The Perfect Birdbath

PHOTO:BBS

My wife Barbara has a thing for birdbaths She can't get enough of them.

It's a simple equation for her: the more birdbaths the more birds will come to bathe, flutter their wings, and fly away to tell other birds who will also come. Pretty soon our backyard will be the most popular bird spa in the neighborhood, with flocks of chirping, happy sparrows, wrens, robins and finches.  Or something like that.

I really don't know. Because I'm a klutz. I break birdbaths. Typically made of clay and shaped like a fancy dish on a pedestal, birdbaths are very fragile. If you bump into a birdbath, the dish will likely fall off the pedestal and crack into irreparable fragments.

I know, because I've made that happen. Not willingly. I would never consciously hurt a birdbath. I'm all for putting them on the endangered species -- or endangered crafted pieces -- list. It's just that birdbaths jump out at me when I pass them.

That's what happened some years ago to Barbara's favorite birdbath which resulted in a broken dish, her broken heart and my broken manhood. The concave platter where the birdies bathed, ribbed along its circumference like a pie crust, fell and cracked into pizza-like wedges. And, like Humpty Dumpty, they couldn't be put together again. Only the pedestal remained, a pillar of stability.

If only I could say that about myself. I've prayed to the great Thunderbird in the sky for redemption.

Then one bright morning, while innocently riding our bicycles and enjoying the warmth of sunshine and the fragrances of ripening oranges and lemons on trees, Barbara suddenly exclaimed:

"Look, there's a birdbath just like mine!"

I turned to see, and sure enough, lying in a patch of tall grass next to the sidewalk was a birdbath dish without its pedestal. It was barely visible, but exactly the same as the one I had broken. 

It obviously belonged to an inhabitant of the house upon whose front yard it lay. 

"Maybe they would like to get rid of it," offered Barbara, hopefully. We continued on our way, discussing a strategy of how to approach the issue, agreeing that we come back again soon. It was a favorite route since we have friends who reside on the same street.

On subsequent bicycle trips, the birdbath dish remained, seemingly untouched and certainly without water. One day when I passed by while walking our dog, Frida, I saw a woman and a small boy out front of the house.

"Hi," I said. "I was wondering if that is your birdbath?" I pointed to the dish on the ground practically overgrown with unruly flora.

"It belongs to someone else who lives here," she said. "It belongs to Shing."

"The animals come by to drink water from it," said the little boy, in a heartfelt voice.

We had never seen any water in the dish. But we had seen five or six cars parked in the wide driveway of the two-story house.

"Well," I said, "my wife has the other part to it -- the pedestal. It would be a great gift for her." I confirmed with the woman the name, Shing, as owner of the birdbath, before she and the little fella drove away.

The next time I passed the house, on MLK's birthday holiday, a tall, thin elderly man was out front. I remember the day because there was a "Black Lives Matter" flag I hadn't seen before hoisted on the garage.

"Hi," I said. He noted me with a quizzical gleam in his eyes, his tan skin creased by the sun.

"I was wondering if that is your birdbath?"

"It belongs to my wife," he answered.

I explained our situation and how Barbara would love to have the birdbath, since she has the pedestal for that exact dish. I didn't mention that I had broken the dish.

His expression lightened. "That's really nice of you to ask," he said, acknowledging that it would be easy to steal. "I'll talk to my wife and let you know. I'll leave a note on the dish for you. What's your name?"

I told him my name and asked for his. "Rocky."

"Great. Thanks, Rocky."

I was excited to tell Barbara. So we made several subsequent trips by the house, each time finding the empty birdbath but no note. Although we continued to pass the house, our hopes began to dim.

Then one day while riding by on my bike I saw Rocky. I called his name and mentioned the birdbath.

"Oh, I forgot to ask my wife," he said. "Write a note to me and leave it on the porch, so it won't blow away." 

Upon hearing this latest development, Barbara found a piece of cardboard on which she designed a sweet, colorful plea for the birdbath with ribbons and bows, mentioning that she had the pedestal for it.

I dropped it off on Rocky's front porch.

A couple of days later Barbara received a text from a woman who lived at the house. She said she was not the owner of the birdbath but would ask the person who is. Signed, Eve.

Barbara and I looked at each other in disbelief. Why didn't she just give the note to the owner of the birdbath? She was another intermediary. We had addressed three different inhabitants of the house without getting to the source. 

I felt as though we were in the midst of an abstruse Raymond Chandler caper in which personas faded in and around a residence of characters, none of whom were capable of divulging a hidden truth that only a mysterious majordomo -- a queen bee -- might reveal, at the cost of driving us crazy while the object of our desire sat in full view, like a pie on a window sill, too easy to purloin.

On our next trip by the house, where the empty birdbath still lay unmoved, we decided that Barbara should give it one last try, and follow up with the person who had texted her. Had she heard anything from the owner of the birdbath?

We stopped by our friends' house on our way home. Matt was out front. Barbara recounted the mystery of the birdbath, which at that point, seemed unsolvable, when suddenly her cell phone pinged.

The message said. "The birdbath is yours. Happy birds are on the way!"

We were less than a block from the house. Had she been watching us, surreptitiously, from an upstairs window? The timing was uncanny.

Elated, Barbara replied: "Yay! We will give it a good home!"

We raced home, I jumped into my car and drove back to the house of many cars and the prized bird spa, picked it up and brought it to our backyard, very carefully.

We cleaned it and placed it on its pedestal, filled it with water. Barbara texted back a photo of the completed birdbath --pedestal and dish -- with the words "happy, happy, happy birds! Thank you!" 

Eve's reply was swift:

"Perfect!!!"

I hope to God that I don't break it. 

The Long Ball

"Hank Aaron is the only man I idolize more than myself." -- Muhammed Ali 

Henry "Hank" Louis Aaron died this week at age 86, one of the greatest baseball players of all time who began his career in the Negro League in 1951 with the Indianapolis Clowns.

Everyone who grew up during the 1950s and 60s knew the name Hank Aaron. It was period when baseball was truly the American pastime. I remember Sister Gualberta suspending class so that we could listen to the '57 World Series on the radio while sitting at our desks.

The New York Yankees were playing the Milwaukee Braves and the names Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Warren Spahn, Eddie Mathews and Hank Aaron filled the hot, stale classroom air. Our inland, valley town of Pomona would reach into the 90s and sometimes 100-degrees in September and early October. 

Following 30-minutes of running on asphalt for recess, we repaired in our classroom, my arms wet with perspiration as I laid them on the top of my desk. Whiffs of bologna in wax paper left over from lunch lingered from metal lunch pails in the cloak room, while the excitable voice of the broadcaster calling the game from the small electronic box held our attention. Windows would be cracked open. We had no air conditioning to cool us down. 

Neither did we have any thoughts about the color of the players' skin. Baseball was a major sport and everyone seemed interested. At least the room was silent to listen. I wondered if the girls really liked it, or if it was just unique free time to draw or daydream? The World Series was being beamed into our classroom. How cool was that.

When I think back to those names today, I realize that Hank Aaron was the only Black player who comes to mind from that Series, which the Braves won in seven games. In that seventh game, Aaron had two hits in five at-bats, one run-batted-in (RBI) and scored a run himself. His batting average for the 7-game Series topped all players with an impressive .394.

It was a big deal for Milwaukee to beat the vaunted New York Yankees. Aaron won the National League's Most Valuable Player honor.

He went on to break Babe Ruth's career home run record at 755, but it was his steady batting of 3,771 hits (third all-time) that produced 2,297 runs through 23 seasons that made "Hammerin Hank" so valuable. He didn't have the flash of Willie Mays or a name like Mickey Mantle.

After he completed the 1973 season with 713 career home runs, getting ever closer to breaking the Babe's record, he began receiving death threats. He wasn't worried about his home-run count. "My only fear," he said, "is that I might not live to see 1974."

I remember hearing about those threats and having a hard time understanding that such discrimination still existed.  I was living in my own small, white bubble, realizing that racial prejudice did exist but not being affected by it. It was an issue for "them" not me. 

So it was that the most consistently productive yet quiet and understated baseball player of an era, who weathered discrimination and came near being killed for the color of his skin, died during the week of President Joe Biden's inauguration, that included the first dark-skinned, Afro-Asian female Vice President, Kamala Harris. 

One week earlier our nation's Capitol was the site of an attempted take-over by insurrectionists, white supremacists and conspiracy kooks, instigated by a President of the United States. In between the two events we celebrated Martin Luther King's birthday. 

As a nation, I feel as though we have rounded second base and are heading for third. Mr. Aaron did his job. Thank you, sir, may you rest in peace.

"We shall overcome because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." -- Rev. Martin Luther King

Facing Future

"Nothing is free in the land of the free." -- Russell Banks

Like a drug addict who can't take one hit without wanting one more, I don't seem capable of opening Facebook without making a single comment and letting it go. I want more. Combined with my seemingly insatiable curiosity about what's happening in cybersphere, Facebook is my entry drug.

Through FB I've reconnected with friends, relatives and classmates from as far back as first grade, before stereophonic sound, before Elvis and the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. There is an inherent bond with those "friends" that transports me into a pure and wistful nostalgia as though time stands still.

My hometown of Pomona, Calif., has a FB group page with historic photos, stories of people I remember, places where I grew up, purchased my first bicycle, experienced my first date and played sports  It is a tremendously popular page. I voyeuristically revisit those early years through the simple touch of a keystroke.

These are elements of FB that I enjoy, where I get my "high." I realize I'm exposing myself to huge audience of advertisers, spies, voyeurs and trolls who doubtless do not have my best interests in mind, nor my family's. Yet I continue to happily hand over free personal information to them: what I "like" "love" what makes me "laugh" and "care" and say "wow" about.  Sometimes with a photo of myself, just to confirm my identity. 

You're welcome, FB.

I watched the 2020 Netflix film, The Social Dilemma, about the evils of FB, most notably the motivations behind building a mega storehouse of personal data about private citizens.  Don't fool yourself, they say, the platform is not designed for our personal welfare but the well being of FB. Most convincing are the producers of the film -- the same folks who were involved in the creation of social media -- who have quit FB, and presumably all social media. 

The've hightailed it to Hawaii and live in multi-million-dollar yurts amid plumeria, breadfruit and papaya trees. With good wifi connections.

After several years of being an active user, I quit FB cold-turkey a couple of months before the election. Buoyed by my initial enthusiasm, I was able to let go for a few weeks, not even sneak a peek of what my friends were up to. I felt relief. That lasted until shortly following the election, when I chose to browse through my FB news feed.

I found the familiar look-at-me posts from the usual suspects. What a life some have, compared to my modest accomplishments. It's an easy habit. I've posted my share of look-at-me's. The realization hits that those who are truly successful do not post on FB.

I've tried to keep my number of "friends" low -- around 200 -- and hold that figure to people I actually know, rather than assemble an impressive number to show the reach of my popularity, or expand my "audience." Easier said than done. You meet new friends and want to keep in touch, share your thoughts and experiences. You receive friend requests from those who share your opinions. Do you "friend" them? 

My wife, who is not on FB, gives me that skeptical look: "Do you really have 200 friends?"

Since we're locked down and sheltering, FB makes socializing easy. Being a news junkie, I also enjoy catching items that I would otherwise miss. Thru FB, I discovered the astute and incredible daily reporting of Heather Cox Richardson. I also found myself in an uncomfortable tet-a-tet with an old friend. We worked it out, acknowledging two different political-cultural realities.

A recent piece in the New York Times how FB incubated insurrection presents a documented argument of the power and influence of FB through spreading propaganda. Some individuals seeking recognition and acceptance find status and popularity by posting conspiracy theories. Apparently there's a wide audience for grievance. Group pages are more difficult to monitor, they can spread conspiracies like a novel virus.

My hometown group page is carefully monitored by a "web master." Incendiary and political opinions are not allowed. I realize this is a good thing that will likely ensure longevity and credibility for the page. Although easier on the nerves, it still fixes you in the FB nexus.

My dilemma of whether or not to use FB is a question of will power. Can I be a "light user"? Can I refrain from jumping into political spats, not post photos of everywhere I go, control my urge to proselytize, while continuing to scan my news feed, offering a "like" here and there? Keep it simple. 

My birthday came and I received many kind wishes. It felt good, and humbling, on an otherwise hapless day of bad news and isolation during COVID. 

Can I have a daily glass of wine without becoming a wino? 

If a tree falls somewhere on FB and I don't know about it, did it really fall?

I'll just take a quick look-see. No harm in that.

 

Feeding the Beast

This wasn't a made-for-TV event. It was a TV-made event. --  comment from a media pundit

In the midst of the worst pandemic in 100-years, as the death rate rises daily in the United States, an angry mob stormed the Capitol building in an attempt to stop Joe Biden's confirmation by Congress as newly-elected president.

Can anyone be surprised that this insurrection was incited by the current president. I think not.

Following four years of lies, deceit, bigotry, bullying, demagoguery, cruelty, pardoning of criminal pals and more, ironically, it took a day-long TV show to prompt supporters of this president to cry "uncle." We've had enough. You really are a bad boy. He of the TV reality medium.

The audience was world-wide, with viewers sheltering in their homes watching the live action on their televison screens. It's no secret who is responsible for this mayhem. It's not a revelation.

I cringe when I see the president's enablers, finally, call him out. I take no heart in watching his VP Mike Pence, his ever loyal boot-licker, denounce him. Pence had no other choice. This isn't noble or brave. It's an attempt to save face. 

The Republican Party has become Trump's party. Now they want to brush him off their sleeves because of a TV show that has left an indelible stain. Those are your voters rioting and vandalizing the Capitol building. You have helped enable them by supporting a fake president whose very first words following his 2016 inauguration were a big fat lie. 

"This was the largest turnout for a presidential inauguration in history," he proclaimed.

The Washington Post began counting his lies, the number of which could match the population of our nation, one lie for every citizen, or every day he's been in office.

The faithfully conservative editorial board of the Wall Street Journal today called for the president to resign, while in the same breath denouncing the Democrats for trying to impeach him and calling the Russian investigation of interference in his election a partisan ploy. 

The truth is always lurking somewhere closer to the pocketbook. 

For the Wall Street Journal, owned by super conservative and wealth-stricken Rupert Murdoch, Trump kept financial regulation at bay. The fat cats got their tax breaks. The "haves" became richer while the "have-nots" waited in line for food to feed their families.

Over at Murdoch's Fox News, the president made their ratings soar, bringing in hundreds of millions of dollars for Murdoch and their "talent" who gave the president his daily briefings. He received his information, not from his intelligence staff, but from Tucker Carlson and Sean Hannity, who have become multi-millionaires.

The conspiracy kooks and loonies were feeding the beast. Fox ratings soared. Advertisers salivated to reach the audience.

Follow the money.

The truth doesn't incite the conspiracy theorists, lunatics and the uninformed. The truth doesn't make them feel good. They need to be angry. They need something to hate. That's what reels in the audience. Trump won the election. It was stolen!

On Wednesday when my cell phone alerted me that the Capitol was being stormed by an angry mob, I was in a public place. A man near me received a call on his phone. He was probably in his sixties, not wearing a mask, in blue jeans, sweat shirt and a baseball-style cap. 

"Has anyone been killed?" he asked.

He wore earplugs through which he received more information about the scene in Washington.

"I hope they kill a couple of them," he said.

I turned to look at him. I guessed that we was calling for the death of at least two legislators. I could be wrong, but asking for anyone's death made me sick. Many of these characters are the same ones who raise their fists against abortion.

When I woke up on Thursday, thinking about what had transpired the day before, I still felt ill. Did that whole scene really happen?

The riots in Washington this week were perfect television theater that will go down in infamy. It took a live, in-color show to finally crack the Republican Party. Watching thugs walk through the nation's capitol waving confederate flags should be a reminder of our tremendous division, and our recalcitrant progress since the Civil War. All inspired by our president, who watched the rioting on TV without a word of condemnation.

Perhaps the most encouraging news of the week was the election of the first Black person from the Deep South to the U.S. Senate: Raphael Warnock. Congratulations, Senator! Coupled with Jon Ossoff's victory, the two newly elected Georgians give Democrats control of the Senate. Their victories were assisted by the president who continued to call the elections a fraud, discouraging many of his own party from voting.

He will be remembered for his own self-destruction, a loser in every sense of the word. His followers will carry on, as long as there is media to make a buck off of them.

.

Mindfulness for a New Year

, 

                                                                                                                                Photo by Helen Lindsey

If enlightenment is not where you are standing, where will you find it? -- old Buddhist saying

I recently received a photograph of a beautiful gate from a friend, Helen Lindsey, with the words "Let's open the gate to a new year." The gate was made of wood with a pagoda-like header, surrounded by lovely plants and reminded me of a gate leading to a Buddhist temple.

It communicated to me a serene, grounded feeling as well as a sense of mystery, and the opportunity to enter a new place.

Gates are of course symbolic of entry into something different. Christianity embraces the idea of gates. There are the Gates to Heaven, where St. Peter checks you in, if you're so fortunate to be on his list. Conversely, there are  the Gates to Hell, and you know what that means, and the character who resides amidst the raging flames, ever ready to tempt your base desires, which supposedly will lead you inside his inferno.

Over the years I have let go of those gates. Letting go of bad juju, however it clings to your person, is advised by my Zen teacher.

My teacher would also point out that you cannot have Heaven without Hell, or good without bad, light without dark. Our duality of language defines its opposite, lest everything be the same. But, if everything is the same why would we want to fight, or steal or win? These are human games we play. We are very clever and much too smart for our own good.

Yet games are fun in themselves. In their essence, we find ourselves. Not to boast or gloat or humiliate but just to be in the moment, that thrill of being alive. To compete for the sake of competing. As cliche as it might sound, “it’s the journey not the destination."

When this Covid thing started there was talk of us slowing down and appreciating the simpler elements of life, like the feeling of sunshine on your skin when you're cold, or the flavor of the first bite of a good burrito, or the sensation of endorphins rushing through your body after exercise,  the comforting sound of a nostalgic song or melody ...

...  or perhaps the touch of the hand of someone you love, or maybe the sensual curve in a work of art or bend in a river, the scent of incense in a quiet room or fresh apple pie in your oven, a knowing smile from a friend, the satisfaction of making something with your own hands.

Handmade gate by Chris Meehan

I believe there is an essence, “life force,” that is inside each one of us, that holds us all together. My Zen teacher calls it a "suchness." It exists outside of language. Our community, our planet and our universe are all part of this totality. 

Have you ever wondered about the coincidences in your life? Why you find yourself among like-minded people? How the fickle finger of fate has determined who you are? Each tiny element in your life has been a factor in forming you.

This is a beautiful thing. We are all different, yet alike. Remember our duality of language. There can be no same without different. This is the irony of who we are. This concept can be embraced through the metaphor of a gate.

Let us open the gate to better understanding of both our limits and our unlimited imaginations and how they can bring us, and hold us, together.

As an elder -- a kupuna in Hawaiian -- I like to believe that I am wiser as the years go by, that I must have learned something over seven-plus decades. My wisdom, if I can be so bold, has taught me to listen, consider, not fall victim to anger, be forgiving of others and myself. I am still working on compassion and understanding and I hope to be there sooner than later.

Twenty-twenty has not been a good year for understanding since our common reality was not only challenged, but called a "hoax," by a false leader.

My teacher would remind me that enlightenment is transitory. Anyone who walks around claiming to be enlightened is most likely a charlatan. 

Here's hoping 2021 will be our year. Simply enter the gate while being mindful of each precious step.

"In making the handle

 of an axe

By cutting wood with an axe

The model is indeed near at hand."

                      from 'Wen Fu' by Lu Ji, Fourth Century AD     

"When making an axe handle

The pattern is not far off."   

                     Ezra Pound, 1915     

"We'll shape the handle

By checking the handle

Of the axe we cut with"

                        Gary Snyder, 1983

Real Men Don't Wear Coconut Bras

Island Joe and the Aloha Boys. PHOTO:BBS

Remember when we could get together and party? Let our hair down and dance around? Rub shoulders, press the flesh and even hug?

Those were the days, my friend, they seem to have come to an end.

At least through this holiday season.

Which reminds me of a holiday gig some years ago at the fabulous Cocoanut Grove Ballroom on the Main Beach in Santa Cruz, the very same ballroom where the Royal Hawaiian Orchestra played on opening night in 1907. Over the years the stage has been graced with the likes of Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Les Brown, Merv Griffin, Count Basie, the Beach Boys, the Talking Heads and local favorites, the Clamtones.

This was a private affair for employees and guests of the Seaside Company, parent of the historic Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.

This annual, gala event was the most well-attended and looked-forward-to occasion of the year for Seaside employees, strewn with good cheer, plenty of tinsel, lots of cool prizes, champagne, cocktails, awards, and a four-entre' banquet with numerous sides the likes of a Las Vegas Strip casino, including carefully prepared desserts under the direction of the grove's exceptional pastry chef. Think fluffy cream puffs, lemon cakes and piled-high decadent chocolate confections. 

Guests were dressed to the nines in their jackets, ties, dresses and gowns. Photos were taken. The Bay View Room sizzled with conversation and good cheer.

With bellies full and moods juiced with libations, let the entertainment begin!

I should preface this section of my story by telling you that I was employed in the Marketing Dept. of the Seaside Company for nearly 17 years, during which I was initiated and became inebriated by the spirit of fun. Having fun was our motto. It was not forced fun, more an organic, spontaneous cheerfulness from the top down.

We were a classic seaside amusement park and our product was nostalgia and FUN!

"Howz it goin?" the president of the company, Charles Canfield, would greet me in the hallway with a big smile. He took me to play golf at his private club. One time he even ran into a ravine covered with poison oak to retrieve my errant golf ball.

"See what he does for you," remarked a fellow golfer.

It was true. It was like being a kid again. The culture brought out my inner child.

So I had this idea. And I had an ukulele and a straw porkpie hat. I convinced two guys in our department to don grass skirts and go on stage with me as Island Joe and the Aloha Boys. Mike, the younger guy, had no problem with the costume, but Marty, was not so sure about dancing on stage in a grass skirt in front of 250 people. At least we didn't ask him to wear a coconut bra.

I would sing the first chorus of Mele Kalikimaka and play ukulele while they danced. Then for the second chorus we would all sing together, just like Bette Midler and Jimmy Buffet had recorded their separate versions of the song. Jimmy was backed up by the Coral Reefers. I had the Aloha Boys.

Sandi Jo from Human Resources hosted the event. Sandi has a great singing voice and a moxie as saucy as the aforementioned Ms. Divine, Bette Midler. She knew how to make President Charles the butt of a good-humored joke.

And, of course, Charles would be in the audience with his lovely wife, often sharing a table with a roller coaster mechanic and a plumber, with their partners. A good president understands humility.

"Please welcome to the Cocoanut Grove stage," announced Sandi Jo,  "Island Joe and the Aloha Boys!"

We ran onto the elevated stage like Peter, Paul and Mary used to do, with high energy and a poignant message. Our message was not so much political as comical. No doubt, much funnier than we realized.

Marty bounced around in his grass skirt with a sublime expression on his face. Mike wiggled his butt and hammed it up. I strummed away and sang my heart out as though I were channeling Bing Crosby. The crowd loved it!

Mele Kalimkaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day

That's the island greeting that we send to you from the land where palm trees sway

Here we know our Christmas will be green and bright

The sun will shine by day and all the stars at night

Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way to say Merry Christmas... a very very Merry Christmas...

a very Merry Merry Christmas... to you!

Following our act, we ran off stage into the dressing room. The guys took off their skirts and I removed my straw hat. We surreptitiously resumed our seats in the audience of dinner tables. Some did not realize who the three performers had been, although they talked it about for weeks and by then we were stars. Or so we imagined.

Those were, indeed, the days, my friends. The Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, sadly, has been shut down for nearly a year due to COVID. Jobs have been lost. There was not a holiday party this year.

Here's wishing for an uplifting, healing and fun comeback in 2021! 

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year! 

Mele Kalikimaka to all!

Copyright: Kevin Samson from Silence of the Oranges, working title memoir.

  

The Day I Stood Next to Joe Montana

"Joe," I called. 

The defense was on the field and he was taking a break near the bench, the greatest quarterback of his generation, captain of what would become the best professional football team of the 1980s, the San Francisco 49ers, the most storied in the history of the "city by the bay."

Between us, Hacksaw Reynolds ambled like a hungry gorilla, his torn-up body affecting his gait. They say he hacksawed an automobile for recreation, sliced it up with a saw blade like he sliced through opposing offenses with his flailing arms and legs.

I had media credentials as editor of The News, a weekly newspaper in Santa Cruz County. These were the days when a media pass could get you into press room interviews and on the sidelines of a professional football game. I took full advantage.

The sun was bright, the air thin with a San Francisco-in-December bite to it. The Niners were playing Tampa Bay at Candlestick, a forlorn stadium stuck on a wind-blown point on the water's edge. Home to both the 49ers and the San Francisco Giants, Candlestick on a good day was miserably uncomfortable. During its lifetime from 1960 to 2013 it gave fans a legacy of memories good, bad and inexplicable.

To whit:

SF Giants pitcher Stu Miller is blown off the mound by a nasty gust of wind during the All-Star Game on July 11, 1961.

A Giants fan becomes so inebriated that he tumbles to his death from the upper deck, 1984.

The amazing Willie Mays, the "Say Hey Kid," smashes home runs and sprints around the outfield performing his incredible and unique "basket catch," 1960-71.

That skinny quarterback from Notre Dame creates magic leading the Niners to four Super Bowl seasons: Joe Montana, 1979-90.

What a name! What a football player! A winner! Four Lombardi trophies!

Since its inception, football has anointed its heroes with nicknames: Red Grange was "The Galloping Ghost." There was Alan "The Horse" Ameche, "The Golden Boy" Paul Hornung, Dick "Night Train" Lane. And there was "Hacksaw" Reynolds. Who even knew his first name?

But Joe Montana?  How could you improve on that. The slight, blue-eyed, reddish-haired kid whose legerdemain overshadowed his physical presence, needed a nickname, or so they said. They said he was once a high-jumper.  He had played point-guard in basketball. Now this Super Bowl stuff, last minute passes to win the most important games. The Candlestick winds never affected Joe. He deflected the breezes the same way he eluded defensive linemen. If it came down to third- or fourth-and-one, Joe performed the "quarterback sneak."

A contest was called to give Joe a sobriquet, like all the other stellar football heroes. Fans were asked to send in their ideas, to immortalize the kid.

Herb Caen, San Francisco's famed three-dot-columnist who had admonished those who called his city, "Frisco" -- he made clear it was San Francisco" -- rallied in his column, calling for monikers for Montana.

"I like Joe Cool," pronounced the columnist.

Caen was right on. If Montana were to have a nickname, it had to be "Joe Cool." He personified coolness in the clutch, the proverbial chill cucumber, as fresh as the under-side of a pillow.

Was it the PR department or the Chamber of Commerce that came up with the winning epithet? They declared the quarterback would be called Joe "Big Sky" Montana. 

Wha?

If ever there was a dud winner, that was it. No one ever called Joe, "Big Sky." The name died a quick death, a pathetic PR failure, a dime-a-dozen dream that had no legs.

That day at Candlestick, December 4, 1983, when I saw him up close, Joe completed 21 passes out of 31 attempts for 227 yards, leading the team to a 31 to 25 victory over Tampa Bay. Although he did not throw a touchdown pass, Joe scrambled, in his own inimitable way, 12 yards for a broken play touchdown. It was classic Joe being Joe, drawing magic out of thin air.

Of course he didn't hear me when I called his name. The crowd was too loud and frenzied. I moved in as near as I could get to him, perhaps hoping that some of his coolness would rub off on me. In his red and gold uniform, Joe stood about my height, 6' 1". His legs and arms were thin, unremarkable. Standing on a corner in San Francisco in Levis and running shoes, he could have been mistaken for any Joe Schmo. 

But Joe was no Schmo, anything but.

Some guys are just too cool to be named.