Exiled in a Strange Land

Outriggers hit the water for an early morning paddle while the hummingbird observes her habitat.

The hummingbird was perched on the very same yarrow limb, facing inland. Each day when I walk to the corner for my morning salutation, we greet each other.

"I see you're waiting," I'll say.

She remains still, her needle-like beak pointing toward me. Sun rising behind her, I cannot see her eyes or finer features. She appears a silhouette.

After a moment or two, she'll flutter around performing her aerial dance, maybe circle me, then head out beyond the cliff over the water and back to her branch.

To her, this morning was like any other, save for the unusually fierce offshore wind that rattled every hanging object in our backyard last night. Election results had been coming in faster than expected and the timing of the blustering offshore seemed ominous.

My morning routine, which typically begins just before dawn in order to service Frida, includes quiet observation of the birds and critters and their routines. A family of raccoons might be crawling one-by-one into the corner storm drain for safety before daylight. Tiny wrens scoot around heater-skelter pecking for bugs and worms. Beyond the animals lies the major force of nature in our midst -- the ocean with its tidal shifts that draw from the moon.

I believe that the natural world around me stays in tune with the tides. The hummingbird knows more than I do. Frida picks up on these forces as well. We humans are so out of touch its ridiculous.

This morning the offshore wind coming from the land had a touch of warmth which means it's been hot inland. The surface of the bay was textured with mini peaks by the offshore. Surfers like it because the offshore helps shape the waves, giving them a better curl, a hollow tube.

My personal hollow feeling based on results of our National Election last night seemed a smaller deal compared to my surroundings. Of course, as white heterosexual male, I'm privileged. If I were an employed immigrant without the proper papers, I would be very nervous, even frightened. If I were a woman I would feel betrayed. Personal freedoms are at risk.

In my lifetime of nearly eight decades, I've only rejoiced over Election results a couple of times. I exiled myself and two daughters to a liberal enclave on the California coast 46 years ago, not knowing what that would lead to. I count my blessings.

Elections are like the tide: they rise and recede, ebb and flow. The ancients who studied such things unencumbered by the noise of electronic media and vicissitudes of modern life tell us that light is the other side of dark. We have reached a dark place.

This is inevitable before the light. Keep the faith. Take a walk in the woods. Keep the light shining within. A resistance is forming in the air.

 

Thanks Joe, Hello Kamala

From the redwood forests to the gulf stream waters... this land is made for you and me. Protect our natural resources and federal lands from oil drilling and development. 

Joe Biden has been the best President of my lifetime. 

He gave us hope. He brought us out of COVID when things were looking pretty bleak. He did so without rancor or vengeance. He didn't mince words, didn't pretend that everything was fine and great because he was in charge and the only one who could save us.

Inflation went sky high, yet Joe had good ideas and programs. Thanks to him and his leadership inflation has come down to pre-COVID level. 

Our infrastructure has been failing and there was a lot of jawboning before him about how devastated things were -- the word from the Great Poser was "carnage.”Rather than big talk, Joe took big action. Roads are being repaired and improved across the country. Jobs are being created. We did not fall into the recession that many economists thought we would.

Our country is finally cruising, flush with new energy. Look at the numbers. Build from the bottom up, he said, "not the top down." The trickle-down economy -- supply-side -- produced a huge gap between the rich and the poor. The trickle never reached the bottom. Those poor folks you see on the streets didn't just appear out of nowhere. They're a result of years of supply-side economics that paid the CEOs grandiose dollars while the little people -- most of them hard working -- had to secure two jobs just to stay afloat. Others turned to drugs and addiction. Yet corporations have flourished, gobbled up the little guys, killed the mom and pops.

Joe has kept us out of war during one of the most dangerous periods on earth. He's bolstered our allies and refused to pander to dictators and autocrats who would have us surrender to fascism. That is, have our nation fall victim to falsehoods, throw the intellectuals who dissent into prisons, poison them, make them disappear, keep them from speaking the truth, while enriching the plutocrats and oligarchs, the wealthy loyalists.

Joe is a decent guy. He admits when he's wrong. Country is more important to him than country clubs. Dictators of our world know he won't bend to their whims. He knows right from wrong. There's no deals being made that sacrifice our freedom and keep us under the foot of an autocrat. He knows who we are and what we stand for.

Has Joe been perfect? No one is perfect. People make mistakes and they own up. They accept losing. That's how we learn. Simple facts. Is he a great speaker? No, he's a doer, an action man.

We've got a climate crisis, a shaky international situation, threats of nuclear war and we cannot afford to have a madman in charge. The risks are too high. Our problems do not stem from too many immigrants. That is a lie and a sham. They stem from an inequality of wealth and lack of strong leaders who can see through the false screens. 

We need a leader who will build us up, not tear us down. Kamala Harris has been watching carefully taking notes, calculating what works for the real people, not the business buddies. Truth is, the other guy with the big-brand name cannot run a business without going bankrupt (6 times). He's made his fortune by selling his brand. It's phony salesmanship, a con, bitcoins and Bibles, not nuts-and-bolts business. His current business strategy is "Drill, baby, drill."

To those who believe in Mr. Big Shot, what has he ever done for you other than make you want to tear our country down? His is an emotional appeal, not fact-based realism. It's television, social media, not reality. Anyone who seeks vengeance, promotes hate, loves to insult people, is not going to help you. He's a bully.

For our future. For our planet. For the good of the world, let's elect a smart, intelligent woman who understands -- a decent, rational person. She's learned from the best and will make it better. She's a fighter.

Business Note: According to the nonpartisan Committee for a Responsible Budget, Trump's proposed lavish spending, his tariffs and tax cuts, will increase U.S. debt by $7.5 trillion, compared to Harris's plans that will amount to $3.5 trillion, through 2035. Talk about inflation! Source: the Wall Street Journal, Oct. 11, Greg Ip's column Capital Account, page 2. 

Now he is saying that the conservative Wall Street Journal has no credibility. In the real world, the WSJ understands business and basic economics better than he does.

Trump has no credibility. He is not fit to be our President. Vote in a winner! Vote Kamala!

Tracy

News arrived today that Tracy passed away. She was a girl I had known since first grade. “I guess you would say that Tracy was the star of our class,” said our longtime friend, Paul. He ended his email with, “We’re dropping like flies.”

Tracy, Paul and I were of the Class of ’65, the heart of the baby-boomers.

By star of our class, Paul was referring to Tracy’s popularity. She was petite and cute. Starting in elementary school, she was considered by an undefined consensus to be the most desirable of all the girls. Tracy was Homecoming Queen of the Class of ’65. She had been on the “court” the three previous years, since her freshman year. It was a given.

I never really knew Tracy. I never talked with her or shared a laugh. She seemed untouchable. Her boyfriends were always older and from other schools. She didn’t associate with my groups, which I guess would be the jocks and surfers. Although I was not much of a joiner. I don’t remember her at any of the school dances or hanging at the beach with the gang. She must have been there somewhere.

Tracy sat in the front of the class. Being one of the taller boys, I was stationed in the back. Plus, the nuns tried to keep the boys and girls apart. Following eight years of co-ed elementary school, we were separated in high school, sent to all-boys and all-girls institutions. I lost track of many girls with whom I’d laughed and enjoyed company, mostly the taller girls. Some I never saw again until Facebook appeared and we found ourselves at the other end of the age spectrum. Tracy was not on FB.

What had happened to her? Was she happy? Did she have children, cute little Tracys? I hope so. I hope she had a good life.

Maybe I would have gotten to know her if we had shared classroom experience in high school. I do know that Tracy married Nick. He was two years older and his family was well-connected with the local social scene. His family seemingly had money and prestige, including a house on Lido Isle in Newport Beach. It made sense that he would go after Tracy, and vice versa. Through the grapevine I heard that Nick and Tracy lost a baby in an unfortunate accident and later divorced. She left town. That was the last I heard, many years ago.

Still, Tracy’s name evokes feelings and memories of my early days. She was a bright star, recognized and bonafide. When I first met my wife Barbara, among other attributes, I was taken by her voice, its stirring resonance, a pitch of certainty and confidence. I told myself, “she sounds like Tracy.” A curious reference from the past.

Oddly enough, when I came back to earth, I realized that I had no idea of what Tracy’s voice sounded like. I heard an association that didn’t exist. I think the association was of a queen. I had met a queen.

The loss of Tracy closes the book on a chapter in my life that I never expected to see end, like the colored sands that the monks in Oaxaca carefully sprinkle on the sidewalks, creating intricate scenes, only to see them swept away with a gust of wind. A reminder of our temporal lives.

Paul was correct. We are dropping like flies. We’ve had the misfortune of losing too many from our class, although the analogy is too pejorative. Think of us as luminous stars, consciously aware of and part of our magnificent cosmos, that shine brightly and dimly and eventually burn out, leaving traces of ourselves in the minds and genes of others all connected to the greater mystery.

Paul said he knew Tracy through Kim, his girlfriend at the time. Kim stayed with Tracy and her family when Kim’s parents moved before she graduated. So we know Tracy was kind-hearted, “a nice person,” said Paul. I regret that I did not know her better.

Inside the Church

Tantum ergo sacramentum

Veneremur cernui

Et anticuum documentum

Novo cedat ritui

Praestet Fides Supplementum

Sensuum Defectui. -- Tantum Ergo  -- Medeival Gregorian chant by Thomas Aquinas

St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Pomona seen from the choir loft. Two separate altars, not visible in this photo, flare off on the right and left side of the main altar, with separate pews, forming the overall shape (looking down) of a cross.

When you were young 

and someone asked what you wanted to be when you grow up, what did you say?

It's a strange question, I think, but it was often asked. Could you be something other than yourself?

I don't know if kids today hear the same question.

I can only imagine how girls responded. In those days, the answer was probably "a mother." Maybe a teacher or a nurse. Or perhaps, in my milieu, a nun, if you felt a vocation, a calling to serve God. For a boy, to be a priest.

I grew up under the Roman Catholic regime. Many parents during the Fifties sent their children to parochial school. These schools dotted the Southern California landscape like loose rosary beads gone to sprouting seeds.

Cardinal James Francis Mcintyre served as Archbishop of Los Angeles during this post-WWII period, from 1948 to 1970. He oversaw the construction of a new Catholic church every 66 days and a new school every 26 days, according to Time Magazine.

Cardinal McIntyre became a controversial figure as an outspoken conservative on issues of civil rights. He directed priests to consult the John Birch Society regarding politics, especially the threat of communism. As an anti-abortion advocate, he advised California Governor Ronald Reagan.

A triple-arched bell tower from which chimes ring every half hour enhance the Mission Mediterranean architecture of St. Joseph's Church.

My hometown of Pomona, located at the eastern boundary of Los Angeles County, was beneficiary of this rapid growth of Catholic churches and schools. One of the most magnificent churches in Southern California popped up on Holt Avenue, the main drag through town. In fairness, there were several large formidable Protestant churches along this stretch as well. You couldn't miss St. Joseph's on the west side. The church appeared like a miraculous Spanish cathedral on the dusty Camino de Santiago. Intimidating, but nonetheless, a refuge.

The building was erected on an 18-acre parcel of Catholic-owned property that included St. Joseph's Grammar School, plus full-sized athletic fields for baseball, a running track and a fully-lighted football field where the Pomona Catholic Spartans, on Friday nights in autumn, battled such rivals as the mighty Monarchs of Mater Dei. The complex also featured a swimming pool with diving boards as well as a Little League Field with a green-board home run fence where local baseball legend Joe Keough grooved his picture-perfect left-handed swing.

I spent many an hour playing on those fields and swimming in the pool. I found repose and spirituality inside the church. The school was a few steps away, similarly designed to the California mission schools of the Franciscan padres.

The single-story school featured tile roofs and shady colonnades with drinking fountains and cold water so refreshing during hot September days when temperatures climbed into the 100s. Here I learned religion and the three-Rs -- reading, writing and arithmetic, taught mostly by Felician Sisters in black habits and wool robes that touched their black shoes, prohibiting the slightest hint of an ankle. There were two classes for each grade, with 50-60 students, boys and girls, filling a classroom. 

I attended first-through-eighth grade at St. Joseph's, which was named after Rancho San Jose, the original Mexican settlement in what would become, in 1888, the town of Pomona, coinciding with arrival of the Southern Pacific railroad. 

The parish was established in 1871 and became a mission station. Mission San Gabriel Arcangel, the fourth of 21 California missions founded by Spanish Franciscan priests, was located about 20 miles west toward Los Angeles along the corridor of what would be called the San Gabriel Mountain Range.

The cathedral-like St. Joseph's Church on west Holt Avenue -- the third St. Joseph's church in town -- was built in the early Fifties to meet and promote the tremendous population growth in the vast L.A. basin. During construction I watched large cranes hoist the huge wooden rafters. Completed in 1956, the church included a polished outside entry area with intricate mosaics. Inside, colorful religious-themed stained glass windows refracted outdoor light into the cavernous indoors that included a ceiling that rose several stories toward Heaven.

In the rear of the church, above the pews and congregation, Mr Johnson's mellifluous tenor reached heavenly notes accompanied by a pipe organ. I listened with my whole body, chilled by the Latin words from another time and place, so beautiful, so profound, Agnus Dei (lamb of God). The music soared throughout the building, acoustically pristine, like fluttering doves nestling into every corner altar and into the hearts and souls of devout parishioners. Or so I believed.

I felt a natural high from the aromatic burning of frankincense during benediction, Tantum ergo sacramentum (therefore, go greatly the sacrament). To this day, a whiff of frankincense takes me there. I loved singing with my class -- our young, angelic voices rising together consuming the church.

St Joseph’s parish became one of the largest in the Los Angeles Archdiocese. Our Pastor, Father Thomas P. English, was elevated to Monsignor for growing his parish. He himself was elevated at 6-foot-6. Fully adorned in purple and gold vestments with black four-corner biretta resting on his head, he towered with royal demeanor. I never saw him smile; rather a closed-lipped clearing of the throat. As an altar boy, I feared him.

I preferred Father (James) Murphy, a dark-haired handsome man whose brother Bill coached elementary school sports and served as a groundskeeper. Bill Murphy loved the kids, even took our team to the movies on Saturday night. I heard that Father Murphy eventually left the Church, with Mrs. Ortega.

In 2003, Church records were released that Msgr. English had been accused of sexual abuse of a minor in 1969. The Archdiocese determined the allegation to be unfounded. However, in 2018 his named appeared on the LA Archdiocese list of clergy credibly accused of sexual abuse. I was never sexually abused by a priest. Although you might say I was sexually abused by Catholicism, starting with mortal guilt for "impure thoughts."

During the 1960s, the Roman Catholic Church, in a nod to modernizing, changed the liturgy from Latin to English. Cardinal McIntyre, a traditionalist, fought it to no avail. The transition contributed to my leaving the Church. I felt it had lost its ritual and spiritual magic. I slowly let go of Catholicism.

St. Joseph's Church and School continue to serve Pomona to this day. A high school friend who became a Catholic priest told me at a recent reunion that the congregation is much smaller and more ethnic. I was surprised to find myself saddened by this. 

My memories from those Church days remain fond: my classmates, the CYO sports championships we shared, watching the high school games and dreaming of being out there someday; learning right from wrong, being introduced to the English language and its rules of grammar; listening to Sister Gualberta's stories and loving geography because Mrs. Rousch was such a wonderful and enthusiastic teacher.

I never wanted to be a priest, although the question did cross my mind.

Note: The late Santa Cruz author James D. Houston had a theory that many writers come from religious backgrounds, having a close relative who was a minister, priest or such. He made a long, impressive list of these writers from Herman Melville to Amy Tan. Houston believed that scripture, the Word, was the connection, the prompt to find truth by stringing sentences together. I know that my paternal grandfather, although I never met him, was a Presbyterian minister, and my mother's brother, whom I did know, was a Jesuit priest. Perhaps that has something to do with my calling and why I write these blog posts.

I used to say amen. Now I say namaste.

These Days

Frida

Well, I've been out walking

I don't do that much talking these days

these days

These days I seem to think a lot

About the things I forgot to do for you

And the times I had a chance to -- Jackson Browne

Can't you see I'm sleeping?

I'll slip into a nice breathing pattern, eyes shut, mind floating in that beautiful dream space and, bingo! He'll say, "Come on, let's go."

I get it. He needs to move, to walk, to stretch those knobby hairy legs. My part of the deal is go with him, care and watch out for him. I'd hate to see him slip, trip and fall. I can't pick him up but I could fetch help.

I open my eyes to let him know I'm awake. Just give me a second, would ya. Sometimes he acts panicky, like I might be dead.

He's really not a bad guy. Once we're on the sidewalk his perspective broadens, and the smells for me are rich, fragrant and abundant. Good reading material.

We're both in our twilight years, a time to slow down.

This ain't no race, you know, a contest to see who arrives there first. I mean, where's there, anyway? There's no there there. It's an early grave, if you ask me. 

He's gotten a lot better, but it's taken some holding him back. I might be investigating a curious whiff in the rosemary or lavender. So I hold my ground, leash taught. Then he'll start waving his hands and arms like a windmill. His signal to come, get moving. Okay, okay already.

Sometimes he'll stop and stare. At nothing. Or the osprey on the limb at the top of the Norfolk pine on the corner he's so fascinated with. 

I go for the dirt,  the ground, baby, that's where the roots burrow and spread and smells fester. Just follow your nose, that's my mantra. He's an eye guy, his nose as useless as a broken chew toy. I shouldn't say, "useless." Having sensory challenges is sad.

Yesterday we met this new guy he likes to shoot the breeze with. I knew they would hit it off and it took some maneuvering on my part to push them together. They smell alike. I don't think they know that. They believe it's mental, a meeting of the minds. Right.

Granted, they're both oddballs. 

The new guy's name is Harry. Not Harold or Harrison or Hari Christmas, for god's sake. Just Harry. I meander toward him instinctively knowing they will click. the convergence of two wayward stars.

I brush my shoulder against the guy, with the subtlety of an artful dodger. Some guys would step back. My move can be interpreted as aggressive unless performed gracefully, which I, in all modesty, know how to do.

Harry shows kindness, shoots me a glance followed by a pat and hug. Touch is the thing. I can read a touch seconds before it happens. We're standing at an overlook with a view of the beach.

"The waves look good," says Harry.

"Yes, they're getting some good rides," says my guy.

"Do you surf?" asks Harry.

"I try to keep my feet wet," says my guy.

I roll my eyes. He's obsessed. We're down here day and night checking the waves. He'll never stop talking about it now. I fold my legs and ease my tired body onto the cool, luxurious dirt. My turn to wait. He needs the human contact.

Osprey with a catch

Rewind.

I know she needs to rise, keep moving so she won't freeze up, I tell myself, as I look upon her languid, peaceful body. tail curled beneath her.

"Come on, it's time to go." I'm really doing this for her. She's aged and slowing down, you know.

I see her hind legs struggle for purchase. I lean over and help by pulling her up, her foot pads slipping, toes splaying on the hardwood floor beneath her. She weighs about 70-lbs. I feel a twinge in my back.

She'll only walk about a block; it's a matter of which direction. I don't want to wear her out. She loves sniffing the rosemary, so I head inland, ambulate slowly in mother-may-I baby steps. I take a moment to check the osprey who's become a neighborhood celebrity.

I've never seen him catch a fish, but he has soared overhead, his broad wings spread, a fish dangling from his talons, swooping low before arriving atop the telephone poll on the corner for a bird's eye meal. I can't take my eyes off the majesty of the predator. 

My walking partner doesn't notice. Too busy sniffing scents of her brethren who have marked territory along the way. She pauses, points her regal nose, stares into space. In dim light, early morning or late evening, I wonder if she's caught the scent of a raccoon. Maybe the spell of a memory or deja vu.

Poor girl. She's practically deaf. I signal her by waving my hands, pointing and gesturing like a road worker directing traffic. It really seems to help. She gets it.

Her regularity has changed in her old age, which means I need to carry plenty of doggie bags for emergencies which could happen at any impractical time or place. The other day it happened in the middle of the crosswalk with a motorist waiting, watching, his foot patiently pressing the brake pedal. 

Hey. I'm simply caring for an old girl who needs a little assistance. I think she's as embarrassed as I am. Most drivers understand. I think she does, too. Understand, that is, how I care for her these days.

 

The Mouse Trap

There's a rascal in the house.

It's no use setting a trap.

I know where he sleeps. That is, when he sleeps. Which is a moving target.

I just have to be on my game.

He's always on his game.

I didn't ask for this contest.

It simply happens, like the way morning fog burns off. You never know for sure when.

Yesterday he was in the car. Easy target, you say. I was driving. I didn't have a chance.

I couldn't just pull over on the freeway and grab him.

He knew that.

He cuddled up next to his big sister, closed his eyes and slept like an angel.

He's not quite 6 and knows more than I think he knows. Which is a lot of information in that adorable little head.

He's got this killer smile that will melt your bad mood like ice cream on a hot summer sidewalk.

He loves ice cream. As do I. We have that in common.

I'm much older, taller and stronger but he always wins.

His mother warned us about his obsession, for sweets.

Thankfully, he does carry a toothbrush. He's a smart little fella. 

He's only been in town for a couple of weeks and he already knows the roads better than I do.

"Why are you turning here?" he asked this morning.

"It's a different way home." I said.

"I've never gone this way before."

"I wanted to see the volleyball players on the beach."

That gave me an extra second. He opened the car window. I thought he was going to escape.

I had treated him and his sister to donuts. Big mistake.

I figured you got to do donuts at some point. The glorious sight and tantalizingly fresh-baked aroma of a case of colorfully dressed donuts are something every child should experience at least once with grandpa. That’s what we’re for, right?

Yes, it was my idea. 

Yes again, I paid -- for more than the donuts.

He didn’t finish the extra-large donut with pink frosting and sprinkles. He stopped a couple of bites short, tossed it into a bag with his big sister's half-eaten extra-large chocolate-frosted donut.

Well past lunchtime he had not eaten anything more. No protein. Nada. Too busy. Too fricken busy.

I feared he would dismantle the heirloom antique lamp. When he finally settled down.

"You should never have eaten that donut," said Koko, his grandma.

"It's not my fault," he said with an ear-to-ear smile. Lolo made me do it.”

That's what he calls me. You might as well call me the Mouse.

Zeke from Cabin Creek

Jerry West releases his patented jump shot over Walt Frazier of the New York Knicks. PHOTO:WALTER IOOSS, JR., SPORTS ILLUSTRATED GETTY IMAGES

A whole bunch of air burst out of the basketball today with the news that Jerry West died at age 86.

We thought he'd live forever.

We thought he was younger than 86.

I bet he could still shoot a fine jump shot.

He probably played a stellar round of golf yesterday.

He could do it all.

He's a main reason why the National Basketball Association (NBA) has survived so long as a model organization of community service, interracial cooperation and high-level athletics.

There have been some rough years but it wasn't Jerry's fault. He introduced the professional game to the mainstream when the Lakers arrived in Los Angeles in 1960, coming from Minneapolis, Minnesota, the land of a thousand lakes. There are no lakes in L.A.

Jerry came from the sticks of West Virginia. He led the University of West Virginia to the NCAA Finals. Still brushing coal dust off his shoulders, he took LA by storm and sheer talent. He spoke about how he and Lakers' superstar Elgin Baylor became fast friends. They formed a duo on the court that nearly knocked out the mighty Boston Celtics led by Bill Russell in six consecutive playoff Finals. Alas, Jerry and Elgin came up a bucket or two short each time. 

It was two against six. The Celtics introduced the concept of the sixth man with Frank Ramsey and later John Havilcek. West and Baylor didn't have a center anywhere near the equivalent of Russell. No one did. Until the Lakers acquired Wilt Chamberlain in 1970 and later Kareen Abdul Jabbar and even later Shaquille O'Neal. Jerry was instrumental in those acquisitions.

By that time he had become a Hall of Fame player, coach, broadcaster, general manager, talent scout and the guy you wanted to be a part of your organization.

In the early years, colorful Lakers broadcaster Chick Hearn gave West the nickname, "Zeke from Cabin Creek." 

The story was that he had grown up in Cabin Creek, West Virginia, where he honed his famous jump shot in a yard with a hoop on the side of a barn.

"Look at those arms," said Chick. "He fits into a 38-inch sleeve."

At almost six-foot three-inches, Jerry's arms were long for his height and gave him the advantage of being able to shoot his jump shot over taller defenders like Walt Frazier and Oscar Robertson. That jump shot came into play at the end of close games. The ball almost always went in, earning him a new moniker: Mr. Clutch.

I loved Jerry. Everybody did.

In 1969, when the Celtics beat the Lakers once again by one basket, West scored 42 points, grabbed 13 rebounds and dished 12 assists. He averaged 37.9 point per game during the Finals. Even though the Lakers lost, he was named the MVP of the series. As rare as a full court shot. He did sink a half court basket to send the game into overtime. Mr. Clutch.

Russel and West, Black and white, embraced following the game. Russell called Jerry "the greatest player in the game."

This was high drama. And so much fun to watch.

We moved out of the LA Area in 1970 to the Bay Area. I continued to follow the NBA and began cheering for the local Golden State Warriors, a team that cut a dreary cloth compared to the bright, high-performance Lakers with Jerry West and their new center, Wilt (formerly The Stilt) Chamberlain.

I was able to score fourth-row mid-court seats to Warriors games through the San Jose Mercury News where I was employed. Seriously, not many seemed to care about the Warriors at that time. When the Lakers came to town I jumped on it.

For the first time I was able to watch the Lakers up close as they outclassed the Warriors. I watched the gigantic Wilt warming up on the court. Well over 7-feet, the basketball appeared the size of a softball in his enormous hands.

I watched Jerry lead a fast break. I peered into his eyes. I had never seen such intensity. You could tell that he was calculating everything happening on the court in that split second as he charged in full control.

The game was not a match, more a comparison of a finely oiled machine against a loose bunch of big men who played basketball. I found myself cheering for the underdog Warriors, my newly adopted team.

My spouse Linda, whom I had known almost as long as I knew Jerry West, commented to me.

"Why are you rooting for the Warriors? What about Jerry?"

I've bounced that comment around in my head for years. Had I become unfaithful? In her eyes I had.

I don't believe so. I sincerely wanted the Warriors to win that game. But it didn't diminish by any stretch my loyalty to or admiration for Jerry West.

That Lakers team went on to win the NBA Championship for the first time in LA history. Jerry West had finally won a much deserved title. He went on to contribute to the league in many ways, including as a consultant for the Golden State Warriors.

He was always there. A silhouette image of him dribbling down court became the logo for the league. The modern era players knew him as The Logo. Although he never felt comfortable with the concept of one player representing the NBA.

I bet in Basketball Heaven his buddies will simply call him The Man.