Cell phones are popular at the Starbucks on Stuart Street.
I sit in the Redlands Starbucks on Stuart Street. Everybody is on their cellphones. There is a couple to my left and the lady is talking/yelling as if her companion is at the bottom of a deep canyon.
Starbucks is my place during football season. A vente coffee, large cup of ice water, and bagel with cream cheese and I’m set. A comfy leather chair is also essential. And I have one.
Too many corporate coffee emporiums are uncomfortable. Tiny tables and straight-back wood chairs. They’re for millennials. The intent is to get ’em in, get their $8 and get ’em out. Not me. Homey don’t play that game.
Back in the early 1980s, I haunted a coffee house in Berkeley. It had worn leather couches and matching padded chairs. Newspapers were spread about. Once, I asked a pseudo-intellectual if I could read his Green Sheet (sports section) and I reached for it. He said “no.” What a turd.
There were no cell phones or laptops then. Nobody even had home computers. Even Tandy Model 80s (the infamous Trash-80s) were in the future. Of course, this forced people to talk to each other. But maybe that was a good thing.
I was surprised recently when Cris Warmerdam tracked me down at a newspaper in Southern California. The news was not good. His father, Bill, has died.
Bill Warmerdam, the iconic coach of the Aptos High Mariners in the 1980s and early 1990s, is gone. I covered a lot of his games back in the day and had a few beers with him at the Aptos Club.
(A celebration of Warmerdam’s life will be held at 1 p.m. Saturday, June 4 at the Aptos High gymnasium that bears his name).
Warmerdam was unconventional. A maverick. For one, he employed a press that didn’t always work. I pointed this out to him after a game against the now-defunct Marello Prep. He explained that it lured Marello into hurrying shots at the other end.
Following every game, I’d give him my take based upon my scant playing experience as a freshman hoopster at Serra High. “Nah, that’s not it,” he’d say before explaining what really happened.
Warmer won his 300th game while I was still at the Watsonville Register-Pajaronian. We trumpeted the occasion with a big story. In it, Warmer presented his “20-point plan for success.” Among his points was “good media relations” — this included all three Mariner coaches calling in their results after every game. I appreciated that.
There were other unique things. His teams eschewed the clock. They didn’t do that bullshit thing where the point guard dribbles around for 10 seconds and then fires up a 3-pointer at the buzzer that misses. More often, they’d score with 10 seconds left, press, steal the ball and score again.
Aptos did not have heady, little defensive specialists who couldn’t shoot but hustled a lot. Those guys got left in AYBA. Warmer wanted tall guys who could hit the mark. Every player in the Mariner lineup put the ball in the hole and was tall enough to pass over the press.
The Mariners were also loose. From the time they took the court to the loud rock strains of the Police to the final buzzer, they boogied. They shot, and ran, and dribbled the ball behind their backs and scored. Oh, how they scored.
Santa Cruz, coached by Pete Newell Jr., was also a power. They had players like Glenallen Hill and Johnnie Johnson and they could hoop. Seemed like the Cardinals always took a big lead against Aptos but then here come the Mariners. Unfettered by worry and playing freely, they usually seemed to beat the Cardinals at the end. Newell noticed and changed the way he coached over the years. That was part of the reason the Pistol won a state title in his final year.
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Aptos ruled the 1986 postseason. There was a riveting game against San Mateo in which Cris Warmerdam had like 11 blocked shots. That may have also been the season the Mariners rallied from 10 points down in the final minute to stun Salinas.
Eventually the Mariners wound up in the NorCal semifinals in Sacramento. Or was it Stockton? If you remember it all, you weren’t really there.
Aptos won, and it was St. Patrick’s Day. So after the game Warmer and his assistant coaches repaired to an Irish bar in the downtown area. Things were festive and Aptos parents sent Warmer and his guys shots. Fellow scribe Richard Egan and I did the same. And somewhere along the way, I may have transferred (allegedly) a six-pack of Heineken from the cooler to our table. That was enough fun for Warmer who promptly arose from the table and departed.
The next day was the NorCal title game vs. Mt. Eden at the Oakland Coliseum Arena. Poor assistant coach Ray Tanimoto, who was such a huge part of Aptos’ success, was in a daze the whole game from all those suds the night before. Ah, the memories.
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Mt. Eden was like 33-0, whippet quick and supposedly unbeatable. Certainly the “surfer kids from Santa Cruz” were not a threat. The Mariners were tall, yeah, but all blond, and sun-tanned and looking more ready for a day at Cowell’s Beach.
Aptos had about 25 turnovers but kept coming. Jeff Jones buried 20-footers. Warren Hull did the dirty work. Cris Warmerdam blocked shots. Bobby Bugalski came off the bench to make a free throw or two. And Warmer’s wife, Pat, worked the rosary beads up in the stands.
Warmer started freshman Craig Holt at point guard and I asked the cagy one why.
“Because he’s a freshman and he’s too dumb to be scared,” Warmer said.
That was prophetic, as with Aptos leading by one in the final minute, Craig got the ball in the corner of the court. He whipped a behind-the-back pass to his brother under the hoop for the lay-in. That was the clincher. Aptos was the champs.
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The Mariners fell to Wilson of Hacienda Height in the state title game. Wilson had a dude named Scott Williams who made the NBA. Warmer said Wilson would have won even without Williams.
No matter. Aptos celebrated heartily following the season. There was a parade down Aptos’ main drag. I think the team was in a flat-bed truck.
After the parade, everyone headed for a local restaurant. Warmer thanked the reporters who covered his team and quipped, “These guys write stories about us, but I could tell you some stories about them.”
The late Pajaronian and Santa Cruz Sentinel sportswriter, Greg Lathrop, said a few words. He told how former Pajaronian sports editor Garson Matusoff (my predecessor) drove off a cliff and died. There was memorial service and Warmer was the only area coach who showed.
That was Bill Warmerdam all right. That’s how Warmer rolled.
Tuesday at 3 a.m. I awoke at my brother’s house in Burlingame. Reluctantly, I began my long trek back to the Inland Empire from Northern California and the state football title game I recently covered.
My GPS smartly took me across the San Mateo Bridge to the 580 to Interstate 5, the colossus of freeways. I swilled the hot coffee my brother brewed and nibbled on the pumpkin bread he made.
Springsteen poured out of my car speakers … “Thunder Road” and “Promised Land” and “Wreck on the Highway.” I hoped not to experience the latter.
While attending San Francisco State, a journalism student from Los Angeles wrote a column for the school paper about traversing Interstate 5. He described all of the intoxicants he thought it required and it was mildly amusing. But I don’t roll that way and a river of coffee was all I needed.
By the time I reached Little Panoche Road in Firebaugh, I needed a pitstop. There’s a McDonald’s there and I ordered a large coffee and the two-Sausage-and-Egg-McMuffins- for-$4.50 deal.
“That’ll be $11.50, sir,” the counter person said. “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s $7.50.”
“You had me scared,” I said. “I thought I was going to have to sell a kidney.”
Avenal, Kettleman City, Buttonwillow, Lebec – the names of small cities dotting the I-5 are familiar to anyone who’s traveled this route. Soon I was back in SoCal and the rain beat down. Visibility was bad, the traffic worse. But eventually I made it home. It felt good.
Last Sunday the long-awaited wedding of Redlands High grad Felicia “Mafel” Lopez and Tenari Tenari unfolded in all its glory in Dallas, Texas. And it was a doozy.
Backtracking, the event was postponed a year due to the coronavirus pandemic. No problem. Mafel, who is the daughter of CalTrans Girl (my girlfriend), brushed aside her disappointment and then had an extra year to meticulously plan every last detail of this event. And It was a day that would have gone off without a hitch had it not before for one near-disaster — but more on that later.
The picturesque wedding was at the Filter Building, a 100-year-old edifice nestled along White Rock Lake which used to be a water source for the city. The Filter Building, as the name suggests, played a role in purifying the water back in the early 1920s.
The wedding ceremony with the lake as a backdrop was beautiful and at times humorous. Mafel was majestic in the stunning dress lovingly sewn by her grandmother Aurora. And Tenari looked as sharp as a tack. He also humorously related during his vows how the couple sometimes visited different states “just to eat” (Mafel is a foodie), how they ran several marathons “just to do it,” and how he promised to support his wife’s “BTS obsession” (that’s a Korean pop group).
Mafel, who met Tenari while they studied at UC-Riverside, told how Tenari kept her grounded and helped bring her “crazy ideas to fruition.” She also said he liked eating rice which is fortunate because “it’s the only thing I cook well.”
Mafel’s father is Felix Lopez and despite the fact I’m his ex’s boyfriend, we’re buds. In fact, Felix and I flew to Dallas together for the occasion. We also somehow wound up in Fort Worth while driving my rental car from Dallas Love Airport to Allen. Fort Worth is an hour out of the way, folks.
During the flight to Dallas, Felix obsessively practiced the lengthy toast he’d give at the wedding reception. It was poignant and from the heart, but let’s just say that succinct Felix is not.
Anyway, when the time came for the toast Felix delivered it in boffo style and everyone raised a glass to the loving couple.
Everything went swimmingly as numerous attendees rose to speak and guests finished noshing on salmon and mashed potatoes. Then, out of the blue, Felix — who was seated in the middle of the hall — passed out and was found unresponsive, cold to the touch, and with no pulse. Not good! Chaos ensued. Fortunately, Mafel’s uncle June who is trained in such matters took control. He vigorously administered CPR as the assemblage gasped. A few of the attendees were nurses and they helped. Someone called 911 and the EMTs arrived and determined that June had essentially saved Felix’s life — though they carted Felix off just to be safe.
All of this shocked Mafel who planned every gorgeous detail of the wedding not only once but twice (remember, the event was postponed a year) only to see such a near-catastrophe occur. But once the crisis passed and Felix got wheeled away, the show went on. And it was a fun one.
This was a Samoan and Filipino event and there were elements celebrating both cultures. I’ll let the photos tell most of the rest of the story, but suffice it to say the traditional Samoan dancing of Tenari’s people was a joy to watch. And Mafel brought smiles to everyone by performing a Polynesian dance she learned just for the occasion. It was a kick seeing Tenari and his parents and his huge Samoan brothers and cousins whooping it up as Mafel swayed and dollar bills flew.
Oh, Mafel had a little crying jag when it was all over because she couldn’t have the traditional father-daughter dance. But CalTrans Girl was there, as always, to soothe her daughter and remind her that not everything in life goes as planned.
The really good news is that Felix is well now and was able to join me and Mafel’s aunt JoAnn on the flight back to Los Angeles. Naturally, we got lost on the way back to the airport and the trip took forever, but at least we didn’t wind up in Fort Worth.
Unlike Mafel’s dad, this building has a filter. Too cute for words Tenari elated that it’s almost time to party. Sefl explanatory Mafel resplendent in her hand-sewn, bejeweled dress. CalTrans Girl and her mom, Aurora The man and his menNot Not “Dancing with the Stars.” just Tenari and Mafel Tenari cleans up well. Samoans know how to party. Miya the Wonder Dog checks out the grounds. Tenari and Mafel get down as bills fly. Tenari’s parents Wedding guest Gita (right) and her friend Tenari’s beautiful sister, TonuThe wedding cake with figurines of the three Labs who were MIA. Felix delivers his speech shortly before almost meeting St. Peter.
It is now September 10. It’s been two weeks since I learned of Adrian Cruz’s passing. How sad. A gut-punch to us all.
Though it’s been a while since I saw Adrian, I remember him well.
I recall him most from the then-new San Bernardino Sun office near University Avenue. It was a fancy building. The sports department had a large picture window overlooking, ironically, the train tracks and not-so-fancy Muscoy. It was there that the gang gathered – the writers like Michelle Gardner, T.J. Berka, Clay Fowler, JP Hoornstra and me; the sports editor Louis Brewster; the deskies Jacob Pomrenke and Brian Goff; and the agateers such as Marc Garcia, Dennis Pope and Adrian. A rouges’ gallery, to be sure.
Paul Oberjuerge by that time was fired. A victim of politics. It was too bad because for a long time, he was the Sun sports department. But I digress.
More than a decade since, I gaze at Adrian’s photo and I see a young man who was wise beyond his years. An old soul. Someone even an old guy like me could vent to and he’d listen. He had empathy. Not judgmental. But you knew that behind that poker face, he was sizing things up and forming his own conclusions. He was just too polite to call anybody on their own shit.
In writing my tribute to Adrian in the newspaper, there was a culture gap. I don’t know Seventh-Day Adventists from Martians. Now if Adrian were Catholic, I could tell all kinds of tales cuz everyone knows Catholics got vices. But SDA’s, hmmm, not so sure.
Anyway, seems the lad fancied a wager now and then. And he was good at it. Poker. Ball games. Maybe even a horse race or two. Said Garcia:
“We went to Vegas a few times in the fall at 1 a.m. on a Friday, just to blow off steam. Sometimes we went to San Manuel. Once I gave him my last $50 to hold and he took it and won $300, plus his own winnings. He was good at poker. And he taught me how it’s a different beast in the casino, than playing with your friends.”
Too much. I didn’t know SDA’s had that much going on. They could be honorary Catholics. Honorary Irish-Catholics even … according to, well, the Pope himself.
Said Dennis Pope, “Adrian still owes me a drink. In 2008 I was working on the news desk but everyone in sports was going to the Falconer in Redlands after work. I was going to get there late and Adrian said he’d buy me a drink. Well, I did get there late but I purchased my own drink before Adrian could get me one. It happened a few more times in other places, too, and before long it became a running gag between us. So he still owes me a drink.”
It’s coming, Dennis.
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Adrian was known for his basketball ability. He starred at Arrowhead Christian Academy and hoisted up shots in UC-Riverside intramurals. But mostly he was famous for his selfless ways on the court. And that bled over into his coaching.
His love of hoops and kids, and knack for keeping things in perspective is eloquently stated here — a Facebook post Adrian made after a bitter coaching loss:
“Today was one of the most heartbreaking days I have had in recent memory … but not due to a death or an illness. Final buzzer, JUST short. Today, I witnessed 16 little pairs of eyes swell with the sadness of falling just short of their year-long goal of winning a basketball championship. As their coach, I stood there with my own eyes tearing up, but not with regret or anger…. but rather with a sense of pride.
“I remembered the summer practices, Sunday drills, kids throwing up from running, countless bruises, numerous pushups. … I stood there, looking at silent, red-eyed emotion, and gathered them together one last time. With crooked smiles (and some sniffles), we huddled one last time… Go Bulldogs!”
Been an interesting week. A highlight was hitting U of R football practice. Way fun. More on the Bulldogs later in the weekly. Pics, stories. A bonanza.
Earlier in the day, I had a mishap. Tried to use eye drops and found a small box in the medicine cabinet. It said “drops” — preceded by a three-letter word beginning with “e.” You guessed it, ear drops! Yes, I put two drops of ear crap in my eye. YEAAAOOOOWWW! Searing pain. As I reached for a damp wash cloth, I had visions of Prep Dawg with an eye patch, talkin’ pirate and sackin’ Yucaipa.
Happy to report, my vision is back. No guide dog needed. Carry on.
For the second consecutive year I have a rooting interest in the Super Bowl.
Last year my Niner made the big game but lost to the Kansas City Chiefs. This year the Tampa Bay Bucs led by Tom Brady meet the Chiefs. Tom was a Serra Padre. Like me.
Brady is a determined sort. At Serra he was the second-string quarterback on an 0-8 frosh team that scored 2 TDs. All season. He didn’t start til the next year when one Kevin Krystofiak stopped throwing spirals and switched to hoops.
Brady’s older sisters, who attended Hillsdale High, were all softball stars. When Tom started to shine with the Pats, one of the sisters was quizzed. “Tommy? He’s not even the best athlete in the family.”
Dude’s done all right for himself. And he’s never forgotten his roots. Once a Padre, always a Padre.
Miya, looking a tad matted and scraggly from her life on the run when we first met her at the Devore Animal Shelter.
By John Murphy
It’s been about two months since Miya the Wonder Dog has graced our lives. She is the white toy poodle/terrier mix we rescued from the Devore Animal Shelter.
The match was not love at first sight. Led into our outdoor cubicle at the shelter by worker Melissa, Miya took one look at The Caltrans Girl and me and scurried out the gate.
But the pooch warmed up to us in a hurry once she arrived home and realized we’d provide food and lodging. She lives a charmed life, spending most of her time eating, pooping, peeing, walking and sleeping.
Walks are a major deal. Miya is convinced that whenever I put on my black New Balance shoes or when she hears the jingle of my keys that she is about to go for a walk. She then sprints around the house like a loon until I put the leash on her and open the front door.
If it’s cold the Caltrans Girl outfits her with a sweater. That, combined with her pink collar and the fact she’s a seven-pound toy poodle/terrier does not give her a ton of street cred. This doesn’t stop her from trying to charge and snarl at every German Shepherd, boxer and pit bull in the neighborhood. Fortunately, they are all behind fences.
Miya has her quirks. A few days into her residency here I returned home and could not find her. I scoured every room and there was no dog. Finally, I glanced at the wall in the family room and there she was, perched on the very top of a couch looking down at me. I don’t know why she likes it up there – just part of her uniqueness, I guess.
Miya has brought much to our lives. She takes us outside ourselves, as creatures tend to do when they need to eat or poop or walk and require your attention. She interrupts my episodes of Bonanza and the Big Valley occasionally, but that’s OK too.
My beloved sister, Anne, who has always been there for me.
By John Murphy
Wednesday night in true pandemic version we gather on Zoom to celebrate one of the world’s newest septuagenarians – my sister, Sr. Anne Murphy.
Yes, Anne turns the Big 7-0.
I had to look up septuagenarian because I’m not yet one. My agony will come soon enough.
Anne has always been unique, as detailed in her grade-school autobiography, “From the Incubator to You.” A media darling early, she was also celebrated with a photo in the pages of the San Bruno Herald when treated with a local dentist’s new “painless” drill. I’m not sure how painless it was.
Anne was always a good soul, her being a nun and all. She loves children and animals and was charitable with me as a youth about playing board games and helping me with math. My extreme difficulty understanding an algebra problem about an albatross and a hummingbird was an inside joke for years.
Anne didn’t hold grudges. As a young boy I took umbrage at some imagined slight and responded by dumping a full bucket of water on her.
“Oh, you bad boy!” I can still hear my late father saying. I sprinted to the bathroom and locked myself in there until the heat was off.
One weekend night my mom went all out and made a huge pot of chili for dinner and Tollhouse cookies. I devoured a few bowls of the red and then went to work on the cookies. By now the sibs were gone and I had them all to myself and ate pretty much every last one of them.
This irked Anne upon her return and she really let me have it. Then the ground beef, tomato sauce, chocolate, sugar and cookie dough began percolating in my gut and the result was not pretty. I got sick several times as punishment, as if Anne’s rebuke wasn’t enough.
Anne entered the convent after high school but her influence – and some of her clothes — remained. So it was that a friend of mine who I’ll call Steve wound up attending a costume party in Anne’s Mercy High School uniform. Unforgettable was dad waking me in the middle of the night and exclaiming, “It’s 3 a.m. and Steve’s at the front door in your sister’s Mercy skirt and he’s bombed.” How does one respond to that?
So a lot of fun memories and some amusing anecdotes about Anne and loved ones, but what is this essay really about? Why, it’s about the albatross and the hummingbird, of course.
The sky is red and blue behind the old Smith house on Olive Avenue.
By John Murphy
Dog walking interrupted my bicycling for a while, but Saturday I got back on track with a trek from Highland to Redlands.
My breathing was a little heavier than usual as I have not put in many miles on the bike lately. But I was moving more rapidly than many on Olive Avenue who were leisurely walking their dogs, some of them dressed in sweaters I’m sure they detest.
I stopped at the Olive Avenue Market because I needed a break and craved something sweet. An employee was out front, allowing people in a few at a time. There was another lady lurking about dressed in a fluorescent green grinch costume. I’m not sure why.
Once inside I opted for a huge chocolate chunk cookie. It was the best cookie I’ve had in recent memory, with entire chunks of chocolate and walnuts embedded. I consumed it all and then it was time to start riding again. No rest for the weary.
Main Street Dog 