Main Street Dog

Happy birthday, dad

The Murphy clan — my dad, James, is back row, far left; and my uncle Bernard “JB” Murphy is second from right. My grandparents, who I never met, are in front row.

By John Murphy

Recently I was in that netherworld between sleep and wakefulness.

“John, John,” I heard.

It was my dad. I was late for school! My eyes opened and I rubbed the sleep out of them and then thought … “Wait a second, I’m 64 years old and my dad died 17 years ago. What’s going on here?”

This happened a few weeks ago. Odd. And today is his birthday. James (Jim) Vincent Murphy would have been 106 today. He was born in 1914.

My dad was as Irish as a glass of Jameson and he was a second-generation San Franciscan. He had five siblings. His brother Bernard “JB” Murphy taught at St. Ignatius College Prep for 50 years and the football field there is named in his honor. An educator, too, my dad taught at South San Francisco High and then was the principal at Southwood Junior High for decades. Southwood’s mascot was the “Savages” – politically incorrect of course, but it was a different era.

A seminarian as a teen, he was fluent in Latin. He played handball, touch football and swam at the seminary as opposed to competing in more traditional sports. In later years he wasn’t THAT dad who admonished my brother and me from the stands and second-guessed the coach. He was just like, “Well, that was a good game,” if we won and “Gee, that was too bad,” if we lost. I liked that.

A gregarious man and natural storyteller, Jim Murphy also had a keen sense of right and wrong. When a grade-school teacher marked all my spelling answers wrong because of bad penmanship (alleged), he took her to task. And when San Francisco State wouldn’t let me graduate on time due to a flap over transferable credits, he backed the school down.

But here’s all you really need to know about the big guy. When I was 8 or 9, my pal Phil Monaghan from a family of 10 was at our house for dinner. When the topic turned to the hometown San Francisco Giants, Phil said he had never been to a game. That Friday, Phil’s little butt was with us in a reserved seat at Candlestick Park. That’s the way MY dad rolled.

New baby, new job

My son Kyle Murphy makes a chess move against my friend Felix Lopez.

By John Murphy

This week 20 years ago was memorable, to say the least.

Thursday, Sept. 14 of 2000 my son Kyle Sean Murphy was born at Kaiser Permanente Hospital in Fontana. He is now in college — I couldn’t be prouder. The next day was my first at the San Bernardino Sun. Twenty years ago today.

I lived in North San Bernardino and was not that familiar with downtown Berdoo where The Sun formerly was. Also, the Route 66 Rendezvous was that week and the area was choked with vintage cars.

There was nobody in the sports department when I arrived that afternoon. But eventually Chuck Hickey, the layout guru, appeared. He didn’t say anything for the longest time … Chuck’s serious, but a tremendous journalist. Finally Chuck introduced himself. Then he told me to go home and prepare for that night’s football game, Apple Valley at Cajon.

Game was a snap. I knew Apple Valley coach Frank Pulice from working in the High Desert. And Cajon rolled behind Exnor Cox’s 250 yards rushing, so Cowboy coach Rich Imbriani was happy.

Then the real fun started. Cajon is far from downtown and I didn’t use a laptop computer then. I gunned my blue Oldsmobile toward The Sun. But when I got there a kaleidoscope of vintage cars wound through the streets, blocking my access. I parked at least a mile away, somewhere beyond Secombe Lake.

The clock was ticking. I was on deadline. My pulse raced. I ran toward the Sun building as fast as I could.

Eventually I arrived at The Sun — a huge edifice that encompassed an entire city block. It sat in the spot of a former hotel and the old Fox Theatre. In later years I wandered through the Fox portion and found an old Jimi Hendrix poster tacked to an office door. I still have it.

Oh, deadline – I made it. Barely. Then I enjoyed a Twinkie compliments of sports editor Paul Oberjuerge who sat next to me. He handed them out on football Fridays.

There was small talk. My new Sun co-workers and the cast of characters who wrote part-time were there. They were: Doug Padilla, Chris Bayee, Cindy Robinson, Chris Wiley, Brian Goff, Suzy Ahn, Mirjam Swanson, Danny Summers, Dan Evans, Louis Amestoy, James Curran, Michelle Pereda, Dennis Pope, Derek Rich, Harvey Cohen, Gregg Patton, Hickey and Oberjuerge. Mark Reinhiller and Michelle Gardner joined the paper later.

Then it was time to go. I began the march to my car … wherever it was. It was dark. The streets were foreign. I tried to retrace my steps but I COULDN’T FIND MY CAR!

Jeez, what a cluster. Exasperated and tired, I gave up and sought a pay phone. I wound up at a Circle K on Waterman where I called a cab and a woman propositioned me. I took the former, declined the latter.

Finally I arrived home. It was a heck of a two days. I slept well. The next morning, I called my late father-in-law, Wayne Overstreet, and we scoured the downtown for my car and found it. Whew!

After that, I was hungry. I went to DJ’s Coffee Shop and ordered breakfast. I opened my newspaper. I beamed as as I saw my byline in The Sun for the first time. I perused the section as I sipped coffee and ate.

Then I left. A newborn baby and the next 20 years awaited.

My Route 66 Rendezvous poster from Sept. 14-17 2000.

Coaching kids

My Redlands FYTT Hawks team including Madison Ybarra (far left, second row), Perry Amador II (eyeglasses) and Eric Baker (first row, left) played hard, had fun.

By John Murphy

The other day I sifted through a file and found a photo of a basketball team I coached in Redlands eight years ago.

My Hawks of the FYTT League (ages 11-14) went 0-11 in 2012 but were a success. They showed up for every practice, were unselfish, played hard and had fun. Couldn’t ask for more.

Youth sports, like life, is not fair. You can’t control the allocation of talent. What you can control is your focus on fundamentals, sharing the ball and effort.

Another memento I uncovered was a player guide I made for my Pavilion Dental “Irish” team of Yucaipa. My former dentist, Helen Banez, sponsored us and our jerseys had big molars on the back. Hilarious. “Every loose basketball belongs to us” I wrote on the cover of the guide. Former Yucaipa High baseball star Jake Davila played on that team … and so did my son Kyle.

Coach long enough and you’ll have success stories. John Xerogeanes who I coached in San Bruno is now the Georgia Tech football team doctor and performed surgery on a US president. Trent Dilfer who played for me in Aptos was the winning quarterback in a Super Bowl. But I’m just as proud of the kids who tried their best and are now teachers and firefighters and financial advisors (hello Brian Cooke — how’s my portfolio looking?).

Sorry soccer, but basketball is the most beautiful sport. It is played by the world’s greatest athletes and, when played correctly, involves the most teamwork. As a coach you live for that moment your team makes that extra pass resulting in a basket. Gives me chills.

My team pictured above did that on occasion. I don’t remember all their names but I do recall Madison Ybarra, a girl who starred for us in an almost all-male league; Perry Amador II who did all the dirty work and never complained; and Eric Baker who had led a previous team I coached to victory a few days after his mom died. Gamers all.

Maybe if I keep looking, I’ll find my old whistle. I’m getting the itch again.

Crazy day

Colton’s Tom Archibald peddles veggies Saturday at The Grove School’s farmers’ market.

By John Murphy

Saturday I left my car at the Foamy Car Wash on West Redlands Blvd. and trekked west.

I usually walk four miles and mix in running. But on this Saturday my faulty sense of direction wreaked havoc. I wound up on a three-hour tour with no sign of the Skipper, Gilligan nor Mary Ann.

Searing heat didn’t help. It was 117 degrees in nearby Riverside and it’s supposed to be 118 in Redlands today. It’s 87 as I write this at 1:15 Sunday morning.

Along West State Street I ambled. Past Savarino’s Deli and out to Barton Road. It was toasty but I had my Hydra Flask. I picked up the Orange Blossom Trail at Alabama Street. There were high school boys and girls running and carrying 25-pound weights. And I thought I was crazy.

The outlaw country tunes helped, pouring through my earbuds. I took photos, then doubled back on Barton Road.

I spotted a sign for The Grove School’s Farmer’s Market and hit that. There I found gray-haired Tom Archibald of Colton behind a table of tomatoes and yams. Tom is rail thin and was masked up. He wore jeans and a gray tee stained by perspiration. I bought $5 worth of stuff and left.

Details of the rest are fuzzy. I was two-plus hours in, low on water and it was as hot as Hades. I recall being on Tennessee Street and resting on the cool grass of Arrowhead Christian Academy.

By now a plume of smoke from the El Dorado fire in nearby Yucaipa was visible. Two fire trucks roared toward it. I still had a few miles to hike but there were folks with bigger problems. The fire burned more than 1,500 acres and evacuated four communities.

Searing heat made the OBT a difficult proposition Saturday.

Perfect start

West Olive Avenue is easy on the eyes as night turns into day.

By John Murphy

Walked into 3D Donuts in Highland at 4:30 a.m. Friday and the Cambodian lady said, “Large coffee?”

“Yeah,” I said, and started dropping dimes and nickels on the counter. Didn’t have any bills.

“Need 15 more cents,” she said, and I handed over two more coins and tossed the rest in the tip jar.

The K Rail was out on the 210 overpass … construction going on. Over on Boulder a car was getting towed. I crossed the wash to Redlands and parked in front of my favorite vacant house on West Fern Avenue. Another day.

I tuned my Smart phone to classic rock but was bored by Steely Dan. Switched to Outlaw Country and got Chris Stapleton. More like it. Time to get my miles in.

A full moon. Purple sky. Palm trees. Nice way to start the day.

The beauty of exercise – besides the obvious – is the loose sense of camaraderie. Where else do strangers wave or nod as they pass? I see some of the same people each day and exchange pleasantries.

Nearing the finish, on West Olive, I paused to snap a photo and nearly collided with a runner. He was unfazed.

“That’ll make a great photo,” he said, pointing at the moonlit road ahead.

Guess I’ve taken worse.

A shirt-less runner traverses Olive Street on Friday morning under a still-visible moon.

Heading west

The scenery on Brookside Drive was pleasant as I headed west on the OBT.

By John Murphy

Content with my recent exploration of the eastern portion of the Orange Blossom Trail, I headed west on Sunday.

The Pure Gold building on Brookside was the first landmark I photographed. Arthur Gregory created Mutual Orange Distributors in 1927 and took up residence in the Pure Gold Building, according to the Highland Community News. It became the second-largest citrus shipping company in Southern California. Redlands teems with history.

Past the former Redlands Daily Facts building I ambled. It’s the future home of the Museum of Redlands, says a sign. Back in the mid-1990s I knew it as the place where Daily Facts sports editor Obrey Brown hung out. I sent a few stories from there while working in Victorville, then stayed late into the night with Obrey, yukking it up about journalism and solving the world’s problems.

Onward I went. By Tennessee Street the miles were adding up. So I doubled back and headed down Tennessee. That took me by Arrowhead Christian School and Redlands Adventist Academy, which is on the opposite side of the street. Redlands Adventist, I was surprised to learn, was founded in 1903. Obrey and I were just cub reporters then.

Redlands Adventist, to my surprise, has been operating since 1903.

Passing a shopping center I noticed Carolyn’s Café and immediately thought coffee cake. But it was too late for that it would have ruined the intent of the walk anyway.

The back side of ESRI’s sprawling campus was next and it took a while to leave that in my wake. ESRI stands for Environmental Systems Research Institute. My crack research (Wikipedia) says it has 3,800 employees globally and in 1981 held its first User’s Conference, in Redlands, with 18 attending. A more recent conference, in San Diego, hosted 18,000. Whew.

On State Street I was treated to the site of a guy in a pick-up truck mysteriously driving 60 yards in reverse. Not sure what that was all about.

My trek was nearing the end now. I strode past the Studio Movie Grill and recalled taking my son Kyle there to see “How To Train Your Dragon.” That was six years ago … time flies.

By now I was losing track of the streets as I approached Orange Street from the back. That led me to the beautiful Southern Pacific Train Depot which is under renovation.

William McKinley in 1901 became the first of three US presidents to visit Redlands. He arrived with a host of dignitaries and visited Prospect Park, according to the Redlands Area Historical Society. A plaque there commemorates the visit.

Prior to McKinley’s visit, the old Citrograph newspaper trumpeted McKinley’s arrival, writing that McKinley exhibits the “highest qualities of a gentleman and is removed as far as possible from self-glorification and toadyism.

I’m not sure what “toadyism” means, but I’m going to find out and work it into a future blog.

Back in 1901 US President William McKinley rode into the Southern Pacific Train Depot.

840 East Citrus

The Redlands High girls gymnasium, a relic, is still in use.

By John Murphy

Thursday night I left Highland and crossed the wash into Redlands.

I parked in a lot on Orange Street behind Chipotle and the closed Starbucks, fired up some Outlaw Country on my Smart phone and headed out.

Past the train depot built in 1909 and the Flamingo bar and Joe Greensleeves restaurant I went. Then up State Street where restaurant and bar owners set up for that night’s influx of outdoor diners in these COVID-19 times.

Eventually I found myself at 840 East Citrus Avenue, better known as Redlands High School. Founded in 1891, it is the oldest public high school in the state still functioning on its original site. Amazingly, I was able to stride right onto the South Campus due to some ongoing front-gate construction.

Redlands High has a rich history. Athletically, it won a state rugby title in 1909 and a section football championship in 1961. Renowned coaches Brian Billick, Jerry Tarkanian and Dave Aranda all spent time there. Former or current pro athletes Dick Stockton, Julio Cruz, Jacob Nottingham, Greg Horton, Patrick Johnson and Jim Weatherwax were all Terriers. So was Joan Baez, better known for her soprano voice and protest songs of the 1960s and computer whiz Felicia Lopez, my girlfriend’s daughter who is now, gulp, 30. Where does the time go?

I like old architecture, so Redlands High is in my power alley. There’s the Clock Auditorium built in 1928 and the ancient girls gymnasium erected in 1936 for $115,493 with Works Project Administration money. I once wrote a story for the Press-Enterprise about this old beauty with its cream paint, beautiful arches and relic of a clock with a hand that travels in a circular motion. Too funny.

Two days after that hike I returned, this time to the North Campus. It was a short trek. I saw the weight room fashioned from what I think was an old wood shop and the path leading to the 5,500-seat Dodge Field. I was also drawn to the blue door of the field house where the players dress in lockers once owned by USC and the coaches’ office where Jim Walker and Derrick Dial and now Mike McFarland have plotted.

“TERRIER FOOTBALL” it says on the top step of the small staircase, followed by “BROTHERS” one step down and the year “07-08” on the bottom step. Those were good times at Redlands High School, a part of the tapestry. Next, I look forward to COVID-19 passing into history and for the students to return to 840 East Citrus Avenue and campuses elsewhere around the land.

The door leading into the Redlands High football headquarters.

When Joe D came to town

John Murphy

My recent Internet wanderings prompted me to look up the late New York Yankee shortstop Frankie Crosetti who I vaguely remembered was from San Francisco.

Checking that, I learned Crosetti was born in The City in 1910 and lived in the same North Beach neighborhood as Tony Lazzeri, Charlie Silvera and the three DiMaggio brothers, Joe, Dom and Vince.

I didn’t know Crosetti spent some of his formative years living in Los Gatos where he played one-a-cat, a baseball-like game, with his brother. Nor that he dropped out of Lowell High in San Francisco, my mother’s alma mater.

The more famous high school dropout of the bunch of course was Joe DiMaggio, who attended Galileo before quitting to hawk newspapers and work in an orange juice plant. He achieved greater fame for his long hitting streaks with the San Francisco Seals and New York Yankees, marrying Marilyn Monroe and as the spokesman for Mr. Coffee.

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? That’s what Simon and Garfunkel sang. Well, in 1967 — before he became Mr. Coffee — Joe D came to San Bruno Park for the debut of the Joe DiMaggio League for ages 16 to 18. He threw the ceremonial first pitch of a doubleheader.

San Bruno had two Joe D teams. My brother Jim, only 15, played third base for Flying Goose Sporting Goods that day.

I was just 11 and a goofy kid, I guess. Because when the great Yankee Clipper paused by a water fountain to sign autographs, I handed him a paper napkin.

“Uh, can you find me something better for me to write on? Joe D said. I searched and found the cardboard liner from a pack of Hostess Cupcakes. It still had icing on it when I gave it to the great DiMaggio who shook his head in amazement and signed.

Watching the action that day, Joltin’ Joe spied a young boy on the distant Pee Wee League field make a spectacular catch. He summoned the kid who was Dan Voreyer of St. Robert’s School. Joe D shook his hand and chatted with him. Duly inspired, Dan went on to play on a state title team at Skyline College and become San Bruno’s fire chief.

Light show

The sunset over San Bernardino and Rialto was beautiful on Thursday night.

By John Murphy

Thursday night I was feeling lazy and watching a crime show about the Nightstalker (Richard Ramirez) who terrorized Southern California in the 1980s.

But when the show morphed into Part 2 I couldn’t stand it any longer and went for a walk. I’m glad I did.

I jaywalked across Base Line Street in Highland and stepped over the cobblestones of the island in the middle of the street. A man in a compact car whizzed by and gave me a dirty look. Might have been my SF Giants’ cap.

Ambling past Baker’s and CVC I headed for a familiar destination, the Historic District of Highland. I’ve written about it often. Only on this evening there was a light show worthy of the Jefferson Airplane happening.

It was a bit after 8 p.m. and as I ascended Palm it was hard not to notice the sunset over Rialto. I stopped several times to snap photos.

Onward I went and soon I found myself in front of the ancient, shuttered bank on the corner of Palm and Main. I’m a sucker for this joint and took a few photos, but not many. The place always intrigues.

The big surprise in the Historic District is The Belle is open! The news had escaped me and I’m probably not the only one. The venerable Bella-Highland Café & Bar is an institution and it was great to see its neon OPEN sign shining brightly … even though I don’t drink, had no money and, well, was exercising.

I decided to halt my march and enter the iconic water hole. It was dark but I could make out some familiar sights – the U-shaped wood bar, the old HIGHLAND railroad sign and a children’s “Fire Chief” car whimsically attached to a wall.

I noticed customers out back in a patio I didn’t know existed. That’s when the bartender, Brittany, appeared. I said hello and explained I was a local media guy and a blogger and had written about the place before. She was cool and chatted amiably and even tried to show me an ancient bell that used to hang over the bar.

The light show was the star of the evening though and after bidding Brittany good-bye I took a left on Pacific and headed toward it. The sky was now a brilliant palette of blue, yellow and white and all I could think of was the Milwaukee Brewers. Obviously I’ve missed sports all these months.

My cell phone was running out of juice now and I really felt bad about that as I trudged down Central. I passed a huge, dilapidated white house on the right where some black crows were perching. Then I glanced back at the sky which was now an explosion of blue and magenta.

Reaching for my cell phone I tried to take a photo, but the device was as dead as Trump’s re-election hopes. Drat! Time to head home.

It was nice to see The Belle Open, even though I didn’t have a dime to spend.

Grillin’ time

Does it get much better than chicken, mussels and milk fish barbecuing?

By John Murphy

Somehow we went the first five months of the coronavirus pandemic without barbecuing. That was rectified Sunday when the CalTrans Girl and I got down with the Royal Oak wood chips in a serious way.

We didn’t have a barbecue for the longest time, but I took care of that by picking up a used one for a song (and $29) at a San Bernardino thrift store. It’s a beauty – a Weber, black as coal, lightly used and a practical size at 18 inches in diameter.

Sunday morning, I hit Walmart to purchase charcoal and lighter fluid and some chicken to throw on the grill. It went nicely with some sausages from Costco and mussels and milk fish from Seafood City.

Ripping open that bag of charcoal, dousing the wood chips with lighter fluid and lighting that thing up – it transported me back to barbecues past. I recalled pleasant Sundays up in Watsonville with the late Mark Ruso, a mountain of a guy with a fondness for holding court over a hot grill with a cold drink in his hand.

Mark, a Slavonian-American, would tell me how flank steak used to be so lowly regarded by butchers up north that it was practically given away; and how tri-tip was the focus at so many benefit events that locals took to calling them “baseball steaks.”

Sunday though it was CalTrans Girl riding shotgun. As opposed to Mark, she did not pound vodka tonics during food preparation and instead scrutinized my every move.

‘You’re very excited, aren’t you?” she said early in the process. Then, “you’re not turning the chicken enough” and “don’t touch the fish until I get back – it’s going to break if you do.”

I paid little mind. It was a perfect summer day as La Canada’s Collin Morikawa wrapped up the PGA golf title on TV and our barbecue sizzled. The only protest came from the poor milk fish with its one eye exposed, staring up at me and seeming to say, “What did I do to deserve this?”

Finally, I couldn’t resist the delicious aroma anymore and stuck a fork in a sausage and rescued it from the fire. Taking a nibble I relished the taste and said, “Ahhhh, we’re geniuses, aren’t we?”

“Yes, I am,” CalTrans Girl said. “And you should have bought corn.”

I get no respect, I tell ya. No respect.