierce, Del Norte/New Mexico State, football

While the general belief is that it's no big deal to go from the H-DNL to college sports unless one jumps to D-I, stop and consider how many H-DNL athletes go on to play four years of college athletics at any school. Not that many, right? In my world, at my age, it remains noteworthy to play at any college or university.

6 comments:

FW1997 said...: Thanks Ted!

Amazing list.

Is there any athletes of note that you were surprised never made it to the D-1 Collegiate level?; May 7, 2008 1:58 PM
Brad Hanson said...: This post has been removed by a blog administrator.; May 7, 2008 3:27 PM
s quincey said...: not sure if it's D-1, but john thurston from ferndale is wrestling for UC Davis.
hope you don't mind if we copy and use your list!
Thanks, Ted
It's exciting that you started this blog. Finally someone in the blogosphere who talks about North Coast sports. Can't wait for the discussions to be had here
Sean; May 7, 2008 6:16 PM
Ted Sillanpaa said...: It's great if the North Coast media uses the lists I put together...but, I'd like to be credited...unless a list just falls to me out of the sky with no research, then I don't expect any credit.--ts; May 7, 2008 8:45 PM
samoasoftball said...: How about the ones from Humboldt that have played pro ball? Gary Thompson of Eureka is one of very few NFL players to just play JC ball then make the Bills as a starter in the 80's!

Al Erickson played Basketball in the Australian league for over 15 years? He just retired last year.; May 7, 2008 9:41 PM
Anonymous said...: Shawn Sorenson, Eureka/Rice, track

Eureka High Hall of Famers

2009-02-15T13:48:00.000-08:00

It's become clear that H-DNL "history" is defined as the period of time members of the area's working media and the current group of really avid fans can remember. So, sadly, "history" seems to start in about 1991 -- it's rare that we read anything about athletes who actually made history in the H-DNL.

So, credit the folks who started the Eureka High School sports hall of fame for reaching out to lots of different folks from lots of different backgrounds -- and a variety of age groups -- because they came up with a near perfect list of initial inductees into the EHS shrine.

Coach Jay Willard and former Olympic sprinter Elta Cartwright were no-brainers. They pre-date me. Olympic sprinter and a guy who had such impact that the gymnasium and the walkway to the football are both named after him? Ideal selections.

There are generations of people who don't know how amazingly gifted Rob Harrison was, in three sports, in the 1980s. The people who bicker about which modern-day football running backs are bound for college have no idea how truly unique Harrison was carrying the ball. And, obviously, few no he was a state-level wrestler, hurdler and jumper.

It figures that even fewer people know what a fantastic athlete John Burman was in the 1960s. He was a state-level sprinter who really left an indelible mark on the North Coast by leading Humboldt State to a win in the 1968 Camellia Bowl against Fresno State. Yes...Humboldt played Fresno State and beat Fresno State -- and it wasn't really that close.

Rich Mayo was a multi-sport star who wound up starting at quarterback for the Air Force Academy team that played in the Cotton Bowl. I remember being a kid ripping through an older friend's old "Sport" magazines and stumbling onto mention of "Air Force quarterback Rich Mayo, from Eureka, Calif." I had no idea it was even possible to go from Eureka to mention in sport magazine, let alone big-time college football stardom. It's cool he can be inducted along with Ralph Mayo.

Katrina Bindel was the best female athlete I saw in my 1,001 years on the North Coast. She won state track and field medals when it was really rare for H-DNL athletes to even get to the state meet. She was on course to become, most insiders thought, a star in the international heptathlon competition. Then, an injury sidelined her in the early 1990s. She was magnificent.

Billy Olson is the former Eureka High baseball pitcher who, in my opinion, is the most overlooked of any truly fantastic former Logger athlete. The guy was a flame-throwing lefthanded pitcher who was virtually, almost literally, unhittable in the late 1960s. He went directly from pitching in high school to being the Humboldt Crabs' ace -- back when the Crabs were playing the elite semi-pro teams, filled with stars from major colleges. And...Olson handled those Alaska summer college teams just fine at an age when, honestly, most pitchers would've quaked at the thought of facing stars from Southern Cal, UCLA, Stanford, etc.

It's not exactly an accident that Olson hasn't spent 40 years having his baseball accomplishments recounted every spring and summer. I tracked him down to do an interview once in the 1990s. It wasn't like I ever forgot the guy, but I just never knew where to look for him. You know how some guys slip really easily into talking about their accomplishments? It wasn't at all easy for Olson to talk about being, I think, the best pitcher in H-DNL history. He was clearly more comfortable listening to me tell him things I remembered seeing him do on the field. (Yeah...I was interviewing my "hero" and I was nearly 40 years old.)

His wife, I believe, pulled out a small scrapbook with some stories about Olson's baseball heyday. I was struck by how he clearly was remembering some of those games and teammates and opponents for the first time in years. I was also struck by him being that humble even when I admitted from the start that I brought my sons along on the interview just so they could meet the guy I'd spent so much time telling them about.

And ... now ... I'm rambling on like a school boy about Billy Olson again. Hey...he was really, really good and not a pitcher who's come along in the 40 years since came close to being as dominant as he was before he injured his pitching arm. (Well, St. Bernard grad Greg Shanahan was amazing, too, he was a righthander who wound up pitching for the L.A. Dodgers. He and Olson had a couple epic matchups I remember reading about.)

How much of a fan am I of Olson? Hmmm? My youngest son's a tall, lanky 12-year-old pitcher...he's a lefty. Pretty good, too. He asked me who my favorite lefty pitcher was and I said, "You...of course." Then, I swear, I paused and said, "Well, actually a guy named Billy Olson's my favorite lefty of all-time, so you're No. 2 ... but ..."
and from there, a 12-year-old heard all the Billy Olson stories that simply must remaining a vivid part of H-DNL history.

I hope Olson and the others can all take part in the homecoming ceremony. They have places in H-DNL history that, I fear, is becoming increasingly lost.

---------------
Ted's Opinion: People gripe and moan that athletes are forced to pick one sport, or one position, far too early in life. So, I nominate for the EHS Hall of Fame -- Joe Denbo, Class of 1974, and Cardedrick Foreman, Class of 1998.

Denbo played three years of varsity quarterback at Eureka for some good teams -- played some receiver, too. He played two seasons of varsity basketball -- and was darn good. His three years as a varsity baseball outfielder were productive and prooved that great athletes can do as many sports as they could handle. Even in 1971-1974...there weren't many 8-time varsity letterman who started in three sports. Joe deserves an honor for a time we miss greatly.

Foreman was a football star who played receiver as a freshman, defensive back as a junior (with a little running back tossed in -- because he was the most elusive runner on the team)...then he capped his career by converting to quarterback as a senior. That's unheard of and...get this...Foreman was really exceptionally gifted at all those positions for truly outstanding EHS teams. He deserves a Hall of Fame nomination...and, here it is...

North Coast Fans Are Angry

2009-02-15T13:45:00.001-08:00

Sunday, February 8, 2009

North Coast People Are Angry...etc.

The swirl of controversy surrounding Eureka High's boys basketball team resulted in one North Coast fans suggesting that criticism of individual players indicates how poorly the boys conduct themselves because, he wrote, folks never see area fans being critical of other athletes.

The comment went on to include a list of North Coast athletes like Rey Maualuga, Mo Purify and a who's who of current high school stars. The writer stated that the Loggers basketball kids are deserving of criticism and the proof comes in knowing that Maualuga, Purify and the others never catch flak from area fans.

Virtually every athlete the fan mentioned has, indeed, been criticized in the very public newspaper forums up there. Purify got trashed when he signed with the Cincinnati Bengals. Maualuga gets knocked off and on by people who feel obligated to point out that he might be an All-America football star, but that he was just a kid who got in trouble like everybody else in Eureka. And, with only a few exceptions, high school stars get ripped in the most personal manner as if they're professionals who, in part, earn their paycheck by taking their lumps.

It seems like North Coast sports fans are angry -- or, perhaps, sports fans are angry. Maybe some fans care too much or take it all too personally. Regardless, high school and other small-market athletes don't get that really harsh treatment in many other places.

The other day, I wrote two stories about Justin-Siena High school athletes who'll be leaving Napa to attend college and compete on scholarship in football and track and field respectively. The football player's going to Washington State, while the track athlete's headed for Stanford.

The Napa area treats high school athletes much like they're treated on the North Coast. The newspaper features them, even over nearby professional and major college athletes. The kids in Napa get the star treatment. So, if it was simply a matter of small-market fans resenting small-market "stars," there'd be some backlash when two Napa athletes are featured as a result of accepting scholarships.

There were five reader comments to the stories about the athletes. (And, five comments are about five more than sports stories usually get.) All five were positive and in praise of the athletes. There wasn't one comment aimed at questioning the kids' talents or their GPA. Nobody wrote to mention that they saw one of the kids do something wrong once.

Granted, the kids I wrote about seem to be stellar high school citizens. I'd wager that they've never done anything that would prompt some fan to log on to a public forum and assault their folks for being bad parents.

Still...if was a "sports fan" anger we note on the North Coast, there'd be some similar resentment to athletes in other places. It seems as though the North Coast sports fans are more angry, more easily, than most. And, they manage to make it all more personal than it is in high school sports circles elsewhere.

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Two things can be equally true. High school athletes can be held to the same rules that apply to every other high school student. High school athletes shouldn't be targeted in public forums for vicious personal attacks.
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I joined Facebook yesterday and, apparently, only two people who attended Eureka High School in the 1970s has the computer knowledge and interest in social networking to have joined what my kids assure me is a really interesting development in Internet content. Or, I suppose, I just don't know how to search Facebook to find people I might have attended school with.
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There's good and bad living in a metropolitan area like the one we reside in these days. One good thing is that a youngster can escape whatever tags they pick up as they progress through school. Kids aren't necessarily stuck with the "goof-off" tag that followed them from Cutten Elementary to Winship when they get to Eureka High. Kids involved in sports literally get a fresh start when they go from middle school to high school.

Knowing that the middle school experience doesn't dictate the type of high school experience a kid will have makes the middle school sports experience more enjoyable for parents...well, for me. In a larger area, it's easier for parents to enjoy (if we're willing) each team and each sport as an individual entity. Kids move around. Adults don't know everything about every kid's weakness or strength. I know I felt like the first year of Little League was the first step to making the high school team when we lived up there.

It's probably better to give high school coaches the final word on who plays than to give increasingly more clout to coaches from youth ball forward. You know?

All-Time H-DNL Basketball Team

2009-02-10T12:50:00.001-08:00

It can't be the North Coast's all-time hoop squad or it would be filled with the number of great players who've been recruited to and starred at Humboldt State. People who don't remember the 1960s and most of the 1970s at HSU have no idea how bad things were, nor will they ever appreciate what Tom Wood's built in his long tenure leading the Lumberjacks.

Without paying a great deal of attention to HSU hoops now that the 'Jacks are on top of the world, I could name 7 guys who'd demolish any All-Time Humboldt-Del Norte League team:

F -- Hooks...Fred? Right? He was as exciting and effective as any player I every saw up there.
G -- Daryl Westmoreland...He was a big, athletic guard on HSU's NCAA Division III powerhouse coached by Jim Cosentino -- who eventually got dinged by a recruiting scandal, thus starting the Tom Wood era.
C -- Ray Beer...he was half-man, half-monster -- D-III style -- in the early 1980s. Just a beast. This Jacks team filled the old East Gym for a regional game against a New Jersey Tech team and, it was unforgettable.
F -- Austin Nichols...based on what I saw and read, Nichols and Hooks were leaders of the greatest team in HSU history...dominating D-II like Westmoreland and Beer overwhelmed D-III 25 years ago.

So, the all-time H-DNL team I arrived at is...all about the H-DNL...local kids who played middle school ball, high school ball and, then, starred in college...

G...Isaac Gildea...he was a basketball player and a winner at McKinleyville and CR -- then starred at Humboldt.
F...Al Erickson...a 6-foot-4 swingman who was, literally, Larry Bird-like on a smaller stage at Eureka High, CR and Humboldt. He could do everything -- by far the best of the Erickson basketball brothers.
G...Gary Mendenhall...starred at St. Bernard in the very early 1980s -- maybe the late 1970s. He could shoot...pass...defend and...win. He still holds University of Santa Clara records.
G/F...Mo Charlo...he starred at Eureka and wound up starring in Division I for Nevada. There hasn't been a better all-around player to come of the H-DNL and, I think, Charlo's success signals the start of a string of H-DNL players who'll eventually overshadow the local kids who starred at HSU. (Although, I tend to think Erickson and Gildea could've played wherever they really wanted to and got a chance to compete.)
C...Jeff Nielsen...there's not a high-scoring, shot-blocking center to call on, but the former Ferndale star from the early '70s anchored the middle for the best CR team in school history that rolled in the Northern California tournament. Nielsen was tough and big enough to handle the middle.
C....Mike Jaentsch...He and Jeff Moon were big (6-7'ish) studs for a 1970-71 Del Norte team that played two of the most memorable games in H-DNL history against Eureka.

Also on the list: Ryan Riewerts is a guy lots of people found reason to knock, but he won wherever he played and his dominating performance for Bill Treglown's CR team that rolled in the Nor Cal tourney was so memorable -- a burly 6-foot-3 power forward domanating the glass...Brandon Bieber and Justin Mora proved that if you played the game correctly and play it really hard all the time, good things will happen and you'll maximize your talent...6-foot-10 John Murray was a star at Eureka in the very early 1960s and merits an all-time spot...It's my team and I'm lacking backcourt help and -- I gotta have the heart n' soul of Hoopa's first champions -- Augie Valdez. ... Finally, I need forward John Poovey who starred on two great Eureka High teams coached by Al Erickson's father Julian Erickson. John passed away too soon not long ago. He could play.

Head coach: Doug Oliveira...he turned Hoopa's program around with a 3-pointing shoot team that played swarming defense, but he was good at adapting to the talent he had, too.

Don Terbush II

2009-02-03T13:32:00.000-08:00

When I was sports editor of the Times-Standard in the 1990s, I did a long interview with Lawrence "Scoop" Beal. He was one of the great newspapermen in Humboldt County history. He was the sports editor of one of the two dailies in Eureka...then became the managing editor...yielding his sports duties to Don Terbush.

Scoop was a promoter...a talker...he had stories one would expect from a character in "Guys & Dolls." He ran with former heavyweight champion Max Baer...and actually played a role in the formation and early promotion of the Humboldt Clowns traveling basketball troupe that made routine, and popular, stops in West Coast towns that the Harlem Globetrotters would never visit. Scoop knew everybody and was happy to talk and talk and talk...which was a joy for a kid who can't hear enough stories about things like the old swim stadium at Freshwater Park. (If you cross the water and get up on the bank now covered by trees, you'll see remains of old-fashioned stadium seating where residents used to enjoy aquacade water shows.)

Beal died not long after I did the interview and ran a three-part story about his life in sports.

Don Terbush would never, ever, offer to sit down and tell a writer stories about his time as sports editor of the Times-Standard. It took me knowing him for decades to learn that he was a champion sprinter...in Compton, Calif....in high school. He was involved in athletics at Humboldt State after he got out of the military. He didn't talk about himself and, I imagine, will never want to talk about himself. In fact, Don doesn't like people who make themselves the star of the story. Nothing made Don cringe like hearing somebody taking credit for, say, making the Humboldt Crabs a nationally-known summer baseball program.

"Louie built the Crabs," Don told me, referring to Lou Bonomini. "If it wasn't for Louie, there'd have been no Crabs...not like they were. What a laugh! (Somebody else) saying he helped Louie build the Crabs."

The late Lou Bonomini wouldn't have promoted himself either.

As written previously, Don probably tolerated working with me...as I tolerated being a kid working for a guy I thought was too old-school for modern newspapering. (I didn't just start being an idiot. I've been an idiot for years!)

Then, a funny thing happened, I was all of a sudden a married man, with two kids who worked as sports editor of the Times-Standard. All of a sudden, I saw Don in a different light. He wasn't just the guy who was the timekeeper at the epic amateur fight cards at Municipal Auditorium or the guy who traveled with Humboldt State College's football teams in their glory years -- including the 1968 Camellia Bowl season when the Lumberjacks beat Fresno State. Don stopped being my boss and the Crabs scorekeeper, announcer and vice-president. Don was suddenly sort of a role model.

Since I was always right and everybody else was wrong, I took the job offer from a Southern California newspaper in the 1980s and left Eureka. Remember, Don passed on job offers to stay in Eureka, keep a low profile and live a quiet, productive life with his wife Tina and three children. After a couple years on what was the comparative newspaper fast track, I had a stack of clips from covering Magic's "Showtime" Lakers and the Los Angeles Rams. I'd covered the Rose Bowl and a Super Bowl -- and stopped thinking it was all that big a deal to stand in line at the Dodger Stadium media buffett behind Vin Scully.

When my kids were in school and I realized I couldn't take a five-mile run without the air quality in SoCal wrecking me for days, I realized...the big-time wasn't what it was made out to be. It hit me that, sure, I was on track to be a beat writer for some team -- just like I'd wanted to be -- but, that beat writers travel and travel would take me away from my kids. How could I coach my kids in youth sports or go to their school functions if I was covering the L.A. Clippers in Detroit in December?

That's when I realized that the guy I thought was wrong turned out to be absolutely right. Don Terbush did what I didn't realize I wanted to do...he put his lifestyle and his family ahead of the need to be in what is perceived as a more glamouros job. I never asked Don where could have worked, but just about any newspaper offers more perceived glamour than the T/S offers, right?

I didn't return to Eureka to work in newspapers, but that's where I wound up. I stumbled, almost literally, back into the sports editor's job. I was happy to have gotten a second chance at getting my priorities straight. I'd never cover the major sports, but I'd never miss a parent-teacher conference either. I'd have to listen to parents mock me for how I did my job, but I still got to coach my kids and their friends. It wasn't exactly as smooth as Don made it look but I did wind up using his career and choices as a model for my own.

It was a revelation when I admitted that, after years of thinking he was old-fashioned and not really interested, I admitted...I'd followed in Don's footsteps because I decided that he made choices that were really wise.

Don put up with all the same headaches other small-market editors face. He just handled it with more dignity than, well, I did. We were generations apart. So, he put friendships with coaches and players first...he got along with everybody I ever saw him deal with. If he didn't get along with them, you wouldn't know it unless he said something well after he'd dealt with folks. Me? I was intent on putting a premium on opinion and more pointed feature stories and ... making myself a target for people who don't like opinions or pointed features.

Don avoided those critical pieces and wrote "Sideline Slants." I used to cringe at the formula he used to write that column, but one day I realized that one of the true highlights of my young life was when I got mentioned in a Sunday "Sideline Slants." So...I forgot my roots. I forgot what was so cool about the Times-Standard. Nobody read my column and thought, "Oh, gosh...Ted Sillanpaa mentioned me!" But, when I was playing briefly on the baseball team at College of the Redwoods and broke my finger, Don mentioned the injury and quoted coach Tom Giacomini about my being sidelined and when I might return. Truly...that was a highlight in my life! I made "Sideline Slants."

Of course, I didn't remember the wonderful place "Sideline Slants" had in Humboldt County until I'd already become a target...often on purpose. My bad! I couldn't go back to write "Sideline Slants: 1997," you know? I had a reputation that, I guess, lots of people hated. But, it was mine and I stuck to it. I secretly wished I had a reputation like the one Don built.

I used to talk to Don when he'd come in to write that fishing column that, by God, cannot be his legacy, you know? He'd ask about my kids. I'd talk and he'd listen. And, eventually, I noticed he wasn't giving me advice...but he was giving me a chance to learn from him if I really paid attention.

And...no...I'm sure Don didn't stop and think, "Ted's really messed up! I'll try to help him out." Don wouldn't impose his beliefs on anybody. But, I know I learned about being a dad and dealing with life and the profession just talking to him when I was, finally, able to hear what other people were saying.

I have little discipline and, sadly, give up easily on tough tasks. Don is disciplined and diligent to the point I used to see him walking the same course...around his neighborhood and along a street that bordered my neighborhood...ever day, at the same time. He never walked faster. He never walked slower. But, by God, Don Terbush always walked. I started to think that just doing it ... everyday...the same way...was really commendable. I admired that in Don.

Don and I weren't close enough for me to know if he was a good, great, average or indifferent father. He'd never talk about that stuff. It was private. But, his daughters Merriedawn and Kathy always spoke highly of him. And, he spoke proudly of his son Don and never said a bad thing about his wife Tina. (And, you'd be surprised how hard it is to spend a full day in a newspaper office without hearing somebody bitch about their spouse.)

My ex-wife did daycare for Don's granddaughter Crystal, who is the same age as my son Trent. I thought that, perhaps, Trent and Crystal would someday date and that Don and I would, perhaps, watch a football game on TV at Thanksgiving or something. I've had some crazy dreams.

Since Don's not going to get a big feature story splashed all over the T/S...because he wouldn't want to sit and talk about himself...I can leave this legacy for him...save him the hassle after causing him so much hassle over the years...

Don Terbush is a good man. He's a fine, fine writer who understood his craft and the business that is now dying. When the business started losing guys like Don, it figured that the business was headed toward its demise. If my sons had, more or less, the same virtues I saw later in life in Don ... I'd be proud of them.

Somebody, maybe the North Coast Journal, should corner Don and talks to some of his peers. His story should be told in a forum much bigger than this little thing. But, in the interim...I just want to say that Don Terbush was a solid man I am proud to have worked for and with. I owe him a debt of gratitude I could never repay...and he probably has no idea he had any impact on me at all.

That's how Don is and will always be...

Don Terbush

2009-02-01T22:23:00.000-08:00

If you've spent years gnashing your teeth of things I've written that appeared in North Coast publications, blame Merriedawn Terbush.

For being one of the nicest girls/women I've ever known, and for having known her since we were in high school, I should know how to spell her first name. But, see, Don Terbush's daughter was "Merd" to her friends. So, I called her "Merd," too. She sort of outgrew "Merd" and I once gave great thought to calling her by her given name. (Boys were aware of being stuck in the dreaded "Friend Zone" in the 1970s, too, and I didn't want to be pigeon-holed as just her pal at one point. And...now I've spilled a deep secret...moving on...)

I should know her married name, too. But, I haven't seen her much over the years so...I probably shouldn't have brought up the whole "Friend Zone" thing and ... never mind.

Where was I?

Oh, my mother died when I was going to College of the Redwoods. I was 17 1/2 and working at Cutten Supermarket when Merd came by to tell me that her dad was going to be looking for a part-time sports writer. She said I should go talk to him. And, oh, did my mom love Merriedawn! She routinely, from the time she got to know her, would mention that I was a "jackass" for messing around with other girls and date with "Merd." I never argued the point, never disputed it. I just pointed out that there was the small problem of other boys, other girls and having to ask somebody I actually liked on a date ... out of the blue ... at which point my mom mumbled, "You are such a (*&^%^ jackass" and walked off.

Don hired me to take the part-time job Merriedawn mentioned and I began making his very, very comfortable professional life a pain. He didn't really want to mentor part-time guys. He was distant, as a man who'd been in the business for many, many years should be when dealing with a 17-year-old who wanted to be Woodward or Bernstein -- or both. I learned to write quickly by having Don tell me, "You have to stop writing now." I learned to write short stories on deadline, without leaving any facts out, by having Don just cut my stories wherever he needed to cut them to fill the hole on the page.

You'd be amazed at how quickly a young writer catches onto the idea that he shouldn't save key facts for way down a story once he picks up a newspaper to read his 15-inch story and sees that only 10 inches of it made it into the newspaper. And, to Don's credit, I completely got it. Write quickly and write to fit.

I used to fight, in a passive-aggressive way, the weekly feature story assignments Don and his full-time guy Mike Jessie came up with for me. It would begin a long fight against authority that, as the song says, authority always wins. I didn't get important enough feature assignments for Don to fight me about them, so if he wanted a story about two Hoopa High wrestlers and I did a McKinleyville boxer -- he would just grunt and remind me that he was still waiting for the wrestlers' story.

Mostly, I didnt talk to Don Terbush because he had what was my dream job. I know. Weird. My dream job, once I realized I wouldn't play center field for the San Francisco Giants, was to be sport editor of the Times-Standard. I grew up reading the T/S and Don's column, "Sideline Slants." People talk about how much local sports news they read in small papers today, but there was a time when our Eureka Midget League baseball game stories appeared in the next day's newspaper. The JV basketball box score ran right below the varsity box score and, honest, they didn't have a bigger staff back then. They just put a premium on reporting the news when it was fresh and honestly believed that "names made news" and, moreover, that names sold newspapers.

I remember hearing that Don passed up job opportunities in bigger towns, at better newspapers. I thought that was about the most ridiculous damned thing I'd ever heard. I was 13, 14 years old at the time. I vowed that I would try to become the sports editor of the Times-Standard first, but that I'd blow town and head for the biggest publication, in the biggest town, the minute I had the chance. I scoffed, as much as a teenager can scoff, at the idea that Don passed those jobs so he could raise his family in Eureka.

Of course, I didn't realize that newspaper guys live a nomadic life. They bounce around and they don't coach Little League or go to dance recitals. The sports editor of the small market paper has the time to live a normal life. The NFL beat writer becomes famous and makes big money, but he doesn't get to many of his kids' functions or spend much time with his family in the fall and winter -- or early spring.

Naturally, I didn't figure that out until I'd bounced around and landed in Eureka...at the Times-Standard...having shunned Southern California and that job market...and wound up as sports editor of the Times-Standard for a second time. I barely filled Don's shoes the first time on the job. I was young and impulsive and not organized. So, when I got a second chance to do my dream job, I was better ready.

This isn't the whole story. I'm going to write more because I haven't spoken to Don since I left Eureka in 2000. And, despite the rocky start, I've learned over time that he had much more of an impact on my life than he would have dreamed or I would've imagined. And, he's just a good guy who raised a good family and did good things in the community and I don't want him to be remembered as the guy who wrote the fishing column.

Don Terbush couldn't care less what people think of him. He's a confident man, cool actually. He was a great athlete in his youth in Southern California and Humboldt State.

Basketball All-Timers...A Starting Point

2009-01-19T12:38:00.000-08:00

Basketball has changed so much so quickly that it's hard to imagine comparing players from the 1950s or 1960s to today's kids. Hell, in the early 1960s they were still separating kids on lightweight and heavyweight teams in high school.

These players leaped to mind when I thought about an all-time North Coast boys basketball team last night...not a definitive list, just guys who came to mind first...

Isaac Gildea, McK/CR/HSU...I wonder how he'll be viewed over time? Will he be forgotten when kids start going to D-I schools. Or, will he be remembered as a bad-ass gamer who just did what winners do? In the 1990s...I decided he was the greatest player, the guy with the most impact, I'd ever seen on the North Coast...not bad for a slightly built guard.

Buck Pierce, DN...The only thing that kept him from a great college career was the small matter of him being a D-I football quarterback prospect. Del Norte had a string a great guards like John Maready, Dave Brous...all the way back to Blaine Lopez. But, Pierce had the confidence and cool and inventiveness -- as well as a sweet jumper -- to stand out among the greatest guards in a Kirk Burrows-coached program that produced great guards every year in the 1990s.

Al Erickson, Eureka/CR/HSU...He still plays pro ball in Australia. I wish people who are raving over the next greatest player ever could have seen the 6-foot-4 Erickson do everything really well...whatever his teams needed doing...you know? He didn't look like much a player...until he started playing. He had a Larry Bird-like quality on a smaller scale. A nose for the ball and for getting the most of his ability...and he busted his ass for the opening tip to the final buzzer.

Ryan Riewerts, Hoopa/CR...Controversy followed this guy around, but he was the inside presence for Gildea's CR Nor Cal tournament team -- and Riewerts was a bulky 6-foot-4 banger who took on bigger, taller, faster guys and made things happen around the hoop. If I needed somebody to get me a rebound, at least through the late 1990s, I'd want Riewerts to go after it...when I watched him play, the appropriate background soundtrack was "Let the Bodies Hit the Floor" by Drowning Pool.

Mike Janetsch, Del Norte...This is a trip in the Way Back Machine to give props to the 6-foot-7 Warriors star who was at the center of a great series of Warriors teams and an stunning Eureka-DN rivalry in the early 1970s.

Gary Mendenhall, St. B/Santa Clara...I know most people forgot him because he played at St. B in the mid-1980s...but, I've neven seen a more complete guard in the H-DNL...and Mendenhall lacked only a couple inches to be every bit Gildea's equal. Mendenhall and George Ambrosini led some fantastic St. Bernard team. I think Mendenhall was on the T/S all-time team I picked.

Dean Jones-Brad Bieber, DN...Bieber went on to play in college. They formed a potent, versatil 1-2 punch. Jones had the quickness that came slowly to the H-DNL. He dominated the early Niclai Tournaments as a guard in 1981-82. My preference for Jones stems from my willingness to believe his off-court activity didn't spill onto the court.

Myke Jones, DN...he was Dean Jones' 6-foot-7 brother...and the first H-DNL player we ever actually saw dunk. Unlimited potential I was told early, though, that he'd never achieve it...by people who knew him way better than I did. Sadly, Myke and Leon Volasgis, of Hoopa, had all the physical gifts but...they just never clicked.

Justin Mora. Fortuna...a bigger forward, muscular...who could handle the ball and shoot...and rebound. He played harder than most "star" players in the H-DNL. Went on to the play in college. It's going to be hard to keep him on my all-time team. Loved watchin him play.

Brandon Bieber, Del Norte: Mora and Bieber were pals, apparently, but their rivalry was epic the early 1990s. Bieber played college ball in Alaska...just another fundamentally sound guy who could work inside and outside. I think Mora and Bieber began the move to making the H-DNL a place were 4-year colleges could go looking for talent.

Chris Weaver...McK...I lost track of him. I know he was the biggest of the big centers in the H-DNL and...there was no way he could live up to the hype. But...I suspect if he'd played in an area where he was just another big guy who had to work his tail off to succeed that I'd have wanted him on my team. There aren't many shot-blockers in H-DNL history.

Charles Webster...DN...See what I mean about the game changing? John Murray is a 6-foot-10 EHS grad from the early 1960s who remains of the league's all-time leading scorers, but I can't imagine Webster not shutting him down because Webster, like Weaver, was an athlete...and John was just a big guy with some nice hook shots, etc.

Greg Allen, Eureka...without seeing him play much, I'll make the leap of faith that being 2-time Big Five MVP and a D-I talent earns him a spot as the post-modern H-DNl hoop star.

Zach Barnes, St. Bernard/CR..he was was about 6-7 or so and arrived at St. Bernard in 1973 with a pretty cool set of all-around tools. He's in the the mix to fill the slot for the all-around big guy...shot-blocker, scorer, defender.

Mo Charlo, Eureka/Nevada...Best all-around player to come of the H-DNL -- ever. Mo Purify was a football player/athlete who could hoop, but Mo Charlo was a D-I prospect and player and wound up getting looks from NBA teams. And, Charlo's road to greatness wasn't an easy one to travel. He deserves credit for beating odds and working hard to be great.

Jack Bainbridge, SF/HSU...He was the best point guard of the 1980s. I know Marcus Price of Eureka High got raves in the 1990s, but Bainbridge led South Fork to hoop glory and...I just loved his grit.

Kevin Krause SB/UC Riverside...my list won't be filled with guys who got to college, but Krause was a player...a 6-5 center at St. Bernard who was smooth, hardworking and intelligent. He dominated the H-DNL from 1985-1987.

Augie Valdez, Hoopa/CR...He led Hoopa to the Division V NCS title, with Volasgis starring as a sophomore center. Valdez was a standstill 3-point gunner who was an inspiratational leader...the Warriors win over highly-touted Emery of Emeryville, with 6-foot-10 Arkansas-bound Darnell Robinson, ranks among the best games in H-DNL history. Valdez wasn't built for the college game...but, man, was he a joy to watch play.

Nominees and opinions are welcome.

Prep Athletes Aren't Public Figures...Even If You're Bored

2009-01-17T19:34:00.003-08:00

EHS Uproar...Practically Speaking
High school athletes aren't public figures.

High school athletes shouldn't have off-court actions described in detail in public forums.

It's 2009 and people use the Internet any, ol' way they want.

My 13-year-old son begins his interscholastic sports experience as a 7th grader knowing that the only way to make sure he never has to defend himself over making bad decisions away from his sports is ... to make sure he makes good decisions.

I hate the idea of a Eureka High basketball star being raked over hot coals by jealous and spiteful critics for something that has nothing to do with sports. But, it's obvious he mad a decision at some point that provided his attackers with ammunition and...boy...have they used it to get after him.

Nobody's perfect. But, starting the minute you get on the court or on the field in the school's uniforms...in this day and age...you damn well better know that being anything except as close to a perfect citizen as you can be is asking for trouble.

If you don't do anything wrong, you can't get knocked for doing something wrong.
Posted by Ted Sillanpaa at 1:55 PM 0 comments
Eureka High Basketball ... Uproar
http://www.topix.net/forum/source/eureka-times-standard/T4HFJQM0L14OIQJKS

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The link goes to a Times-Standard Topix thread that began in response to the game story following St. Bernard's boys basketball win over Eureka High. It turned into a forum about the conduct of some Eureka High basketball players...on and off the court. One of the parents, apparently, got involved to defend his son. And, I can't blame the man, since his son is accused by anonymous sources of criminal activity.

Somebody involved in the conversation threw up a post asking for me to comment. I'm honored that somebody would think I might have something to add to a conversation that took on the most negative, vile tone of any I've read result from a sports story up there.

I don't think high school athletes are public figures. Just because Eureka High sports star Greg Allen is a sports star, and headed to play in college on scholarship, doesn't mean he's different from any other 17-year-old minor. There are all sorts of allegations and people swear, anonymously, that there was activity that the police responded to in some way or another.

Whether criminal activity took place or not, we agree to protect the identity of those under age 18 who are even accused of breaking the law. If a media outlet did opt to report on the allegation that a girl was physically abuse, no names would be used because the media protects the identities of minors.

The Topix comments are very specifically mentioning the athlete, and some of his teammates. I cited the libel laws in a brief post Wednesday because, honestly, if my son was being dragged through the mud in a Media News Group forum -- I'd file a lawsuit against Media News Group. It's not the Times-Standard's fault or the fault of Media News that the athlete's being called for criminal activity -- and various other transgressions I won't repeat here. But, we can't sue anonymous posters...so, the only way to address personal attacks in a public forum is by suing the folks responsible for providing the forum.

A poster, who remains anonymous, insists the allegations are true...that the father acknowledged there was an "incident." I don't care. The player's a minor. There are allegations that are a lot more pointed and vile than simply referring to an "incident." I think we need to stand up and try to change the course these public forums are taking before they become even more out of control.

Question the kid's jump shot...question his ability to play in college...question Eureka High's coach...that's fair and harmless and, actually, at the root of why sports fans enjoy sports. But, to drag an alleged incident involving a minor girl into the forum? And, then to read people trash the kid anonymously...with no avenue to get to the truth through actual reporting? That's unacceptable.

High school athletes didn't start making bad decisions at the dawn of the Internet age. Generations of athletes have gotten busted smoking dope or driving drunk or fighting in the parking lot ... and been dealt with by coaches and administrators without the public knowing anything about it.

I don't think the public has a right to know how Eureka High's coach, who I've always found to be a fine, honorable, upstanding man, dealt with problems within his team. It's not the public's right to know why players were kicked off a team in 2004 or why no players were kicked off in 2008.

I do feel like the public has the right to try to find out the answers to questions about the conduct of the players on or off the court. The public can call school administrators and ask them to explain why the athlete is still playing despite being involved an "incident" involving the police. Because...the coach and the administration are bound by laws that prevent them from treating high school students like public figures. If people really wanted to know what's been done to address what they see as problems...they can call Eureka High...have the folks there say they can't talk about such things...and...that's it.

What? Eureka High should suspend an athlete because of an alleged "incident" that apparently drew no criminal charges? How would that be fair?

Folks can call the police and ask about the "incident" and the police won't comment. The Times-Standard reporters could push to get answers and try to do a story -- but the story would have no substance. No one can comment on an "incident" allegedly involving two minors. It's not news for public consumption...even if making it a public affair embarrasses the star of the Eureka High basketball team and his family.

The general public in small towns across America has been trying to tear down well known high school athletes since high school athletics began. The Internet just allows the public an amazing easy way to simply trash people I consider kids.

This isn't the first incident involving a prominent Humboldt-Del Norte League sports star. It won't be the last. I hope it's the last time the court of public opinion puts a minor on trial in a public forum.

I was surprised that the athlete's father, apparently, got involved in defending his son in the Topix forum. Getting in the pit with the folks throwing mud and throwing it back didn't do anything but make things harder on the son. That's just my opinion, though, and I'd never presume to tell a dad how to protect his son.

It's unclear what people hope to gain from making such a big deal of the player's off-court actions...but, there's no story...nobody's done anything except follow the rules in allowing him to stay on the team, etc.

Just because a 17-year-old is a great athlete doesn't make him a public figure, nor does it remove from him the legal protection people his age are provided.

Welcome to Albee Stadium, Home of the Greatest...

2009-01-17T19:34:00.001-08:00

Every Team Needs Managers, Coaches...
I assume that Lou Bonomini remains as manager of the All-Time team. I'd be interested to read who you select as pitching coach and hitting coach? Also, what North Coast baseball field would this team call home?

January 13, 2009 10:54 PM

The home field for the All-Time North Coast baseball team would be the original Albee Stadium. It featured a beautiful redwood seating structure that was raised above the playing field. The setting, in that redwood tree-lined bowl, remains unmatched.

Like the original V.F.W. Field, now the Eureka Babe Ruth League field, old Albee Stadium had a ticket booth underneath the bleachers and ramp leading from there up to the seating area. The dugouts were actually dug out of the ground and players had to walk down steps to get from the field into them. My earliest memories of North Coast baseball include walking down into the 1965 Crabs' dugout to have the team autograph a baseball for me on Scholarship Night. I've still got the ball -- and Bob Bonomini's autograph.

The baseball diamond faced the Albee Stadium football field. The left field line ran parallel to the extreme edge of the outside lane of the old dirt track that used to circle the football field. In my youth, there was a portable, wood fence up during baseball season -- from foul line to foul line.

By the time I played at Albee Stadium, the bleachers were torn down, the snack bar was gone...it was just the playing field and the dugouts. They even stopped putting up the fence, so I played right field at Eureka High standing at the base of the slope leading up to the redwood trees. (Let's say I wasn't really interested in having to go back on a ball.) I once saw Mark Lucich hit a home run that hit halfway up into those redwood trees. Pitching at the decimated Albee was great, because a fast outfield enabled you to get an out on a ball hit 420 feet -- from home plate to the 30-yard line of the football field. I didn't see anybody hit a ball that landed in the existing football bleachers, but I did it once. (Well, twice, in the same game...there was no ground rule, so I had to run while the centerfielder tracked the ball bounced off the cement.) Since I did it, then I'm certain it was done countless times by guys who hit prodigious clouts that landed up in the football seats. It was a long drive from home plate to the football seating -- and it's gotten longer every year in my mind.

I fell out of love with the dump Albee became when I realized that a line drive single over the third baseman's head could be misplayed into a home run that hit the dirt track and rolled and rolled toward the football locker rooms. (Rick Mohorovich, who was the slowest guy I knew, hit that type of homer off me. He could've circled the bases twice.)

Albee's football stadium used to have cement bleachers on both sides of the football field. So, I used to marvel at the little portion of those cement bleachers that were razed. I wondered how cool it must've been to have filled a football stadium that big, you know? How cool must it have been to go to a baseball game with a a full football stadium beyond the outfield fence? Back in the day, I think Albee Stadium even had baseball locker rooms -- a clubhouse. All that was left in my day was an equipment shed.

The original V.F.W. Field was cool, too. It had underground dugouts, so players would stand and peer through an eye-level screen to watch the game. Best thing about it, I figured, was that the coaches couldn't really see or hear what was going on in the dugout...so, very little need for the fake chatter and lots of time to really enjoy yourself. I just didn't like the enormous dimensions at the V.F.W. Field. Although...in the wood bat days, even the right field fence seemed a fair distance away. (I saw Mark Lucich hit a ball off the smaller Redwood Acres pavillion beyond the right field fence once.) The center field fence was a mile away before they started storing those football bleachers out there and, honest, before the advent of metal bats -- it was a big deal to get one out in left field ... and just hitting that fence was considered an epic feat for a Babe Ruth League player.

I never was a fan of the Arcata Ball Park -- even when it had redwood bleachers and all the same accommodations old Albee Stadium had. I did like that the Crabs had vendors walking the stands selling hot dogs, peanuts, etc. Initially, I guess I didn't like that Arcata got the Crabs...later I played the infield at the Arcata Ball Park and didn't like that it was about the worst infield I'd ever seen. (Hey...35 years ago...I'm sure it's fine now!)

Actually, if I could rebuild the original Albee Stadium at the site of the Rohner Park baseball field in Fortuna -- that'd be home to my North Coast All-Time team. I used to really love that I'd leave Eureka stuck in the fog and get out of the car in Fortuna to see blue skies and sunshine.

Don Terbush once told me that there was a full baseball stadium on the huge plot of land where Carson Park has been for decades. I had special fondness for the Haney-Jacobs Eureka Midget League field -- before Haney got his name attached to George C. Jacobs Field. It was a miniature version of old Albee Stadium, so we felt pretty big league playing in what seemed like an actual stadium. (Thus, high praise to the Arcata Little League for building that Brizard Complex. It captured the history of baseball in the area with redwood bleachers, etc.)

Coincidentally, the baseball complex I most depised was the St. Bernard High School facility. My sons played there and really liked it because their coach Al Brisack maintained it like most people maintain their vegetable or flower garden. I didn't like that screen hanging over me when I hit...I felt claustrophobic. I didn't like the tiny green wooden bleachers pressed up against the backstop. And, when I pitched, I despised the overhang above the dish even more because a pop foul out was simply impossible to achieve.

While, I'm sure it was no issue to (and likely helped) legendary pitchers like Billy Olson and Greg Shanahan...the mountainous pitcher's mound at St. Bernard really bugged me. They throw over the top -- and were incredibly skilled pitchers. I had only marginal talent and threw three-quarters and sidearm...so that big mound didn't do me any good ... just threw me off my game...what little there was to it.

I need to think more about the manager and coaches...because, this is my all-time team so ... nothing's automatic.

All-Time Baseball Thoughts & Moves

2009-01-17T19:32:00.001-08:00

Not that there's an outpouring from North Coast baseball fans to actually piece together and complete my personal all-time baseball team, but I have been thinking about it and settled on a lineup...

1b...Mark Lucich...He harkens back to the days when small-town kids had heroes playing high school ball in the same town. In the early 1970s, everybody I knew admired Mark Lucich and wanted a brother like Gary Lucich.

Tad Sundquist's spot on the all-time team is jeopardized by the memory of how pissed he would get after making an out. God forbid he would strike out and then I'd have to take an infield spot and pick up groundballs he threw between innings. I doubt he even knew he was rocketing us wicked grounders to vent his frustration, but I do recall in Midget League and beyond intentionally bouncing throws back at him in the dirt to alert him that, "Let's make easy on each other, OK?"

2b...Bob Bonomini...If I mimicked his batting stance and he later coached my nephew and my oldest son...Bons is not only a starter, he's a North Coast Sillanpaa Hall of Famer -- first ballot.

SS...Garth Iorg...Hustle and work ethic are talents that he had in buckets. The fact that he was athletic by nature was icing on the cake. (You know he played basketball at CR between minor league seasons, right?)

3B...Scott Eskra...there's not a great deal of difference, I don't think, between Scott and Eureka High grad David Stone from the class of about 1977 who went on to play in the Mets farm system. I'd take either one at third base and enjoy watching them rake. I just thought Eskra ran a little better and that Stone, because he was on teams that had catchers and needed a third baseman, had to play out of position locally.

LF: Dane Iorg, Arcata...He's a Sillanpaa Hall of Fame first ballot guy, too. I have a soft spot for Arcata's Steve Van Deren, though, who was a catcher-outfielder for Garth Iorg's Arcata teams as well at CR. Van Deren spent time in the minor leagues. He had all the tools...all the tools.

CF: Paul Ziegler, Fortuna...With the exception of Lee Iorg, I can't think of anybody close to Ziegler.

Greg Lorenzetti, another Fortuna alum, starred at Stanford, for the Crabs and in the minor leagues...he'll be on the final team...assuming readers pay attention long enough for me to finish the team.

RF: ... Buster Pidgeon...If push came to shove, forget the position...I'd bump some guys way before giving any thought to a lineup without him in it.

C: ... John Jaso...a McKinleyville High star whose rise to the big leagues is indicative of the quality program Dustin Dutra has built over the years. A lefthanded hitter...strong arm...ran well. I didn't see the guys from the 1940s, so how can I rate them? Jaso's the first 21st century pick.

DH: David Stone and Nick Giacone...Stone and Giacone could play positions, and would if the team was real. But, if you could go with Stone's booming righty bat and Giacone's lefty bat...that's a potent DH combo. Then, you platoon Giacone at first base and Stone at third and behind the plate.

SP: Billy Olson, Eureka High...my oldest son met a guy in Lafayette the other night who coached a winter ball team that Olson and Buster Pidgeon would drive south to play on during the off-season. Small world.

SP St. Bernard's Greg Shanahan was the righty contemporary of Olson's. And...he pitched briefly for the LA Dodgers in a time when he would've cracked the pitching staff of almost any other team in the big leagues. The Dodgers were loaded with pitchers.

SP: Randy Niemann...Fortuna's best pitching product, ever. Again...here's a guy parents and coaches could've learned from because he wasn't all-world at 10, 11, 12, 15, etc. He got bigger and stronger and worked on his game. He had the mentality needed to work patiently to transition from a kid power pitcher to a minor league control artist. He doesn't get the respect he deserves, and gets overlooked, because he pitched for the Southern Humboldt summer team and not for the Humboldt Eagles -- although I think he beat the Eagles when he faced them in the lone S. Humboldt v. Eagles series I can recall. No coach up there can take credit for Niemann...so, I guess, I'm the only one to recall his greatness.

Sports Dad: "Crowning Achievement"

2009-01-17T19:31:00.001-08:00

My 10-year-old daughter hasn't really any interest in athletics, so it was with great surprise that I watched her spin in circles worrying about missing her elementary school's basketball tryouts the other day.

She's busy...active...and she never seems to get tired. I thought that her angst over Thursday's first basketball tryout for fifth- and sixth-grade girls was the result of her having to make an appearance as vice-president of the student body. She was just beside herself trying to figure out how to work a 4:30 p.m. vocal lesson, a 5:30 rehearsal for "Grease" and the 3 p.m. hoop tryouts.

"What are you talking about? Why would you care if the tryouts are at the same time as your rehearsals?"

I'm rarely the dad who has absolutely no idea what's going on, but that day she lost me.

"I can't tryout for the team unless I skip the vocal lesson or something?" she said as, suddenly, my head began to spin and I felt like she could've floored me with a feather.

"You want to go to the tryouts and... TRY OUT? You want to play basketball? What kind of team is it if you ... I mean, you want to TRY OUT?!?!"

She's never been on an organized basketball team. I've had her shoot baskets with me at the gym a few times -- and four or five times in the last month. I'm interested in seeing how a young girl's hand-eye coordination changes without her paying any real attention to it, so we shoot and I think of creative reasons to get her to dribble. I've gently broached the idea of teaching her a little basketball because I've got this idea that kids can pick up a sport at 10 or 11 and be every bit as good as the kids who play on their first mini-hoops team at age 5.

I thought she was shooting baskets to amuse me, but there she was trying to squeeze basketball tryouts in her truly busy schedule. And, I bit my tounge when I started to belch, "What kind of team do you think YOU could play on? C'mon! Be serious!"

See, people told me that the bulk of a young girl's self esteem comes from her family and, particularly, from her dad. So, I've never missed a chance to tell my daughter that she's the cutest, smartest, funniest, most talented girl around. And, while I didn't really give it much thought, I did tell her that she had a nice little shot and that she dribbled sufficiently well that she could probably be a pretty decent basketball player if she took the game seriously.

I made the latter comment on Sunday Jan. 4. She came home fritzed out about trying out for the basketball team on Wednesday Jan. 7. She must listen really closely and take what I say to heart. She couldn't be taking it seriously, but she clearly thinks she IS a good enough player to make a team of girls her age.

We figured it out, rearranged schedules and the Sillanpaa Family Sports Machine kicked into gear. I called her three or four times from work with little pieces of information I thought she should know such as, "You can't dribble...stop...and then dribble again" and "You know you can't run with the ball, right?" She really doesn't know anything about the game that she hadn't heard me tell her brother.

Ah, her 13-year-old brother, who had basketball tryouts of his own going on in seventh grade was on the case. He offered to take her to the gym to shoot around and "coach" her. More surprisingly, she was willing to let him "coach" her. They get along really, really well...but, they don't generally bond over sports. She needed a ride to the gym at 7:30 at night and talked my oldest son into making the trip...still soaking wet in the clothes he'd worn running a baseball practice in the rain.

"I wasn't going to tell her I was too tired," Tyren said. "We've all wondered if she'd ever be interested in sports and...she is...so, I drove her."

He also stayed and joined his little brother in an hour-long session where they took turns thinking of tidbits of information to share with my daughter. Before they left, she peppered them with the tougher questions like, "What's a layup?" and "Where's the free throw spot?"

I have this long-held theory that kids who dress like players attract attention, they stand out, at any tryouts. I once selected Kristin Vandermolen No. 1 in the Eureka Hoopsters draft because she had expensive basketball shoes. I figured any 11-year-old girl with expensive shoes was serious about the game. So, I paid her a little extra attention and...she was a really good player.

It helps kids who aren't really good players to dress like good players. At some point, you have to show some skill, obviously. Still, in a gym filled with kids about the same size with about the same skill level...it pays to get in the front of every line, run whenever the coach calls for you and, moreover, dress like you're just coming back from the Nike/AndOne Scouting Combine.

So, my daughter...who hasn't been on a basketball team got together with her brothers and they coordinated a bitchin' basketball practice outfit. Under Armour beneath an Oregon basketball jersey...white/pink Starbury basketball shoes (those low-cost shoes NBA player Stephon Marbury markets), and some school's official basktball shorts. None of the stuff looked brand new so...when she showed up for tryouts with her hair in a ponytail like WNBA star Sue Bird wears, she looked like an experienced baller.

There are two simply amazing girls on that team of fifth- and sixth-graders. They're going to be high school stars. They are ... amazing talents, they can do it all. Then, there are two girls who can play some -- who wore street clothes to tryouts. After that, the 13-player was filled with my daughter and eight other girls with no really noticeable basketball skill.

All that my daughter has ever done is dribble in a straight line...pass the ball...shoot from maybe 8 feet out...and played a minimum amount of defense, usually while laughing at her brother.

Guess who somehow finished up two days of tryouts on top of the K.I. Jones Elementary School basketball world?

My daughter didn't do anything of note. She took my advice and shot her layups (that she'd learned the night before) without looking back to see if she'd made it. She didn't try to go 100 mph, but rather...controlled her body to minimize the small problem of having no real ballhandling skills. And, apparently, she made a couple shots ... at some point in the 90-minute session. Oh, and she was dressed like Sue Bird's little sister on her way to the Diana Taurasi Basketball Camp.

After Friday's tryouts, when it was announced that only eight of the 13 girls would make the squad, I talked to the coach. There was nothing I could say to help my daughter, but I did introduce myself and mention her name and my youngest son's name. The woman is an honor class teacher and she adored my son. It's a political game within a game, this business of making the team. I just told her I was happy Kyndall gave it shot and, the coach interrupted to say, "She's terrific! She's a starter as of now!"

So...my hunch paid off. My theory, if applied by a group of people who understand it, works. She learned the bare minimum about the game and hustled and smiled and listened -- made it clear she was having a blast playing ball. The basketball practice outfit, a bunch of stuff her brothers had worn over time, sold her as a real basketball player.

Amazing.

"If she makes that basketball team, it will be the crowning achievement of your life as a sports dad," my son Tyren said. "She hasn't even played before."

Well...I think those Starbury's dazzled 'em!

My guess has always been that dressing like a player attracts attention. When the coach looks at a kid in jeans making a mistake, they write the kid off as a non-player. My daughter made the same mistake, but got the benefit of the doubt because...she had to be a serious player, right, look at how she was dressed! And, when she made a couple shots, an achievement I can't fathom still, that sealed the deal...she wasn't just going to be the smallest, youngest kid on the team...she'd somehow joined those two eventual all-America girls as clear starters.

How we approach her continuing education as a player now so that she doesn't embarrass herself on the court is in question. Oddly, she's the most receptive of my kids to instruction so..who knows? If she listens, learns quickly and remains confident that she can do anything she sets her mind to...maybe she'll even play like "a starter."

All-Time Baseball Team: Brainstorming II

2009-01-17T19:29:00.002-08:00

This isn't a definitive list...yet.

I sat down to finish, at least, what would be Ted's All-Time North Coast Baseball Team -- then, realized, it's naive to believe that the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s didn't contribute a single all-timer I have affection for as a player and, I suppose, as a person.

Here's the list...a lineup...with some additional notes because, hey, it's my team and I should include guys I saw a lot or heard great things about from people I trust...you can't really cancel your subscription, right? You can offer comments, argue and all that, though.

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1b...Mark Lucich...no change from the team I picked in the 1990s for the newspaper. He was a classy, gifted, hard-working guy who seemed heroic to me in the late 1960s and early 1970s.

Odds are nobody could talk me out of Lucich as my favorite all-time. But, I realized I played on more different teams with former Eureka High first baseman Tad Sundquist than I did, probably, with any other player. We even went to Cutten Elementary School together. I was on Tad's team in the Eureka Midget League (Belcher's Giants), then for two years at Winship Junior High School. (Back when junior high sports were a really big deal in Eureka.) Then, I played with Sundquist at Eureka High and, briefly, at CR. Tad hit with power and fielded the position well. He ran better than most first baseman. It seemed cool, commendable, to me that he got drafted a few times and never signed a pro contract. I don't know why he didn't sign, but I thought it was intriguing that he didn't just go along with the rest. He was just...a ball of fury, a total stud. Since it's my team, I'd put Tad Sundquist on it.

2b...Bob Bonomini...He was a star for the Crabs, started at second base, for a fair portion of my youth. I didn't even know he went to Fresno State, he could just rake and

Nobody can or will challenge Bons for this spot. I just need a middle infielder to pinch-run after he lines a single through the hole to start the 7th inning.

SS...Garth Iorg...at the time I played against them, I thought Roger Hawkins and Mike Dolf were far better players than Garth Iorg at Arcata High. And, really, everybody agreed with me about Mike Dolf...I happened to think Hawkins was better than either of them. But, heck, Iorg made it to the big leagues and that's rare for North Coast players.

I can't emphasize enough, to modern parents or players, that Garth Iorg worked hard, perservered and learned the game...and worked his way to the big league. Lots of guys who faced the same challenges he did came home with stories about how he got screwed by the organization, etc.

3B...Scott Eskra..It's my list

I don't guess that many people are reading this because Eskra's a no-brainer based on sheer ability, but maybe came up lacking in other areas. Perhaps, I should've tested the size of the readership by putting some choir buy who drank Pepsi at third base?

LF: Dane Iorg, Arcata...

I still tend to think that Dane was always considered better than his brother Lee, but that it was hip to say, "Ahh...Lee was the best player, he just wanted to do other things." Actually, Lee was the fastest of the Iorg brothers and could really play centerfield...but Dane Iorg ... maybe my favorite Humboldt Crabs player ever...and...

CF: Paul Ziegler, Fortuna...he was faster

Greg Lorenzetti, another Fortuna alum, starred at Stanford, for the Crabs and in the minor leagues. He'll be on the finished team...I think Lorenzetti and Ziegler were both Fortuna football quarterbacks and basketball players. Ziegler was point guard on a team with a tough forward named Bob Wilson -- that got into an oncourt brawl in 1975 or 1976 with a good Arcata team. Fans were on the court. It was great fun for a teen sports writer!

RF: ... Buster Pidgeon had all the tools and he starred at Eureka High and for that great 1968 Eureka American Legion team. I'm sure Harold "Buster" Pidgeon wasn't a rightfielder...but, I'm sure he gave it a shot in his time in the Phillies organization. He could run. Gary Lucich, another Eureka High guy, is actually my favorite rightfielder. I was saddened when he died way too soon. His brother Mark was the superior baseball player, but Gary used to beat everybody else off the field -- from right field -- between innings. I didn't hustle, but I thought his hustle was the greatest.

This could be a spot for one of the old-time, all-timers.

C: ...again...still thinking...John Jaso is a nice pick, and would give the Humboldt Dukes a representative (as if 3 months on the Dukes supercedes his high school. N. Humboldt Giants and college careers). But, you know Carl Del Grande was a power-hitting catcher in the 1940s. He had a nice minor league career with two organizations after he left Eureka...then, he owned and operated "The Shanty" for decades -- and, he knew my dad back when my dad was tearing up 2 Street on a pretty routine basis. Greg Kane remains difficult to overlook...because I saw him hit his home runs. And...didn't Eureka's David Stone do some catching at some point in his career? Maybe in the minor leagues?

SP: I'd start with Eureka legend Billy Olson, the lefty

St. Bernard's Greg Shanahan was the righty contemporary of Olson's. Like Olson, he starred for the Crabs and, it's noteworthy that Shanahan starred at Humboldt State College -- when the baseball field was where the Science building has been for years now. Shanahan's probably the only choice for a No. 2 starter...you go lefty-righty...different styles of pitcher.

There are going to be pitchers on this list who didn't make the Times-Standard list because very little separates guys who excel locally and then go on to bounce around the minors for a few years. Having a brief pro career doesn't mean as much to me as being a stud on the North Coast from start to finish.