A Day at the Ballgame

I played hooky from work last Thursday to take in a mid week Major League Baseball game. It’s an escape I've used to unplug myself from the daily grind for about as many summers as I've been in the work force.

When I lived in Spokane I was a fan of the Seattle Mariners. Unfortunately Seattle is a 6 hour drive from there. And 6 hours back. And as much as I liked the Mariners, I didn't like being in a car 12 hours just to go see them. So, in the ten years I lived in the Pacific Northwest I only made the trek the Seattle Kingdome, twice.

However Oakland, and the Oakland Coliseum, is only about a two and a half hour drive from Grass Valley. And since returning to Northern California back in the mid 80’s, many a random afternoon has been spent in the Bay Area contentedly taking in the boys of summer and my boyhood team, the A's

My ticket was in Section 233 of the Coliseum’s plaza reserve section (fancy terminology for second deck, outfield). After batting practice, from high above my perch over the left field warning track (parts I couldn’t even see because of the bad angle) I gazed out on the field of green and munched on lunch the lovely Amy had packed for me. Dipping into a bag of Sun-Chips, I mused on all the changes the 'ol ballpark has gone through since my very first game at the Oakland Coliseum.

It was 1968 and I was 12, both a fair distance in the past (about as far from home plate as my ticket, last Thursday). The A's opponent that evening was the Washington Senators, since 1972 known as the Texas Rangers. 6 foot 6 Frank Howard was in the lineup for the Senators. He was a behemoth of a man who hit a lot of home runs and I was hoping to see him knock one out. But the closest anyone got to a round-tripper was Sal Bando’s towering fly to left that might’ve cleared the fence by an inch if Frank Howard been shorter. Tracking the flight of the ball and standing with his back to the wall, he stuck his glove up and snagged it. He didn’t even have to jump. In the damp Oakland air, nothing hit to the outfield that evening had much carry. It was a game mostly of singles and the A’s lost, 4-1

When my Dad and I settled into our seats that long removed April evening, I remember the Oakland Coliseum being nearly a brand new facility. But these days, the place is definitely showing its age. Ownership has made little effort to spruce up- or even keep up- the drab, decaying ballpark. The only tangible thing A's CEO Lew Wolff has done to the stadium, besides make the A's non-competitive, is tarp off most of the third deck.

Typical of rich guy’s with a seat behind the dugout, Mr. Wolff, as he looked down his nose and insulting much of the fan base, explained it was because nobody wanted to sit up there. The truth is nobody wants to sit on any level because he’s a cheap bastard that won’t put any money into fielding a decent team. Third Deck or front row, the team sucks. Like the ballpark. And the owner.

Until I couldn’t anymore, I often used to sit in the third deck. So did a lot of other fans because it was affordable and offered a great view of the entire field, and picturesque panorama of the East Bay Hills. Honest to God, on a warm sunny day it was beautiful up there and there was absolutely nothing wrong with having a ticket to watch a baseball game from there. But when the freaking football Raiders returned from LA, the Coliseum's best days were forever put behind it.

Alameda County bent over and let Raiders Managing General Partner, Al Davis, have his way with them and the ballpark. Using nothing but public money, more luxury boxes were put in as well as more seats, and the Coliseum was completely reconfigured, which altered the air currents for baseball and turned the place into a cement mixing bowl of ugly, punctuated by the monstrosity, derisively known by baseball fans as "Mt. Davis"; the hideous structure constructed behind the outfield which permanently blocked the view of the surrounding scenery and stripped the Coliseum of any aesthetic appeal as sports venue.

But besides playing in a ballpark that's been ruined by the NFL and outlived its usefulness, other changes to come along since 1968 that have muted the ballpark experience that have nothing to do with the A's or the facility; like the cost to attend. A bleacher ticket in college was two bucks, and three in the third deck. Although those prices went up in the 80's, a bleacher ticket was still only 4 dollars and a seat in the third deck, just six. It stayed that way almost all the way through the 90's. 

On that first visit to the Coliseum, it was my birthday weekend and Dad got pretty good seats, in the lower deck, 19 rows behind the third base dugout. They cost him 9 dollars each. 18 dollars, which sounded like a lot of money just to go to a baseball game. But my single ticket the other day, to sit approximately 400 feet from home plate and eye level with the left field foul pole was also 18 dollars. By itself. 

Because game time (6 pm) for that first A’s game coincided with dinner time, Dad bought me a hot dog and a Coke. Together, this standard ballpark combo set him back two whole dollars. The other day I brought my own food, but purchased a tiny cup of Dr. Pepper that cost twice what a dog and a drink cost in ’68- $4. 50. Had I bought food on Thursday I'd have had to rob a bank somewhere along the way. A Stadium Dog in Oakland goes for 7 dollars. For a hot dog. 

Parking’s ridiculous, too. I don’t know what it was in 1968, but in college I remember it costing 2 dollars to park in the Coliseum parking lot. It went up to 4 dollars in the 80’s, 5 in the 90’s. Last Thursday, I paid 13 dollars for the ‘privilege’ of leaving my little truck at the far end of the Coliseum grounds. I was parked so far away the ballpark looked like a mirage. Nevertheless, it still cost 13 clams to park and hike in. Crazy. Not counting the bridge toll in Benicia, the excursion set me back $45.00. And I’d come alone.  

Besides the accelerated costs, I can think of a few other things that have become a little annoying about a day at the ballgame, too.

I’m growing weary of all the "American Idol" wanna-bees that teams trot out to sing the National Anthem. The song isn’t great to start with. Singing it accapella doesn't help; singing it accapella and poorly is an outright travesty. Helloo- we're not looking at you; we're looking at the flag. So stop preening for Simon Cowell and just sing the damn song. Musical accompaniment would help these rubes stick to the melody, but few team owners want to spend the money for an in-stadium organist anymore. Probably wouldn't make a difference. Being asked to perform the song for nothing but a ticket to the game, but keep time and follow the music as well is probably too much to ask or hope for.

But I also find it odd, before it’s sung, they make an announcement asking those in attendance to rise and "remove your hats". When did they start doing that? As cats instinctively know how to catch mice, I always believed most Americans already knew to rise and remove their hats whenever the colors are presented. Without being told. I’ve seen it since childhood. The flag comes out and everyone stands up, as if on cue.

Not anymore I guess; not when MLB treats the "Star Spangled Banner" as amateur hour. Not when it’s more an afterthought than part of the game experience. That first Coliseum experience with my Dad, the A’s took the field before the Anthem was played, and stood at attention, cap over heart, as the organist played it.  Now the song is done about ten minutes before first pitch. The only people on the field at that time are the ground crew. They might as well just skip it altogether, except the radio and TV broadcasts use that time to run a bunch of pre-game commercials.

Just look around any ballpark and notice all the advertisements. That's big bucks to the teams. Hell, even the name of the Oakland Coliseum has been sold; it’s now the Overstocked Dot Com Coliseum (or the O Dot Co). Barf!  To be fair, I don’t mind seeing billboards on the outfield fences. If it helps the A’s stay in business (though I suspect Lew Wolff’s pocketing most of it) I’m okay with it. It’s kind of a throw-back look to some of the old ballparks of the 50’s and 60’s, back before multi- purpose complexes, like the Coliseum, started being built.

There has to be some limits though. I mean how much is too much? Do we have to play completely by what the advertisers and networks want? Can we maybe get back to the ball park experience being about the freaking game again? I swear that old bastard Bud Selig (MLB Commissioner) would sell the naming rights to Babe Ruth's headstone if there was enough money in it. Barf again.

I miss Roy Steele too. Roy was the Coliseum P.A. announcer and voice of the ballpark from my very first A’s game. Gosh, with pipes so deep they nicknamed him the "voice of God", listening to Roy Steel announce the lineups was like watching Picasso paint. But age and health issues forced him to retire in 2009, and though the new guy is okay, he's no Roy Steele.

So the sound of the place isn't as aesthetically pleasing as it once was either. But here’s another little oddity that makes me scratch my head. Why is the starting time for an afternoon game at 12:35? Why not something a little more novel; like oh, let’s say, 12:30? What's up with all these odd starting times? The A’s play midweek games at 12:35 night games at 7:05, and 1:05 on weekends. Huh? On vacation a couple of years ago, I went to a Mariners game at Safeco Field. First pitch, according to the ticket, was 7:10. And that’s when the game began. Shoot, the Giants start all their weeknight games at 7:15.

It doesn't matter what time they put on the ticket, though, people come in late anyway. Even sitting on an aisle out in the hinterlands, hordes of late arrivals kept filtering in and becoming a nuisance. About half weren’t even in the right section. Of those who were, some were either too wide or too old to move very well. But they weren’t really the problem; nor were the little kids. But the agile adults, weighted down with concessions, stopping to double check their tickets and watch a pitch- or two- spill their food (once, on me), and generally take their sweet ass time getting to where they were going while obstructing the view of those who were on time, already in place and trying to watch the game, they were the problem. 

This went on so long after the game started, I eventually moved over a section, away from the stairs and far from the maddening crowd.  But if a movie starts at 7, aren’t people usually there by 7? Then for a baseball game, if first pitch is 7, or 1:05- or 12 35 for crying out loud- why can't people be in the ballpark by then or soon after? You late-comers are driving me crazy. Come on time, or don't come at all; if you can’t make it on time then at least don’t come to my crummy little corner of the ballpark.

But there's one more thing that's different about the ballpark experience from how it used to be. Dad can't come with me anymore. We went to a lot of games together, mostly Giants and A's, all through childhood and even up till about 15 years ago. He even taught me how to keep score, something I still do today. But age has made it too hard for him to make the trek anymore. The drive, the walking, the steps, the outdoors; it wears him down. So I go alone now, or with Amy, or with friends. And that's okay. Even if the home team sucks, a warm day in the sun watching baseball will always be a good time, no matter who I go with. But for introducing me to this awesome summer escape Dad will always be close in my heart.

Before that A’s game in ’68, I was only 8 when Dad took me to my very, very first game- a Dodgers game at beautiful Dodger Stadium. When I was little- and before the A’s came to Oakland- the Dodgers were my favorite team. But till I was 8, I'd only heard what Dodger Stadium looked like though the eyes of Vin Scully on my little transistor radio, pulling in far-away Dodger broadcasts on KFI Los Angeles on evenings when the atmospheric conditions were just right.

But it was like walking into a cathedral to actually be there in person. The grass was the greenest green. The infield dirt, a vivid red clay. And the lights were the tallest, biggest, brightest lights I’d ever seen. I was overwhelmed. And to see the players in their uniforms in real life, having only known them by name or baseball card, man, that was magic. ...Daddy, there's Maury Wills; he even looks fast!..And wow, that Don Drysdale is h-u-g-e!...Oh, look, is that Ron Fairly?  Can I get his autograph? 

So much has changed since that first game with Dad at Dodger Stadium, and later my first excursion to the Coliseum. Even the team the A's were playing the other day, the Tampa Bay Rays, didn't exist when I was a kid. In fact, they've only been around since the late 90's. What hasn't changed is the game and my relationship with it. So I carp about a lot of peripheral stuff. But I still love baseball. Like a first kiss, sometimes there's almost nothing as sweetly alluring as a warm summer afternoon at the ball game.

I still get swallowed up in the ambient crowd noise, the unmistakable sound of bat hitting ball and ball pounding mitt. I love checking the out of town scoreboard, and still get fired up watching a guy leg out a triple. I also have a deep affinity for the stolen base, an outfielder perfectly hitting the cut-off man, the beauty of a 3 pitch punch-out and the majesty of a long home run. And for three hours on a perfect July afternoon, in a 10-8 slugfest in which the Rays outlasted the A's, I got to see all of that.

And even well into mid-life now, I still get the same sense of excitement driving to the park and anticipating the afternoons' first pitch as I did when I was 8 years old. I can't really explain it either; but playing ball as a kid, and watching bigger kids play it now as a grown-up, still gives me a charge. Sure, the game moves too slow and isn't all that cool, at least to the younger generations. And the world's a far different place and the Oakland Coliseum is a dive, now, too. But for me the experience of just being there, or going to a ballgame in general, will never grow old.

And as long as baseball keeps the little kid in me alive, too, then, neither will I.

No Fly Zone

Nobody would believe it today (at least nobody who knows me well), but once upon a time I spent my fair share of time flying the friendly skies.

 Vacation destinations, family events, even getting back and forth to college. Sometimes the easiest way to get there is by air, so I often found myself strapped inside a jet-propelled airtight thin-skinned aluminum tube crisscrossing the heavens. Yippee, look at me! And early on it was kind of fun. But as I got older, not so much. In fact, by my 20's I dreaded every take off and landing, and in between, never let the adult beverage cart sneak by unnoticed.

 

Excuse me, I'd like another. And don't be a stranger.

 

I can’t pinpoint exactly when I decided to become deathly afraid to fly. It’s been a mostly cumulative process. However thinking back, the wheels may have been put in motion when I threw up on my very first flight, a Christmas-time quickie from Sacramento to Los Angeles. I felt fine most of the way, too. But twenty minutes from a sunset landing at LAX, I spewed my lunch all over the seat-back in front of me. Oh sure, the barf bag was right there, but who knew you were supposed to take it out first!? Certainly not the sick little 8 year-old on his first airline adventure.

Naturally, I was embarrassed. But the stewardi were kind and understanding and even gave me a set of souvenir wings to take with me. They didn't seem to be mad at me at all. Mom was, because I'd messed up my good clothes; but even though I'd decorated their plane with a pool of vomit, the airline wasn't.

Several years later, Mom and Dad tried again. They took me and Sue with them on a trip to New York. It was late in June, and typical of summertime on the East Coast, a line of big thunderstorms from Pennsylvania to New England had popped up. To land, the pilots had no other option but to poke through them. However, Air Traffic Control wouldn't let them. Not yet anyway. Flights were stacked up all over the place and they placed us in a holding pattern

 

We spent the next hour just circling over eastern New Jersey before our plane was given the green light for final approach. As we descended through the towering storm clouds, though, the big jet got tossed around like a kid's toy. The ride down was like being in a car with really bad shocks on a mountainous dirt road and rolling over every rut and pothole as hard as possible. Except we weren’t in a car. We were several thousand feet above the ground and there was no road. Just air. 

 

The last 20 minutes of the flight were the worst; though. They seemed like two hours. The turbulence going down was so violent I thought we really were going down. It felt like the plane was going to break apart, and I never wanted to throw up so bad in my life. But my stomach was completely tied up in knots and I couldn't.

However, when we finally punched through the bottom of the cloud deck several miles out from JFK Airport, I thought I'd feel better because at least I could see Terra Firma. But the mighty 747 continued to be bitch-slapped by wind gusts so severe I thought we’d just fall out of the sky rather than land. As hail and sheets of rain bounced off the fuselage, and lightning flashed close enough to reach out and touch, it was like flying through hell's anteroom.

Mercifully, however, the flight came to an end, wobbling like a dying quail until touching down at last, smoothly and without incident. When all four wheels were safely on the ground, and a safe landing was no longer in doubt, the feeling of relief throughout the plane was palpable. I thanked God- and probably wasn't the only one- because I was sure we were going to die.

But almost two years later an Eastern Airlines 727, in bound from New Orleans, crashed and burned on the very same runway. Witnesses saw lightning strike the plane's tail, though the NTSB report named strong microbursts of wind as a contributing factor, too. Either element could've been the trigger that shoved the plane into the runway seconds from landing. Didn't make the 109 that died any less dead, though, no matter what caused the crash.

It was late June of '75, and as the news of the crash splashed all over the TV and newspapers, it wasn't lost on me that these were the exact same weather conditions- and during the same hour- on the afternoon we successfully landed on that JFK runway two years earlier. We were lucky. The people coming in from New Orleans weren't. And though only a coincidence, for years afterwards this incident haunted me every time I had to get on a plane.

And maybe I'm imagining it, but it seems like there were a rash of big commercial jet disasters in the late 70's, including a 747 that crashed on takeoff in Chicago. The newspapers even had pictures of the thing turning upside down just before it nose-dived and exploded in a huge ball of fire. For 1979, the TV coverage was pretty gruesome, too, not to mention repetitive. And after so much exposure, especially at night when I couldn't sleep, my mind would change places with the people on that plane in Chicago and try and figure out what those last moments must’ve been like.

 

Knowing the plane was going down, what was going on in their minds?  Surely, they all knew they were going to die. What was it like knowing that was about to happen?  Would they feel anything? How would I react? I don't know. But just when I thought I was past the New York crash in ‘75, I started having nightmares about this one in 1979. However, I guess the thing that sealed the deal about keeping my feet permanently on the ground was the last time I set foot in a commercial jetliner. It was the summer I turned was 25, 1980, a year after the Chicago crash. It happened after a brief visit to Sacramento, on a connecting flight heading back to Spokane between Portland and Seattle.

 

We were cruising in a benign, clear and cloud free sky. And after three days with the family, it was clear sailing for me too. Away from them and almost home, I felt mostly relaxed--which hardly ever happened when I flew. Not too long after leaving Portland, I was daydreaming, mindlessly staring out the window at the Columbia River, peacefully separating Oregon from Washington. All was well. Suddenly the 727 hit a wake of incredible clear air turbulence. And then nothing was well.

 

The plane started tumbling and bouncing around like a bulky ungraceful gymnast. Quickly, the trip became as bad or worse as flying through that thunderstorm in New York seven years before. The jet felt unbalanced, flying like a drunk might stagger out of a bar at closing. Only the Northwest Orient pilots, at around 20,000 feet were having trouble keeping the airliner level. Occasionally the big bird tipped to one side, like it wanted to make a turn. But the angle was steeper than it should’ve been. Sounding like it was struggling to right itself, I wondered if the plane had lost the will to fly, like it wanted to just give up, flop over on its back and descend into a death spiral. It didn't, but stuff started falling out of the overhead compartments and a few people even began to scream, “Oh my God!"

The disturbance came on rapidly and though it lasted less than a minute, seemed a lifetime. A lifetime I was preparing to see flash before me.

But then, like it never happened at all, the plane settled back into a normal flight pattern. Then the pilot came on, and speaking very business-like, as if this happened all the time, apologized for the "little bump of turbulence" we’d encountered.  Little bump?!  Little freaking bump my ass- it felt like being on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at cruising altitude. But the flight continued on its way and completed an uneventful remainder of the 45 minute journey, culminating in a smooth, feathery landing in Spokane. I was never so happy to see that ugly old airport. Words wouldn't even begin to describe it. So I’ll put it insipidly: I wanted to get out and kiss the ground. Once back in the terminal, though, I decided, no mas.

'That’s enough. That’s it. I’m done. From now on, I'll get there in a car, train or bus, or I won't get there at all.

And I haven't been on a commercial jet since. It’s kind of silly, though. The likelihood of dying in an airplane crash is extremely small, and except for the anomaly of 9/11, there haven't been many domestic plane tragedies or incidents for at least a quarter century. And there is that faith in God thing I've supposedly invested my entire eternity in. So what's the deal? Why am I such a coward?

If I knew the answer to that, maybe I'd have grown up to be a pilot rather than just an earth-bound radio dude. But Mom always said I used to spend an awful lot of time with my head in the clouds too. So maybe being a white-knuckle flyer is just my little way of being obstinate again. 

Oh well.  Happy landings!

The Doc at the Lake

Though Lake Tahoe is one of nature's wonders and a nice place to visit, living there doesn't live up to the hype. It's expensive and crowded, and if you don't ski or gamble there isn't much else to do. Except work. So I spent the year I lived at Tahoe working on the lake's north shore at KEZC-FM Kings Beach.

It was late August of 1978. I’d just finished a fun summer working for the Spokane Indians baseball team. But not so fun was coming up empty in my quest for my first radio gig. By late August I’d basically run out of stations- at least locally- to hand off my tape and resume, a futile endeavor capped three weeks earlier by a disheartening hour with KHQ Spokane's program director, Chuck Heaton; the man who said I should seek another vocation because I'd never succeed in radio.(see "Don't Call Us, We'll Call You", blogpost 3.4.11). That’s what his carefully considered opinion and, three weeks later, am quite certain he thought he was doing me favor.

So with no regional luck, I’d have to leave town. At least if I wanted to work in radio. And that’s how I ended up working at KEZC in Lake Tahoe. And of course I’d like to tell you I got that first break based solely on my outstanding ability. But I know better. I got there because big brother Steve ran the joint and offered me the job. In fact, with almost zero broadcast experience, except college radio, it was probably the only way I'd get that first job at all. Of course going to work for family went against every grain of fiber in my body.

But if you want something bad enough, sometimes beggars can't be choosers. I was a fresh-out-of-work 23 year-old former group baseball ticket sales/delivery person, and though it wasn't the broadcast match made in heaven I was hoping for, it was a full time job in radio. KEZC (and Steve) were prepared to take a chance on me. And with an "I'll show you" attitude for Chuck Heaton, and VW Rabbit packed to the gills with all my stuff, I left Spokane and everyone I cared about to travel to the far away Lake Tahoe basin to begin my professional career. 

The destination ended at Kings Beach, the last little California burg on Tahoe's North Shore before crossing into Nevada. But the radio station itself was literally all over the map. KEZC-FM's city of license was in Truckee. The tower stood on Brockway Grade, about 15 miles away off Highway 267 near the Northstar Ski Area. And the studios occupied two upstairs suites in a funky little office building on Kings Beach’s main drag. For such an insignificant little radio station, it was scattered over a lot of real estate. 

The broadcast studio had a gorgeous view right out onto the Lake; which was a pleasant distraction from the constant state of office remodeling going on. Until the week after Thanksgiving, the air staff worked around piles of drywall and sheetrock materials, and ducking under assorted wires- nearly all of them, live- dangling all over the place. It was a Cal-OSHA nightmare. The building was one smoldering cord away from immolation; the person on duty one spilled coffee puddle and a spark from electrocution. I kept imagining the North Shore waking up one morning to the following headline: DJ burns up the airwaves and dies at post as KEZC burns to the ground.

But we all survived the transition, though I almost didn't survive the format--country. I hated country music. No, I detested it. Demographically appealing to Hillbillies and old people, I wanted no part of it. I wanted to play something relevant. I wanted to play Top 40 rock. Chicks don’t gig guys spinning records by guys named Conway Twitty?! Chicks don’t dig guys playing records that all sound like twangy fingernails scraping a blackboard. Country music sucked. There was nothing to like about it and it broke my heart knowing nobody my own age would be tuned in. Or maybe that was a good thing. I don’t know. However, you don’t always get to choose where you’re going to work or what music you get to play when you get there. So I played Conway Twittty. And survived. And eventually, mostly out of repeated forced repetition, I even developed a tolerance for Conway Twitty and country music.

Like the format, I found life at Lake Tahoe to be an acquired taste, too. But that part of the equation was taking longer; even longer than not vomiting when I sat down to play Conway Twitty songs. I missed Spokane and wanted to go home. And since I was in a strange place and didn't know anybody- and didn't really want to know anybody- I bonded solely with the people at work. Fortunately, they didn’t mind. And though, naturally, none were exactly like the friends I’d left behind in Spokane, most were close enough. In fact, it was a daffy enough crew that I eventually felt right at home. Of course I’ve been in the profession long enough now to know radio stations draw off-the wall quirky characters like a picnic draws ants. And KEZC certainly met its quota. There was Doris, the secretary. She was nice, kind of motherly and maybe the only real sane one on staff. I liked Chris Jensen, too. He was the morning guy, then later the afternoon guy.


Chris had been in the Air Force and, at first, seemed like a real solid Boy Scout type. Buttoned down and professional. But behind the control room door, once the mic was off, the real Chris came on. A non-stop wise-cracker, Chris reveled in lightly biting the hand that fed him; mocking the weather guy, teasing the news lady and making jokes about the playlist- and artists on the playlist, including  one of his faves, Conway Titty. He also lambasted the sales people, Steve and the listeners; especially the listeners. Chris saved his best material for them, for no other reason than listening to our silly little station and bothering to call in. Of course, it was only after they hung up, and mostly to amuse me. But he never used profanity or got too personal, and it was always in good fun. So yeah, Chris and I got along real well.

When I was promoted during the year from nights to mid-days, a hefty fellow named Brad Riegle joined the staff. However, Brad's brand of humor came with much more of a bite than Chris' skewing towards the profane and immature. Naturally, this bothered me not in the least because back then, those two words pretty much described me to a tee. So Brad and I were a good fit, too. But part of my job was to stick around and read three minutes of local news and weather at the 6:00 shift change between Chris' afternoon show and Brad's evening shift. That placed all three of us- me at the guest mic across from Chris, Brad behind him pulling records- in the same small studio at the same time. Whenever I looked up from my copy, both guys were in plain view. If I’d been a serious professional, this would’ve been highly problematic. But I wasn’t. And neither were they.

 

As the “guest” I didn’t have control of my mic. And every now and then as I was reading through the day’s headlines, Chris would put his mic in cue (meaning nobody could hear what he was saying except the only other guy in the room with headphones on- me) and whisper random, but amusing words and phrases like-

 

 "You're drooling again"

"Excrement”

“Brad dreams of having sex with donkeys”

 "My dog boinked your dog"

 

I could be reading a story on the latest Tahoe Regional Transit Authority meeting, or a car accident on North Lake Boulevard and in mid-sentence suddenly hear Chris talking to me in the headphones. Sometimes, though, the distraction wasn't audio but visual and I'd look up and see both Chris and Brad mooning me. Trust me, nobody wants to see that. About the only thing they didn't try during these 'frat house' times was the age-old lighting the news readers' copy on fire. But the gag was simple; make the news reader keep reading as if nothing was going on. Naturally, I failed miserably and the audience would a giggling school girl instead of a newsreader. And yes, I know- it was childish and stupid. But, I believe, that was the point.

 

Then there was my first brush with an actual living breathing stereotypical greasy sales guy. Del Tierney was our Herb Tarlek ("WKRP in Cincinnati") before there even was a Herb Tarlek. Del was Herb's prototype, right down to the loud sports jackets and white leather shoes. The man reeked of polyester, days' old Marlboro smoke, and too many years on the road hustling for a buck. He also displayed an insincere smile that couldn’t hide some pretty un-stellar denture work. Nevertheless, Del could sell. The man oozed slime, bad taste and put-on charm, nevertheless Del could sell. And whatever integrity or scruples he’d come into the world with had long since been shed, as a snake sheds its skin. Nevertheless, Del could sell. Yet, for some reason, I liked him. Del Tierney was an interesting creature to know.

However, the guy I hung out with the most was Dennis Croucher. Dennis started at KEZC 8 weeks after I’d come on board, and took over the morning show, which was why Chris got moved to afternoons. Not a huge guy, though taller than me, Dennis (or "Doc" as he preferred) managed a garden of thick red hair on his head with half his face shrouded in a full-on red beard. He looked like a domesticated Yosemite Sam. And with a deep, gravelly voice, he also came with a set of pipes to die for. Doc Croucher was a sociable drifter, moving from town to town and never staying in one place too long. Wherever he found himself, though, he always made lots of friends; especially with the ladies. However, with three trips to the altar already under his belt, by the time I knew him Doc was fairly committed to remain single.  

But when he was on the radio the babes all seemed to come out of the woodwork. They'd call the studio line all morning, just to hear my voice, he’d tell me. It wasn’t out of arrogance or cockiness, though, but rather a genuine bewilderment; like, why? He didn't get it. But with that low resonating voice, probably from all the tobacco sticks he'd inhaled over the years, Doc's deep, rich on-air presence was a sure-fire hit with the chicks. They ate it up and on most weekday mornings I’d bet anything that at least half the female population of North Lake Tahoe- or more- were tuned in and in a tizzy because of Dennis Croucher. Yet despite all the time I spent with him, whatever Doc had going that made him click with the opposite sex, none of “it” ever rubbed off on me. Around women I remained a total goober. And I couldn’t blame Conway Twitty. It just was.

So I watched, tried to learn and wished I could be like him. Like Doc Croucher, that is, not Conway Twitty. But even if I was still a big zero away from the office, I was sure having a good time at the office. Like Chris Jensen’s, Doc’s wry sense of humor was continuously on display. But unlike Chris' in-house ridicule, Doc's humor tended to be more 'global', poking fun at the stuffy, pretentious, and absurd going on outside KEZC’s walls. I came on right after Dennis, at ten in the morning. He'd hang around, or go and come back until I got off the air at 2 and take me with him to lunch at one of the nearby watering holes, usually either OB’s Board in Truckee or the tavern at Pelican’s Pier in Carnelian Bay.  

Pelican’s was 'Doc's' favorite place at the Lake, but whether there, or  at OB’s or someplace else, lunch always seemed to be his treat. “I take care of my friends” he said every time the check came. Nobody was getting rich at KEZC that was for sure but Dennis always covered the fare and never let me buy. As we ate and gabbed, I didn’t drink much, just enough to relax. But Dennis could put it away. He'd polish off 3 glasses of beer before I’d gone through one. But you couldn't tell. He was always in control of himself as he held court, entertaining all comers with wild stories of his life, hardly any of them believable. He sure told them as if they were, though. Regardless, it was great being a part of his inner circle, but also amazing he and I ever got any work done. Sometimes we were gone all day and into the evening. But those were definitely my salad days at KEZC.

 It wasn't all fun and games, though. Everyone pulled 6-day work weeks and, being low man on the totem pole, I usually drew the least desirable time slots, including the Saturday night  6 p.m.to midnight shift. I got that one a lot. But one of these long boring nights in particular stands out and Doc played a huge role in it. It was a nasty crummy Lake Tahoe winter night, with snow and freezing rain coming down outside as if it’d never stop. But inside, for some undetermined reason, the heater had gone out in the building and wouldn’t be repaired until Monday. A tiny little space heater had been set up in the frosty studio. But otherwise, anyone working till Monday would be broadcasting in cold and bleak surroundings. But not that night; not for me, anyway, because Dennis came to the rescue.

I’d been on the air about an hour. Around 7:00 I left the studio to refill my coffee cup and heard footsteps coming up the stairwell. Whoever it was had to be an employee because nobody else would have a key to get in at that time of day. I was right. Just like a St. Bernard coming to the aid of a lost hiker in the Alps, Doc threw open the front door and happily bounded in- a girl in one hand, and brand new unopened bottle of brandy in the other. I wasn’t exactly sure why he was there, but after introductions were made and his lady friend had stepped into the powder room, Doc leaned close.

Speaking conspiratorially, he whispered, “I've already got something to keep warm tonight. This little baby here is yours", and pointed to the bottle. No wonder I liked the guy, though I wouldn't have minded if he'd kept the booze and left the girl. I didn’t swallow the bottle, merely filled my coffee mug maybe twice over the next 5 hours. Okay, it was three times, but who's counting? Ah, but the brandy went down nice and smooth. And as the records spun on and on and, thanks to a growing buzz, my insides grew cozier and cozier; I began to lose interest in the cold studio and wintry night. And my show. Here's another song on KEZC. Now leave me alone. However this particular Saturday night stands out, and not merely because of Doc's hospitality.

 

It was November 18, 1978, the night of the Jonestown Massacre in Guyana. The first bulletins trickled across the wire about 10 p.m. and at first I thought maybe I was drunk because it all sounded made-up: unconfirmed reports… a California senator and some NBC-TV news reporters gunned down…. ambushed att an airstrip in Guyana?? Where the hell was Guyana, and why was a California congressman and the national media there with him? I tore the wire copy off the teletype and, whether I believed it made sense or not, read it as written at the 10:30 news break. At 11 the top of the hour Mutual Broadcasting System feed led with more details. The initial reports were true and getting worse. 

Now fully alert, I tried to gather as much information as I could before our midnight sign-off. But it would take till the next morning before the rest of the grim story became known- the mass suicide of over 900 unfortunate souls, followers of the deranged Rev. Jim Jones. They’d been forced at gun point to drink cyanide laced Kool-aid. Congressman Leo Ryan and the TV reporters were killed to prevent them from reporting to the outside world what they’d seen. It was a terribly disturbing story. BUT it was the first really big news story to break while I was actually working and on the air.

Of course, that means nothing to anyone who hasn’t worked in our industry. But to a radio rookie guy- even one who'd kept company with a bottle of brandy most of his air shift - it was most certainly a fascinating night to be working. I'm glad I only drank just enough not to forget it. But besides bearing gifts on a cold night, Dennis taught me a lot about radio, too. Not just mic technique and technical stuff. He taught me the nuances of being a professional broadcaster; he taught be how to be an announcer without announcing. He pushed me to be real, not phony, and never open the mic unprepared. Most of all, taught me to believe in myself, although, admittedly, this may still a work in progress.  

I didn’t- and still don’t- like my voice or delivery and whined because I couldn’t sound as good as Doc. But Doc, 16 years my senior, said it’d taken him a long time “to get this good”. Of course he’d laugh, but in the next breath say it’d probably take a little while for me too. But it I kept working at it, it would come. “With age comes perfection. Just like a fine wine” Then he’d chide, "Besides, there’s already a Doc Croucher and the world doesn’t need another one. They want an original Rocket. Nobody else has your God-given talents. So for crissakes, just be yourself and shut up. I think you're good, okay?" And after awhile, at least when I was working around him, I even started to believe him. 

Sometimes these coaching sessions were conducted while out to lunch at OB’s or Pelican’s, over a meal or two and a brew. And as the day or evenings glow began to fade and Doc stopped flirting with the waitresses, he’d become a little more mellow and serious and get back to business. Our business. “Look, you’ve been given a gift. You get to talk on the radio for a living. Do you know how many people who listen and call in would die to trade places with us? So get off your ass and get off yourself. You're one of the lucky ones; not only are you young, but you can talk and read and have enough talent to blend the two into a pleasant sounding radio personality that should lead to a nice long future in our profession. So quit effing with yourself and, tomorrow, when you go back in there, just sit down at the effing console and do it."  Sage advice.

 

Doc kept me going during those KEZC months, a time of life that was very hard for me. Though I kept busy with work, my homesickness for Spokane had yet to erode. I still wanted to go back. And Doc knew that. I told him so. So he helped me the best way he could, by challenging me to keep working at my craft and get better so that someday, I could go back. And I did. A few months later, I was able to leave Lake Tahoe and KEZC and find my way to the morning slot at KZUN AM & FM, broadcasting from Opportunity, Washington, in the Spokane Valley.

It was a happy ending for me. But radio is such a transitory business and not long after I left Tahoe, Doc drifted away also, off to parts unknown. Which was sad because, during  a few dark days that came once I did get back to Spokane (which I never saw coming), I wished I could've called him up and let him verbally kick me in the ass and tell me to get back up on the horse- all in the spirit of  friendship, of course. I missed our "encouragement" sessions.  There were days I really needed to hear his voice. But I don't know what happened to Doc. I never crossed paths or heard from him again either. However, I'll always remember his kindness when I was a young insecure broadcaster. There was still so much I didn't know, but at the dawn of my career, Doc was there to take me under his wing and teach me how to fly.  

And while I never did learn to love life at Lake Tahoe, I didn't really hate it either. I still could barely stomach Conway Twitty. But the 9 months there at Tahoe, I think, were well spent; and not just because it’s where I got my first radio gig. It sticks out positively because for the first time I got to know and be friends with, and be accepted by, other broadcasters. No longer on the outside looking in, I was now really in. And that was pretty cool.  So I look back and count it an honor and a blessing to have been part of the KEZC crew that year.

But Doc was the best of the bunch.  He made a difference and helped me grow professionally. So wherever you are, Doc Croucher- and though it was for only a short time- thank you for being my mentor and my friend.

Right Place, Right Time

 

I was unemployed for six months, from September '99 until the spring of 2000. It’d been over 15 years since the last time I’d fallen into that predicament; but I was 15 years younger then, too, so the thought I’d never get out of it wasn’t an issue. But prospects seemed a lot dimmer at 44 than they did at 29 and it wasn’t very long before those maddening six months started feeling like forever until I’d work again.

But it was also during this time of idleness that my friend Dale Tibbs and I began playing racquetball. We’d get together in the early afternoons and, once the rust wore off from several years mostly sitting on my ass, Dale and I could play for hours and usually did. It felt great being quick and active again. Not only was I getting back in shape, these 3-4 times a week workouts helped work off the frustration of not working; some of it, anyway. It certainly beat waiting for Amy to come home from her job and feeling sorry for myself.  Though the fruitless-so-far job search felt lousy, I felt better physically than I had in years.

However nearing the end of this exile from employment, while I didn’t wish it, I almost became acclimated to it. All the free time I hadn’t had in years, plus the hours of fun and fellowship with Dale had me semi- half-way hoping life could stay that way; provided I could also find a way to get paid, too. But God, as usual, had other plans that didn't necessarily jell with my lazy daydreams, and in April of 2000 He created an opening for me at EMF Broadcasting. And nearly twelve years later I'm still there. But even though the long hours and commute cut racquetball time to just a couple hours on Saturdays, Dale and I kept it up; at least until July 14, 2001.

It was a typically toasty day and we’d just finished a grueling two hour set. As usual, Dale and I had taken turns beating each other and were cooling off in the hallway outside the court, yakking about the great shots made, easy ones missed, and other random odds and ends before heading out to meet the wives for a quick fast food lunch. Dale was part way into one of his amusing tangents, a story he'd told before and one I was only half-way paying attention to, when he started acting differently.

Very much out of character, particularly for this well-worn tale, he suddenly stopped cracking wise and, apparently distracted began nervously pacing the hall, occasionally belching. After about five minutes, he sat down in a plastic chair and glanced at me with a troubled expression, but said nothing. He looked exhausted, but we'd just finished playing two hours of racquetball, so that wasn't so odd. In the year and a half that we’d been playing we were always tired when our two hours were up. But it was a good tired, one we generally recovered from within a couple of minutes of coming off the court.

I’d already recuperated, but Dale hadn’t. He wasn’t presenting the look of a ‘good tired’, either. He was pale and working to breathe and perspiring as if we were still playing. “I don't think I feel well… I think we should forget about lunch.” Dale's speech was labored, and I began to wonder why one of the most verbal people I knew was having such a hard time getting out two simple sentences. And having such a hard time getting his wind.

I could see he was in distress of some kind. However, generally speaking, he was able to converse, and though seated, apparently still able to get around. So I kept probing, hoping he’d recover, or tell me what was wrong. I asked if he was in pain; he said he didn’t know. I even asked does your chest hurt?  He shook his head ‘no’.  But I should’ve known better. For at least a quarter of an hour I'd observed him clearly short of breath, and having difficulty talking.

Sweating and confused, too, with his body under-going enormous stress and mind probably going in a million directions, it was understandable why Dale didn’t appreciate what was going on. However, not presently in the midst of a massive coronary, of the two of us I should have. Yet as precious minutes kept ticking off clock in the racquetball club hallway, I persisted as if he’d merely swallowed a bad clam.  Anyone else would've had the good sense to make him stay in the chair and go for help; but as the crisis continued to unfold right before my eyes, my brain remained parked in neutral.

Damn good thing Dale's life didn't depend on me, yeah?

He said he wanted to go home so, following his lead, I let him get up and accompanied him to the parking lot. By being ambulatory I think he way trying to convince himself that nothing was really wrong. But it was like he was walking in quicksand. Perspiring and shaky, each step was labor intensive, though he made it outside without attracting attention. However, we were in a gym; almost everybody looks that way after a demanding work out. But as soon as we got out the door, still breathing hard, Dale conceded the obvious. “I think we need to get to the hospital”.

Only then did I finally get it, and the gravity of the situation came into full focus. Dale was in trouble.

"You better drive” he heaved, as if there was any other option. Fortunately my truck was considerably closer to the racquetball club's entrance than Dale's was. He managed to open the door for himself, too, but then settles into the passenger side like a sack of soggy potatoes, totally worn out. Putting the car in gear, I bolted from the parking lot and out to the intersection with East Main Street. Fortunately the hospital was just a couple blocks away. But stopped for cross traffic, I was afraid we might not get there quick enough. I got antsy waiting for it to clear and began cursing under my breath, which didn’t really help. But I couldn't help Dale until I got across the damn street. Of all days to leave my fake police siren at home.

It's difficult enough making a left turn at West Berryhill and East Main under most circumstances. But at lunch hour, on a Saturday, on a summer day; it was darn near impossible. Glancing back and forth, left to right, then left again to the point of neck strain, it looked like everybody and their brother- and their other brother- had all chosen that day and hour to all be going someplace. And they were all in my way. I tried a quick probe, nudging into the busy cross street, but quickly stopped and pulled back when the perceived opening closed quicker than I judged.

“Damn!" I cursed again at the windshield. But even in the midst of the storm, Dale had the presence of mind to be the voice of reason and a calming influence. "Rocket, it's okay. Just take your time. We'll get there okay. It's going to be fine. Take it easy, okay?" Taking a deep breath to refocus and reset I was finally able to make the turn and two minutes later were in front of the ER at Sierra Nevada Memorial Hospital. I stopped the engine and headed to the passenger side.

Dale had the door open but hadn’t made an attempt to get out yet. Sitting and not moving for a few minutes had given him a false sense of recovery. His breathing had calmed down and his color had returned. ”Let's wait a minute before going in. Let me see what happens when I walk. I think I'm feeling better.” He slowly extracted himself from the car and took two steps before his symptoms returned with a vengeance. ”No, I'm not well. Not at all. Whatever it is, it’s back. We better go in.”  I asked if he wanted me to get a medic or a wheelchair, but Dale insisted on making it in under his own power. Amazingly, he did, plodding lethargically as he had back at the gym. But it’d be the last time he'd be on his feet for awhile. 

Inside, the admissions lady seemed kind of lethargic, too. Or terribly methodical. She proceeded through the initial battery of questions without much urgency, even though Dale said he was feeling lousy. And we were in urgent care. I suppose they hear that in the ER all the time, but the man looked considerably worse than just 'feeling lousy'.  But the inquisition at the check-in continued routinely, as if he just had a cold: name, date of birth, address, insurance, blah , blah, blah… Dale and Eva had recently moved but, when asked, gave the lady the wrong one. I quietly reminded him. He sighed, wearily. “Oh, yeah, that’s right…” then recited the new Nevada City house number.

By now, though, Dale appeared quite spent; just having to talk seemed to be grinding him down. Wanting to speed things up, I did something out of character and butted into the conversation. ”He's been having chest pains.”  Instantly, the lady looked away from the monitor and directly at Dale. Though he denied it back at the gym, this time he nodded in the affirmative. Now clearly exhibiting signs of being very ill, she stopped the interview, called for a wheel-chair and rushed him into the ER.

With Dale now getting looked at, I escaped the chaos and cacophony of the waiting room and went back outside. It was much quieter. What now? What should I do? Trying to find the mental re-set button, it occurred to me somebody needed to call Eva. Expecting Dale voice to be telling her where we were meeting for lunch, she didn't sound terribly concerned when she heard it was me. But when I delivered the news, telling her everything I knew (and nothing I suspected), Eva's tone instantly shifted from light hearted to concern.”I'm on my way” she said, getting straight to the point then quickly hung up.

 

I'd never had to make that type of a phone call before, either. It was unsettling and kind of surreal. Umm, I think your husband' may be gravely ill. I didn't say that, but didn't have to. Eva just knew.  Shoving the cell phone back in my pocket, I nervously checked my watch. It was 12:15. Dale began feeling ill around 11:50. Not long, but seemed a lot longer and I began lamenting those lost 25 minutes wondering if he’d only been having indigestion, and those extra 30 seconds waiting to safely cross busy East Main Street. I worried whether all that missed time was going to add up to something I'd regret for the rest of my life.

Scared to death for my friend, I paced the parking lot and prayed for him. Then I called Amy. It was really hot, though, and after hanging up I went back inside. It sucked inside (I hate hospitals) but at least the AC was working hard. Almost as soon as I walked in, though, the nurse who’d taken Dale into the ER spotted me took me back outside.  

 

"I need to tell you his. Your friend has suffered a major heart attack. It's very bad." The symptoms Dale exhibited at the racquetball club were just a precursor to the big one he’d just had while being attended to in the emergency room. She said it came on with a vengeance.  "But you got him here in time" she said, walking with me back into the hospital corridor. "We got him stable, he’s resting now and I think he's going to be okay." I breathed a prayer of thanks. But Good God, I thought, looking at the nurse as she walked away, why didn't you tell me that first??!! 

 

But casting my eyes again heavenward, I cut her some slack. Believing for the last hour they were going to tell me Dale had died and it was my fault and finding out he wasn’t, was like having a 500 pound boulder gently removed off my shoulders. As it symbolically rolled away, with the weight of the world gone, my breathing returned to normal again.

And I guess, if you're going to suffer a major heart attack, being in the hospital ER is probably the best place on Earth to have one. When Dale’s hit, he was already surrounded by doctors, medication and machines and was given immediate care. And when Eva, Amy and I were allowed to see him a little later after the crisis had passed, pumped full of 'some really good drugs he was acting like nothing happened. Still a trifle loopy, nevertheless Dale laughed and pronounced himself well enough to get up and go to lunch. We all laughed. The doctor chuckled too, but decided it was probably best Dale remain a guest of the hospital at least for the rest of the weekend. What a buzz kill. 

But the doc's call was correct. Dale wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.  An angiogram later Saturday afternoon indicated his arteries were almost completely clogged. And after several consultations on the best course of action, he was transferred to Mercy Sacramento on Monday where he underwent a 5-way bypass on Tuesday. But just 4 days later- and exactly a week after his heart attack- Dale was resting at home. I’d call it a miracle. God was sure looking out for him anyway. And two months later, Dale and I were back on the racquetball court.

Of course, I couldn’t help thinking about the last time we’d been there and it was eerie, at least for me, to go in there and play again. I’m sure it was for Dale, too. But we played two hours and nobody had to call an ambulance. Eight weeks after almost losing him, I found it totally remarkable to be playing and laughing with my friend as if nothing had happened. Well almost nothing. (Before first serve, he showed me the gnarly scar from the operation). It is amazing, though, what they can do to keep you going these days. Twenty years before that scary afternoon in '01- maybe even only ten years- Dale probably would've died right there in the ER. He was very lucky.

But since July 14, 2001, Dale has often tried to give me credit for “saving his life”. Not long before then, he and Eva had moved to a house a long way from town, and if the attack had happened there, he says he's not sure they would've made it in time. Of course, nobody knows that for sure though. But I know one thing- I can’t take credit for something he and I both know that God did. Well, God, the doctors and modern medicine. I had nothing to do with it. I didn't even know how sick he was. All I did was drive him to the hospital- after stalling around and wondering what the hell was going on. No, God saved Dale that day, not me.

The Lord works in mysterious ways, the Bible says, and if my minor role in this critical event in my friend's life remains a mystery to me, it isn't to Him. God knows what He’s doing. If He wanted me to be the one with Dale when he took ill that summer afternoon ten years ago, then I’m glad I was and He used me that way. If He wanted me to be in the right place at the right time that day, I thank Him I was, too. 

 

And though he's a little goofy, obnoxious and tells long winded stories, I thank Him for keeping Dale around, too.