Lakers vs. Celtics – A Frustrating History

I have been a Laker fan since I was a kid. I go back to the team playing home games at the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena beginning in 1960.

Through the years at the Sports Arena and Forum, one thing has remained constant: The Celtics and the thorn that they’ve been in the Lakers’ side.

There was Frank Selvey’s missed shot in Game 7 in 1962 at Boston. It went round and round for what seemed like an eternity until it finally dropped harmlessly off the rim’s side.

There was Red Auerbach throwing his damn cigars at the crowd IN THE THIRD QUARTER in 1965. I swear, Auerbach was one of the poorest winners ever in sports.

There was the frustrating two-point loss in Game 7 at Boston in 1966.

Don’t get me started on 1969. Oh, what the hell? Why not?

Before I begin on Game 7, Game 4 should be duly noted. That may have been the game where the Lakers really lost the series. The series was 2 games to 1 in the Lakers’ favor. They had won the first two games in L.A., and the Celts had won Game 3 at the Garden. In Game 4, also at Boston, the Lakers were up by one and had the ball with 20 seconds remaining. They didn’t even have to take a shot. The ball is inbounded to Wilt Chamberlain. No one is in the same zip code with him. All he has to do is stand there until Bill Russell or one of the other Celts approaches.

With no one near, Wilt suddenly drops the ball out of bounds. Celtics’ ball. After a timeout, John Havlicek hits an easy jumper at the last second, Celtics win.

Fast forward to Game 7, at the Forum, Los Angeles.

Before the game, Lakers’ owner Jack Kent Cooke orders hundreds of balloons to be stored above the court, to be released at the conclusion of the game. The balloons have “World Champion Lakers” printed on them.

The USC band is present, to play festive music on the upcoming happy occasion.

The Celtics arrive at the Forum, and observe all the scenery. Bill Russell approaches Jerry West, and says “Those F**king balloons are staying up!”

In the third quarter, Wilt hurts his knee and takes himself out of the game. Coach Bill van Breda Kolff takes this as a sign of weakness, and decides to keep him out when he’s ready to go back in a few minutes later. They get into an argument. van Breda Kolff holds his ground. Meantime, the Celtics build an 18-point lead. The crowd is screaming at VBK to put Wilt back in. The coach is oblivious to the fans. Owner Cooke is obviously not pleased at the scene on the end of the Laker bench.

With 5 minutes left, the Lakers get within 4 and hope is back with the crowd. With a minute to play, Don Nelson, picked up from the Lakers a few years earlier for the $100 waiver price, puts up a desparation shot that hits the back of the rim, bounces straight up, and SWISH! Right through the net. Everyone knows that’s it, end of argument, case closed. The Celtics win another.

The balloons stay up. The quiet crowd leaves heartbroken, angry and frustrated. Again. In the locker room, Jerry West is openly weeping. In spite of the loss, West is named the MVP of the series, and is awarded a new car. He says that he would have gladly traded the car for a win.

Shortly afterward, Bill van Breda Kolff is fired. And rightly so. Keeping Wilt out at that critical time was a total bonehead move. Bill Russell retires, with a 6-0 Finals record against the Lakers.

The two teams meet again three times in the 80s, this time with Magic Johnson vs. Larry Bird. The Lakers win two of them. Boston finally gets to feel what it’s like. But for me, it wasn’t the same without having beat Russell & Havlicek. Red Auerbach had retired from coaching, and as team President, was watching from the stands. Later, he made remarks about being angry that they lost to the Lakers even once.

There’s a very real possibility that the Lakers and Celtics will meet in the upcoming NBA Finals for the first time since 1987. The league, ABC television, and fans worldwide are salivating at the prospect. It could easily happen.

As for me, I’m trying to stay indifferent. If the Pistons win the Eastern Conference, fine with me. The reason: If the Lakers meet Boston again, I’m uncomfortable with it. I just wouldn’t like their chances. The Celtics always seem to have the leprechauns on their side.

A Disturbing Trend

On a recent episode of Gangland, seen on The History Channel, a Latino gang in Texas was featured. The show’s contents were pretty much expected: the violence, the backgrounds, the lack of remorse, and so on. As gang stories go these days, it was pretty formula.

What was disturbing was the gang’s logo. It was a virtually exact copy of the Houston Texans’ red-and-blue steer’s head logo.

There are others:

In Los Angeles, two street gangs sport the logos of sports teams. One is the hometown Dodgers’ LA cap logo. The other features the double horseshoe “W” of the Washington Nationals. I’ve seen tattoos of both on the heads and faces of misguided young men in the area.

I guess what this means is that on some fine day, a young Latino kid, having being given a Dodger or Washington cap as a gift, will be out playing, minding his own business, and he could get shot and killed just for wearing the cap of his favorite team.

Isn’t it bad enough that fans get beaten up at sports venues by moronic drunk home team fans for wearing an opponents’ gear? Now, innocent kids could get killed at home for wearing a damn cap?

It’s getting so you can’t be a sports fan in peace anymore.

Is the simple joy of liking sports now being taken away by idiots with the brains of 2-year olds?

At least some gangs like the Rolling 60s or the Crips have the “decency” if you will, of creating their own logos. I guess some gangs are too lazy to come up something of their own. God Forbid, they should do anything creative or original. Or constructive.

Horse Racing: In Bad Shape

When I was a kid, my parents loved to go to the Agua Caliente race track in Tijuana, Mexico. Nothing wrong with that, except for one thing: Sometimes, I HAD to go with them. I HATED it!

Living in a geographic location like San Bernardino, Ca., that meant getting up way early on a weekend morning, enduring my father’s slow driving on a 100-mile plus trip, and waiting eternally between races, which usually was 45 minutes between races.

It was gawdawful to go through. There was nothing for a kid 10-12 years old to do, and while I’m not exactly a world traveler, I can’t imagine too many places more depressing than Tijuana, Baja California. The poverty in town, noticeable as soon as you cross the border, was sickening. And the Caliente race track was poorly run.

Several times, I reminded (READ: chewed out) my parents for putting me through that crap. They couldn’t stand hearing about it. According to my parents’ way of thinking, hearing about it is worse than putting me through it. I think that’s how Vietnam War era government officials must think.

I have not liked horse racing ever since. I never have liked horse racing. Caliente and my bad experiences there have forever turned me off to the sport.

My father, now 91 years old, visited me recently on the day of the Kentucky Derby. In spite of the bad experience with the horse races back then, we have a good relationship today. Two of my four sisters were also there on the visit. He asked if I would put the Derby on the TV, and I did. He was the only one who wanted to see the race.

That is horse racing’s problem. It seems to be a sport that appeals mainly to older demographics. The industry has done an absolutely horrendous job in trying to attract younger demos. It’s like time stood still in horse racing, then one day the industry wakes up and realizes that too much precious time passed them by, and their core audience is dying out.

Attendence is down. Handle is down. Off track betting has helped some, but the alarm clock is still clanging. The on-track death of Eight Belles in the recent Derby, and of Barbaro a couple of years ago did NOT help it’s image.

I will soon be 58 years old. I was turned off to the sport when I was 10. It appears that there had to be others in my age bracket who were likewise turned off. If people Baby Boomer-age like me are turned off, what about the critical younger demographics? They must be totally apathetic to the sport.

There has been talk in the L.A.-area media that the Hollywood Park race track in Inglewood will eventually be shut down, it’s dates transferred to the Los Alamitos track in Orange County, and will be torn down for retail development. No deal has been done at this time. As yet. But the buzz alone is yet another testament to the deteriorating state of The Sport of Kings.

Horse Racing got themselves into this. It’s up to Horse Racing to get themselves out of it. They can now see clearly what happens when you assume.

July 20, 1969

In order to properly begin July 20, 1969, I need to backtrack to the early 60s:

San Francisco Giants manager Alvin Dark is talking to a reporter about his young, talented left-handed pitcher, one Gaylord Perry. Perry is showing everyone why he’s a future Hall of Famer, but his hitting, Dark says, is leaving something to be desired. In other words, the Giants may as well have 8 batters in their lineup card. To quote Dark:

“They’ll put a man on the moon before he (Perry) hits a home run.”

Fast forward to July 20, 1969.

The Giants are playing a home game. Gaylord Perry is pitching. This is the night of the first moon landing. Jeff Chandler, the Giants’ public address announcer, informs the crowd that according to news reports, Apollo XI has indeed landed on the moon. The crowd cheers loudly. Everyone is excited and happy. The game is held up slightly to let the cheering take it’s course.

The game resumes. About 10 minutes following Chandler’s announcement, the batter is Gaylord Perry. What is the result of his at bat? Perry hits his first major league home run. Right after the moon landing.

File this one under the category of “you couldn’t have made this one up.”

KMPC: Jim Lange

When I was hired at 710/KMPC in August of 1987, one of the first people I got introduced to was afternoon drive personality Jim Lange. He is best-known as the longtime host of “The Dating Game”, among numerous other game shows. He was cordial and very friendly as we shook hands. That’s something that didn’t change in the 3 years I was associated with him.

In addition to game shows and radio, Jim also has an extensive sports background. He was a longtime color commentator with the San Francisco 49ers radio team. He goes back to the time when they played home games at Kezar Stadium, and John Brodie was their quarterback.

He loves golf. I would sometimes go into the KMPC newsroom, a large room with 4 desks and a few teletypes off to the side, and would hear Jim and News Director Bob Steinbrink talking about golf the same way any two guys would be talking about the NBA or football. He attended many PGA events, sometimes participating either as a pro-am or an MC.

He was in Hog Heaven when he got hired as a part-time golf commentator by ESPN. I remember seeing him that day. He was lark-happy. And very deserving.

He was very knowledgeable about sports. He talked with me and other staffers about any sport there was. And with expertise. I would throw obscure baseball trivia at him, and he usually always got it right. And always with a smile because I didn’t get him on a tough question.

He very much had a rascally sense of humor. One time, I walked by a bulletin board in the hallway, and there, thumbtacked to the board, was a picture of former Nicaraguan dictator Manuel Noriega’s mug shot, clipped from a newspaper. Someone had written a caption that read: “Dave Gaytan after using NutriSystem.” I did need to lose a few pounds then, and NutriSystem was a major advertiser on KMPC.

I wasn’t mad. I have a sense of humor, but I wondered who did it, and figured no one would own up to it. A few minutes later, Jim walks out of the control room, sees me, has a bad mood-type of look on his face, and I figure I better not bother him. Suddenly, the look on his face morphs into a big smile and he starts laughing. He ‘fessed up. He had done it. We were both laughing.

In addition to hosting The Dating Game, Jim also worked for Chuck Barris Productions in other projects. One such project was a variety show for the military called “Operation: Entertainment”, which would bring shows for the troops to various stateside military installations. Jim, a former Marine officer, had no problem taking on that assignment.

At the time, Chuck Barris, thanks in large part to The Gong Show, was considered something of a controversial figure. I asked Jim if he liked Chuck Barris, and would he work for him again, and to both he said “Hell, yes!”

I don’t know if Jim would agree with me, but he’s led something of a charmed life. His one and only wife Nancy is a former Miss America. How often do you run into somebody who’s married to a former Miss America?

Jim left Golden West Broadcasters in 1990, after a 31-year affiliation. I couldn’t attend the going-away party, but I did see him in his office as he was cleaning his items out, and I told him I loved working with him, that I thought he was a great guy, and that I hope our paths would cross again somewhere down the road. None of that has changed on my part.

Jim took a radio job in San Francisco after leaving KMPC. I understand that he has now retired. I’m sure he’s getting a lot of golf in.

Hard to believe that later this year, Jim will turn 75. If anyone should stay 40 forever, it’s him. I was lucky to meet him. I was luckier to know him. I wish I had stayed in touch with him.

If anyone was a star at The Station of the Stars, it was definitely Jim Lange.

School Daze, Part 2

Picking up from where we left off….

This next character was a guy I went from grade school thru high school with. And not one of those days did we ever get along. Even in sixth grade, he thought he was God’s gift to sports. He was incredibly arrogant. He was also one of those guys who got to do anything he wanted, take part in any school function, even have him and his buddies form a surf band, and have the school center an entire assembly around their one and only performance. At the junior high, he took part in several sports. In high school, he concentrated on basketball. He figured that his height, about 6-2, would help him to athletic fame and fortune. He had all his games filmed by a friend. He sent 8mm films of himself, and newspaper clippings to major college coaches all over, but was especially hoping to hear from John Wooden at UCLA. All he got was a form letter that began “Thank you for your interest in playing for UCLA, but at this time…”.

He must have gotten a lot of those form letters. He “starred” on three losing teams. Most major college coaches want to know what a player’s team record was while he compiled his stellar numbers. The league the team played in was not considered a strong league. He didn’t even make the junior college team.

I guess he found out the hard way that he wasn’t so special. I saw him at the 15-year reunion, and for the first time ever, he was civil to me. He was even cordial, and had something I had never seen in him before: humility. I sat down with him & his wife for a while at their table, and we caught up with each other. He told me that he had heard me on the radio and that he was glad that I made my goal. I was tempted to ask him “And your goal was….??” but I didn’t. I guess I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his wife. But I was sure tempted. I have a long memory.

Next is this football player who was beyond arrogant. He was so unpleasant to be around that I’ll try not to stay on this too long. He was a large lineman, made every all-this-and-that team, and was the type to push smaller guys around. He had previously gone to Catholic schools, and he was certain that he was Notre Dame-bound. Unless you were a teacher, a pretty girl, or one of his pals, you couldn’t get any word out of him other than “F–K You!” or “F–K Off!” What a swell guy he was.

After I had graduated from Coronado High, I came back to San Bernardino that summer to both visit and attend my first broadcasting classes at the junior college there. In the summer, it is not uncommon for temperatures in San Bernardino to top 100. One day, I went to a neighborhood pizza parlor, and when I came out, guess who was coming in? Yep, our football hero. It was sweltering, and there he was – in his letterman’s jacket. I guess I wouldn’t have recognized him without it. He always had it on. Maybe he still wears it.

One person I hadn’t planned on mentioning, but I think I will, was the young lady who eventually became the school’s head cheerleader. She was also someone I had known since grade school, and even then her ego was out of control. That was because her mother was the head of both the local PTA and the local Republican Party. That, of course made her better than everyone else. Even back then, she was a polarizing figure, intolerant of different views to the point of calling the Democratic Party “unpatriotic” and “Communistic” in an assignment that had to be read in front of class. Remember, I have a long memory. At assemblies, she would get indignant if people didn’t put their hands in front of their hearts for the flag.

It was long suspected by other students that the school had strict orders to just give her good grades no matter what, because of who her mother was. We all know that school districts wouldn’t do that, don’t we? Right. At any rate, she who thought war protesters should be deported to the USSR became Homecoming Queen her senior year. When I heard about it from friends via letters to Coronado, I couldn’t believe it. She was NOT a raving beauty by any stretch of the imagination. It had to be who her mother was. I just shook my head and went on with my coastal life in San Diego County.

Later on, I also heard something else regarding Our Queen. It turns out that she had ditched school, something she supposedly did a lot of, and was caught with one of the school’s younger and more popular teachers, who was very married. And worse, she got pregnant from that fine day. She wound up being an embarrassment to the school and her mother. She was kicked out of school, and the teacher was fired. I imagine he lost his marriage also. She has not turned up at any reunion I’ve been to, and no former classmates I’ve talked to, even her friends, had any knowledge of her whereabouts.

Ah, the sweet bird of youth…

If I could turn back time, I would NOT want to go back to my teenage years. Too many embarrassing people to deal with.

School Daze, Part 1

I am facing the prospects of not one, but two 40-year high school reunions this year. I attended two high schools, one in San Bernardino up to the end of my junior year, and my senior year was spent at Coronado, in San Diego County. It was a night-and-day difference.

The truth is I probably won’t be attending either gathering. Not this time around, anyway. I have plans to be out of the area when these respective events take place. Plans have been in place for some time, so juggling schedules isn’t even an option. I’ll try to catch the 45th or 50th. I try to be optimistic.

Without taxing my memory too hard, I was able to come up with a few characters that I think are worth writing about. They’re all from San Bernardino, and they’re all sports-related. Maybe someone reading this knew similar-type people. I just wish I could use their names. All are still living, and boy, would they be embarrassed….

In those halcyon days, high school was 3 years, starting with 10th grade. This first guy I met in 9th grade, our last year of junior high. He had moved from Texas, and he was hell-bent on not only playing football, but starring in it. Back then, the 8 junior highs of San Bernardino played tackle football against each other. It helped the high schools in lieu of a freshman football program. Well, this guy starred all right. He was a pretty good running back. In fact, he wound up being the star of both the junior high AND the high school team. Trouble was, he knew it. His head became about the size of Texas. He was telling everybody that he would one day be an NFL star. I still have a copy of the junior high newspaper where he said it. When asked what he wanted to be when he got older, he would tell people “an All-Pro running back in the NFL.”

Needless to say, he didn’t quite get there. After high school, nary a hide nor hair was heard about the guy. He collected a lot of splinters on the bench at the area junior college for one year, then that was it. I don’t know what he wound up doing for a living. I do know that the Sunday following the 10-year reunion dinner/dance, he hosted classmates at his home for a barbecue. Very gracious of him. At 28 however, he was morbidly obese, bald, and hardly recognizable. You would have sworn it was two different people. I wonder if he even still watches the game.

Next up, a coach from that same junior high who had visions of grandeur. He was a social studies teacher, and quite unpopular. We all suffered through his eternal classes. He was a coach for some of the school’s sports teams. Not football, though. He did do public-address announcing for the home football games though, and when a game got lopsided, and they started emptying the benches, he would joke about some of the less-athletically-inclined students on his school’s team right over the PA system in front of everybody. I guess this made him feel better about himself. This teacher also would call on certain students in his class to step out front and center, bend over, and he would swat them for no given reasons. He would also isolate students by making them sit by themselves at a table meant to hold boxes and supplies, and they’d have to sit backwards to be able to see the chalkboard.

Later on, when the complexion of the neighborhood changed, he apparently started having problems with African-American students. Several parents complained about him, but thanks probably to his union, he was always able to keep his job. And speaking of his job, he always wanted to be transferred to a high school and coach at that level. It always frustrated him that the district would not grant him a high school coaching job. And he seemed to find creative ways to channel his anger. A few years ago, he retired as a career-long junior high teacher. One of his last acts was defending himself against a parent’s complaint about the treatment of her son. An African-American parent. He had been accused of grabbing her son by the collar and throwing him through a door. Corporal punishment had been banned in California public schools for many years by the time of this incident.

To be continued. Stay tuned….

Attention Rollen Stewart: Drop Dead!

The following is an open letter addressed to Rollen Stewart, the so-called “Rainbow Man” who used to appear at sporting events all over the nation. He would wear a stupid rainbow wig and flash JOHN 3:16 signs at TV cameras. Stewart is now serving three life sentences for a hostage taking incident near Los Angeles International airport in 1992.

To: Rollen Stewart, you pathetic piece of crap;

I see that Jerry Crowe of the Los Angeles Times fed your legendary attention addiction in his column this past Monday. Everything known about you was rehashed: the wigs, the TV attention, the Budweiser commercial, your marijuana farming, your numerous ex-wives, the stink bombs you threw at media outlets, your “residency” on Skid Row, the “incident”, the numerous rejections for parole, I could go on and on, but I won’t.

Frankly, with all the problems you caused, you were downright boring.

You had opportunities, gifts, and privileges handed to you that most people would have killed for. You were able to go to Super Bowls. In over 30 years in the media, I could never beg, borrow, or buy my way into a Super Bowl. I know. I tried. A lot of people would have loved to have just been in the parking lot.

You appeared in a Budweiser commercial. I know a lot of out of work actors here in L.A. who would have loved the tiniest part in a commercial. They need the money. And they would have been grateful. That seems to be the last thing you were.

You went to countless sporting events across the country, and rarely had to pay for entering any of them. Athletes and media-types who didn’t know better would leave you tickets so that you could annoy people with your goddam religious signs. In yesterday’s article, Brent Musberger was quoted as saying that there were TV directors who would have loved to have killed you for ruining their dramatic shots. Because of you, anything remotely resembling a religious sign is banned at most sporting events.

Four women were stupid enough to call themselves your wife. One of them accused you of choking her for not holding a sign in the right place. I believe her. You told Crowe in Monday’s article that “No one can meet my standards”. Perhaps you can find someone in prison more to your high moral standards.

You set off a bunch of stink bombs at churches, religious broadcasters and at newspaper offices as your way of spreading your “message” that the world was about to end. That was sixteen years ago. Just when was that supposed to have happened?

I really don’t blame you though, for my venting against you today. I blame the Times’ Jerry Crowe. Why? Because until Monday, you were in a good spot for an attention whore like yourself: Forgotten.

I’m going to tell you something that I would not say to 99.999999999% of people: I’m better than you. The slimiest drug dealer in a ghetto or barrio is better than you. Winos and addicts on Skid Row are better than you. You are one of THE worst things to ever happen to sports. Even worse, you admitted to not being a sports fan. You just used sports to gain attention for yourself. Well, you succeeded at that. Millions of parents now know not to raise their sons to be like you.

You’ve been turned down for parole three times in the last six years. You’re serving a LIFE sentence, and have been deemed a danger to society. Why are you even getting a parole hearing? You are in your rightful place in the world: Prison.

It’s appropriate that you’re incarcerated at Mule Creek State Prison in Ione, Ca. You are a lifelong ass.

Now, back to forgetting about you. In the meantime Rollen, have fun making all your nowhere plans for nobody. In your case, the world is NOT at your command.

Angels, 1971

This past Thursday, the LA Angels of Anaheim saluted the 1971 California Angels with a “Throwback Day”, wearing the uniforms of 1971, which featured a lower case “a” on both the cap and jersey. They were worn for only the one year.

Why the recognition, though? Even though they didn’t finish last, 1971 was arguably the worst year in Angel history.

The General Manager was Dick Walsh, who had been brought in at the beginning of 1969. Previously, he had been a non-personnel executive with the Dodgers, and had been commissioner of the National Soccer League, which had just folded.

The manager was Harold (Lefty) Phillips, previously a pitching coach with the Dodgers. Upon arriving with the Angels, it was only a matter of time until Walsh was going to fire the popular original Angel manager, Bill Rigney, and replace him with his toadie Phillips. That’s just what happened in late May of 1969. Long story short, Lefty Phillips had no business being a major league baseball manager.

Left fielder Alex Johnson had won the American League batting title the previous season. The team had traded for Tony Conigliaro, who was considered on the way back from a vicious beaning that had blurred the vision in his left eye. The Angels were favorites to win the American League Western Division.

The season was a total disaster.

The team was ripped to shreds by dissention, which adversely affected their play. Much of the tension was centered around Johnson, who seemed to display a lack of effort at times. Phillips suspended him, but was later overruled by baseball arbitrators. He still refused to use him.

Conigliaro failed to hit his weight. His eyesight was still an issue. One night against the Oakland A’s, he struck out 5 times. After the last strikeout, which was swinging, he went into a rage, cussing at everybody and everything. The home plate umpire understandably ejected him. At that point, Conigliaro threw his batting helmet up in the air and swung at it. He missed. Badly. And went into a bigger rage. Teammates had to get him back into the dugout and in to the clubhouse. The next morning, without the benefit of sleep, he announced his retirement. A horrible way for a once promising superstar to go out. And sad.

There are varying versions of what happened, but what is known for sure is that utility infielder Chico Ruiz pulled a gun on Alex Johnson in the clubhouse. It was supposedly a joke, but it put a pall on the team that lasted all season. The Angels became the butt of jokes.

As things turned out, Johnson was a victim of team viciousness as home fans jeered and taunted him. According to Marvin Miller, then head of the players union, the Angels were rife with old-time Southern racism within its roster. The daily torture made Johnson, well, crazy. He needed professional help, and got it.

In 1989, I met Clyde (Skeeter) Wright, a pitcher with the ‘71 Halos, and a native of Tennessee, and I asked him about the situation. He told me that he personally had gotten along fine with Johnson, but others had problems. I noted to myself that he didn’t say Johnson was the problem.

One anecdote that surfaced: one of the players who constantly tormented Alex Johnson approached him one night after a game. He told him a big sob story, started crying, and asked him if he could borrow $5,000, then a huge chunk of a player’s salary. Easily over 10% of most players’ pay in 1971. Without blinking, Johnson was going to write him a check. The player, totally shocked at Johnson’s impending generosity, stopped him, and told him he was only kidding.

The 1971 Angels were known as Hell’s Angels. They earned that label.

The team finished last in the AL in runs, but were 3rd in team ERA. The dreary season continued on and on in front of record numbers of empty seats. By season’s end, Anaheim Stadium resembled a picture postcard of an empty ballpark.

Walsh, feeling heat from above, fired his pal Phillips, who passed away a short time later. Walsh, nicknamed “The Smiling Python” by the players, was fired soon after, with four years left on his contract. Johnson, after receiving the needed professional help, was traded to Cleveland and was able to save his career, hitting .287 for the Indians. He said he liked it better there. Chico Ruiz died a short time after the season ended in Puerto Rico in a car accident. Tony Conigliaro, after failing comeback tryouts with the Red Sox and Giants, suffered a stroke and went into a coma that lasted for two years before he passed away.

It makes me marvel all the more: Why commemorate 1971?

UCLA/USC Humor

Few things on the west coast sporting scene can top the rivalry between UCLA and USC. Even sports like swimming, rowing, and tennis can bring out the shouting matches between boosters.

Even though I attended neither school, I am a Bruin fan. That is due to 2 factors: I had a professional association with UCLA when I worked at KMPC, the Bruins’ longtime flagship station. I worked many UCLA football & basketball games, and dealing with the UCLA Athletic Dept. was a pleasure. Classy people there. I got to talk to John Wooden once, and that was an awesome moment for me.

The second reason is that in 1971, while attending a junior college in San Diego, I had an assignment that required research that wasn’t readily available in San Diego. The Research Library at UCLA was immeasurably helpful to me, and I’ve always been grateful to them. There are seven different libraries on the UCLA campus, and they’re all great. I highly recommend them. The public is welcome to use them.

With all that said, I’d like to pass along some rivalry humor. Don’t worry. The names are interchangeable, and can be used on any two colleges you can think of.

Two boosters, one from UCLA, and one from USC are arguing vehemently. It’s reached the shouting stage, and it looks like a fight will break out at any second. Suddenly, a good fairy appears right between them. She’s holding a magic wand. She says “If you two will stop arguing, I will grant both of you one wish apiece.” They agree.

The fairy turns first to the USC booster and asks him what he wishes for. He says “I want a huge wall built around the USC campus. At least 150 feet high. No doors or openings of any kind. No one can get in or out. Keep out those mangy Bruin fans.” The fairy waves her magic wand, and says “Your wish is granted.” The Trojan fan smiles smugly.

The fairy then asks the Bruin fan what he wishes for. He looks at the grinning Trojan booster, then looks at the fairy, and says “Fill it with water.”