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 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 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.