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.
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.
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.
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.”
Some locales make me chuckle. One is Firebaugh, the hometown of Buffalo Bills’ quarterback Josh Allen.
Back in 1980 when I was the newly minted sports editor of the Watsonville paper, I learned of this burg. My girlfriend at the time, Mary, got fired from our newspaper and not because she spent too much time partying with me. Then she had an interview at the newspaper in Firebaugh that I can only describe as unique.
At some point, the editor told her that on Saturdays he liked to drive into Fresno and visit strip clubs and she’d be welcome. Huh? Did he really say that? So how’s that for a sales pitch to a young woman reporter: “Well, we offer dental and medical and profit-sharing and two weeks of vacation, and, oh yeah, after working 60 hours a week and getting paid for 40 you can also hit topless joints with me. It’ll be great!”
Mary turned down the job. Probably for the best. She later won a national journalism award or two and covered the Loma Prieta Earthquake for the Associated Press.
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.
By John Murphy
YUCAIPA – Music thumped. Parents swayed. And children flashed quick smiles when handed trophies.
The occasion was the Yucaipa Valley Youth Soccer Organization closing ceremonies Saturday, Nov. 20 at the Yucaipa Soccer Complex on Oak Glen Road.
A near-full moon helped illuminate the field and crisp weather made the 100s in attendance bundle up.
“It’s an awards ceremony,” explained coach Ryan Estopinal. “The first- and second-place teams in the league get trophies and the board is introduced. Everyone comes together to promote soccer.”
Estopinal does his part. He coached the U10 Pink Tiger girls’ team and took over the U12 Green Goblins boys’ team when the regular coach became ill.
There were also raffles, with Estopinal snagging a $100 gift card for his trouble.
“We bonded together,” said Ryan’s 10-year-old son Carter, who mentioned a teammate scoring on a “double meg” as a highlight.
That teammate was 12-year-old Nathan Messmer and a “double meg” was described as kicking the ball through the legs of two players and into the goal.
Hmmm. You learn something new every day.
More than 800 players compete in the league, said new director of volunteers and communications Ashley Rose. Her son, Jaxon Rose, played for the U10 Devils.
“It was good,” Jaxon said of the season. “I like being with my friends. They’re funny and kind.”
Yucaipa has so many players and teams that it does not need to involve children nor teams from other cities, Ashley Rose said. There were 16 squads in the U10 league alone.
Soccer dad Mark Cortez was the Deejay for the event and cued up the old Queen standard “We are the Champions” near the end.
“I like to bring the fun,” said Cortez who rocked a bit of hip-hop attire as he made musical selections. Meantime, trophies by the armful were distributed by league president Bill Moreno.
A knot of parents and players from the U12 Big Shots lingered until the end. Ten-year-old Ariana Burns appeared happy as she clutched her gleaming gold trophy.
“It was good,” Ariana said of the season. “I played coed and all my teammates were boys. They teased me a little bit but when we raced (in practice) I won.”
Former women’s soccer legend Brandi Chastain would approve.
YVYSO spring season registration starts in January.
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.
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!”
Today at 3 p.m. I took Miya the Wonder Dog to Redlands for a walk. Bad idea.
At Ford Street, dirt and debris blew through the overpass. I thought I was in Hanford again.
Rain cascaded from the skies at the top of Ford. This is what the TV nitwits call a “pop-up thunderstorm.” I prefer Pop-up See’s Candies stores, but that’s just me.
I headed toward Northpoint to make a delivery. A young girl danced in a large pool of water on the corner as her parents watched. Um-OK.
Delivery made, I descended the street that Panera Bread is on. I don’t remember the block’s name, but I’m sure one of my two readers will inform me.
At a four-way intersection, water and mud rushed past. I hydroplaned across.
“What is this shit?” Miya, the Wonder Dog said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
We passed a segment of the Orange Blossom Trail and I took care not to hit any joggers. My Corolla’s only a 2017 and I’m trying to maintain it.
Finally we reached the University of Redlands and hung a right and headed toward the chapel. To our right three 20-something college girls huddled under the hatchback of a car as the rain fell. One of them was crying.
Pulling into the parking lot, I was still thinking walk. But a bolt of thunder and a national weather alert on my phone scuttled that idea.
So we headed for Nayar’s Bakery, got some tamales and went home. Most of the above is true, especially the talking dog.
My bud Jon Flicks holds his book, “The Bogus Buzz”
By John Murphy
Saturday was cleaning day at the casa so I got out of Dodge.
I crossed the wash and landed at Starbucks in Redlands. It’s now my office. The barista calls me “boss.”
Yesterday it was 3D Donuts in Highland. That’s my ‘hood. I met Jon Flick there and bought his book. We chatted. Every so often a crazy person interrupted and Flick handled it. They spoke the same language.
“The Bogus Buzz” is Flick’s book. It tells how he pissed away his senior football season at Redlands High. Herb and heavy metal were the culprits. But then wasn’t everything heavy metal’s fault back then?
I’ve read excerpts. Dude can write. And his tales about high school, sports, old Redlands and his fam are gems.
Plus, who else rocks an “Outer Limits” tee?
Well, back to work. But my laptop’s flickering. And I’ve been here a solid three hours. I think I’ll go home and walk the dog.
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.
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.
Palm trees all in a row near the old Smith house on Olive Avenue in Redlands.
By John Murphy
Saturday my refurbished Schwinn Voyaguer remained in the garage for a change as I hit the streets of Redlands for a long walk.
I chose familiar territory – Olive and Fern avenues – where many ambulatory people head and the scenery is pleasant. It didn’t disappoint.
There’s a monstrous, old house near the bottom of Olive that has been vacant for many years that has sprung back to life. It’s painted gray and white now, has windows, a few sets of steps and is looking good. It will be a show-stopper when finished and will probably fetch $700,000 or so.
Saturday was crisp and clear and without a cloud in the sky. Christmas decorations have appeared along Olive and women walked dogs in sweaters. At the ancient Olive Avenue market, customers huddled over cups of coffee at the outside tables.
Walking is a different experience than whizzing by on a bike and in front of the old Smith house I noticed palm trees all in a row and oranges being sold by the bag for the first time in many months.
Opposite the Smith house an old, white Thunderbird automobile with Ohio plates has sat for a few years. I paused to take a photo and a long-haired guy riding a bike and rocking a Wayne Gretzky hockey jersey said it has been there “for a while.” At $13,000, it might remain.
Toward the top of Olive near Terracina Blvd. a young mom pushing her baby up the hill in some contraption was making good time until she tired and began walking. I didn’t blame her and felt tired too, but unfortunately was not even halfway through.
As of last Sunday, outside dining was still a thing in downtown Redlands.
By John Murphy
Sunday I made another cycling foray into Redlands, following my familiar route.
That’s down Church Street in Highland, left on 5th Street, out to Boulder and then south to R-Town.
This trek was not so scary, as I waited until daybreak for a change. There’s something to be said for vehicles being able to see you.
The two-lane road into Redlands deposits me on the middle-class North end of Redlands. That’s where my house is (I rent it out), as well as the school district office, the community center and some of Redlands’ finest thrift stores and tattoo parlors.
Crossing Colton Avenue and into the historic downtown, I rode until I reached the bottom of State Street where there’s a bench. I got off my bike, took a load off and struck up a conversation with a man who I figure was the owner of Darby’s Cantina. He was setting up chairs.
“How’s the outdoor dining been going?” I said.
“Oh, pretty good,” he said, “but it’s been getting colder, so people have been going home earlier.”
Back on bike now, I rode on. Up Cajon, to Terracina and back on Fern all the way to Cajon again. It’s a picture-postcard gem of a town and I enjoy seeing landmarks like the Olive Avenue Market, the Morey Mansion, Beverly Ranch and all of the quaint Craftsmen homes, Queen Anne cottages and Spanish Colonials.
At 64 years old though, six miles on a bike is no joke. So I am always always glad to get back to Church Street in Highland to see the weathered Portofab building because I know I’m close to home and an afternoon of watching football and eating.
Roger Staubach led the Cowboys to a big comeback over the 49ers in a 1972 divisional playoff game at Candlestick.
By John Murphy
The other day I was tooling up the 210 freeway to my elementary school gig in Fontana when I saw it: A vehicle with twin decals on the back window. One was the Los Angeles Dodgers’ “LA” and the other the “star” of the Dallas Cowboys.
I considered, for a split second, ramming this innocent driver’s car with my late-model Toyota. Then I got a grip and drove on.
The Dodgers won the 2020 World Series and I salute them. They were the best team. But as a third-generation native San Franciscan, I wasn’t pleased.
The Cowboys are an even greater evil. My antipathy dates to Dec. 23, 1972. The 49ers hosted the Cowboys in a divisional playoff game at Candlestick Park. San Francisco had defeated Dallas 31-10 on Thanksgiving Day but had lost to the Cowboys in the NFC title game in 1970 and ’71. This was going to be a good one.
I mentioned to my late dad that it would be great to go. Somehow, he secured a couple of tickets. We drove out to the ‘Stick on a cool day to watch John Brodie and Gene Washington and the guys do their thing.
It was all going so well. Vic Washington returned the opening kickoff 97 yards for a touchdown. And the 49ers led 28-13 entering the fourth quarter. But then Cowboys coach Tom Landry replaced struggling quarterback Craig Morton with Roger Staubach. The rest is history. The Cowboys kicked a field goal. Then they scored on a 20-yard touchdown pass with 90 seconds left. Then the unthinkable … an onside kick bounced off 49er receiver Preston Riley and the Cowboys recovered. Less than a minute later Staubach tossed another TD pass and the Cowboys had won.
The Dallas players jumped and hugged and rolled around Candlestick’s dreadful artificial turf. There was almost no sound in the stadium as they exulted. It was surreal.
The Faithful were mostly silent as we trudged through the ramps leading out of the stadium.
The agony was not over. Returning to the parking lot, my dad turned the ignition on his Oldsmobile and the engine light went on. Dang. We then sat in the dank parking lot until it was nearly empty, waiting for a tow truck to take us to a Hunters Point gas station. It wasn’t our day.
Many a San Bruno youth learned to play basketball at San Bruno Rec, dribbling through cones and practicing lay-ups.
By John Murphy
The other day I received a text from my brother Jim. It said, “What years did the Warriors practice at the San Bruno Rec? They are going to raze the current facility and pool and replace it with money from the PG&E fire settlement.”
If this wasn’t a writing prompt, then I don’t know one. The San Bruno Rec – or Veterans Memorial Recreation Center as it’s officially named – was my life as a kid.
Growing up in San Bruno, then a middle-class suburb of almost impossible simplicity, San Bruno Park and its venerable rec center were the hub. The rec is where we went to shoot baskets, play pool and hang out.
The rec was also our home court. It’s where Menlo School basketball coach Keith Larsen and I played our games for St. Robert’s School. It’s where I cracked my two front teeth on the floor during a sixth-grade practice.
The Golden State Warriors also practiced at the rec. When I was a kid you knew the Warriors were there because Nate Thurmond’s maroon Rolls Royce was parked in front. We’d scurry over to see our heroes like Thurmond, Jeff Mullins and Rick Barry play and coach Al Attles with that deep baritone voice direct traffic.
One day at a Warriors’ practice, the power went out. Warriors star Jerry Lucas came over and sat right next to me. He was nice. I think he asked how old I was and if I played ball. It was a thrill.
The best player ever from the rec was Mike Mitchell. He starred at St. Robert’s and at Capuchino High where he scored 50-plus points in two consecutive home games. The amazing thing was, fans walked away talking about his tremendous passing. He got a full ride from coach Digger Phelps at Notre Dame and later became the CEO of Dreyer’s Ice Cream.
So they’re going to tear down the rec, huh? It’s part of the $70 million in restitution from Pacific Gas and Electric Co. for the 2010 pipeline explosion that killed eight and destroyed 38 homes.
It’s a good thing, I guess. The building is cramped and antiquated. The outdoor pool next door is sub-par. But, I wonder, will the new gym have the same soul? Hmmm. We’ll see.
Tough to beat the view from Terracina Avenue on a clear Sunday morning.
By John Murphy
Sunday morning it was pitch black as I flew down Boulder Avenue on my retooled bicycle, headed from Highland to Redlands.
It’s a rough, two-lane road and as loud rock music poured through my earbuds, I had a thought. Rocking all dark colors and without a headlight and unable to see what’s coming from behind, this was not the safest thing to do.
But I arrived in R-Town unharmed and one of my first stops was the El Nayar Bakery on Orange Street. It’s a must stop for for tamales and the line was out the door. As I parked my bike I watched three masked friends greet each other with elbow bumps, a very pandemic-like thing to do.
Inside I ordered two cheese tamales and consumed one on the spot. It was creamy and had a nice kick. Paired with a Mexican Coke, you can’t go wrong.
Onward I rode through the downtown area. I left the old Fox Theater in my wake and took a right on Olive Avenue. From there it was a straight shot to Terracina where I photographed the Morey Mansion for the umpteenth time. My crack research team said it was built in 1890 and there is no known architect. A pity.
Tooling along Terracina I heard a hearty “good morning” from a bicyclist who zipped past me. “Uh, hey – how’s it going?” I said, as he disappeared just beyond Redlands Community Hospital.
I was in a nice rhythm now, taking a left on Fern and following it all the way to Redlands High School. I rode by the well-secured South Campus and crossed the street to find – ta-da – an open gate. Naturally, I entered. This allowed me to explore Dodge Field in all its splendor.
Around the track I went on my Schwinn Voyageur. I took photos, learned Redlands won a state track title in 1918 and scurried up the stands to enjoy a breathtaking view. It was fun.
Then I was off, retracing my route until I was back in Highland. Best thing was, I had one tamale left.
Yeah, I know I look dorky in this helmet I’m not wearing correctly, but it was my first ride.
By John Murphy
The other day I told of walking from Highland to Redlands to pick up my refurbished bike.
Friday night I took my first ride, trekking from our home in the St. Adelaide’s area of Highland out to Tippecanoe Avenue in San Bernardino. Round-trip it’s 6.4 miles, or slightly more than a 10-kilometer footrace.
I wasn’t sure where in Highland I’d ride because our neighborhood is hilly. But I wound up crossing Palm and getting onto 9th Street. From there it’s a flat, straight shot out to Tippecanoe.
It felt good around 5 p.m. cutting through the cool air on my retooled Schwinn Voyageur. It reminded me of when I was a teen-ager and I’d ride my Raleigh 10-speed around San Bruno or down to Millbrae to play baseball games.
Props to Redlands’ Cyclery USA which replaced seemingly everything on this used bike and has it running like a dream. Well worth the $288 I plunked down.
Riding a bike is more invigorating but also scarier than walking. It seems like it’s a law in Highland and nearby San Bernardino that homeowners own at least one big, angry dog. Tooling along at dusk down some lonely streets, I was thankful fences separated me from these canines. Otherwise, I’d be dead.
I also knew I looked more than a little Forrest Gump-like, being a big, goofy white guy on a Schwinn bike whisking through a predominantly Latino area. It was all good until the return trip from Tippecanoe as I headed up a closed road near Indian Springs High School.
I was approaching a concrete barrier and applying the brakes when I went off a curb I couldn’t see in the dark. Splat. I tumbled off the bike right onto my big senior citizen butt. Oh, the embarrassment.
“You OK bro,” I heard a kid in the distance yelling. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m OK,” I said as I struggled to my feet. The polite teens walked on with their skateboards tucked under their arms … and I pedaled toward home, properly humbled.
Menlo School basketball coach Keith Larsen, who formerly coached at Stanford, Cal State Stanislaus and Menlo College, can attest to my superstitious ways.
By John Murphy
This morning I woke up early, turned on channel 4 and learned it is Friday the 13th. A feeling of dread filled me.
I am, yes, superstitious.
Immediately I pondered what might go wrong on this unluckiest of days … car won’t start, distance learning goes awry, a letter arrives from the IRS requesting an audit? The possibilities are endless.
Some think the whole Friday the 13th deal stems from Jesus’ last supper. There were supposedly 13 people there the night before He died, which was on a Friday.
Superstition of course flies in the face of intelligence and logic. There’s something decidedly medieval about it. Psychologists even have a name for those like me who suffer from it: Paraskevidekatriaphobes.
The ranks of the superstitious are legion. That’s why many hotels skip the 13th floor. And why some planes don’t have a 13th row.
Sports fans are notoriously superstitious. When my San Francisco Giants won their three World Series in five years last decade, I was a mess. If the Giants won a series game with me rocking a specific T-shirt, then I HAD to wear it the next game.
Keith Larsen, the Menlo School of Atherton basketball coach, can attest to the craziness. We watched Game 7 of the 2014 World Series between the Giants and Kansas City Royals together.
The Giants took an early lead, but the Royals tied it up 2-2. I nervously slipped a cassette tape of the 1980s rock group 10,000 Maniacs — who I find calming — into my boom box.
The Giants nudged ahead but the last five innings were excruciating as we watched Madison Bumgarner methodically retire each batter.
“Do I change cassettes?” I asked Larsen as we heard Natalie Merchant sing “Peace Train” for the third time.
“No!” my old pal said. “We’ve got the good ju-ju going. Let’s not upset it.”
The ninth inning was tense but the Giants prevailed. Bumgarner got the final out on a foul pop-up to third baseman Pablo Sandoval.
Pandemonium. Larsen and I danced and screamed like loons in my crummy apartment and I started banging on a miniature gong I keep for such occasions.
It’s a long, hot march from Highland to Redlands, but I had Lefty Frizzell and Tammy Wynette with me and the miles just melted away.
By John Murphy
Veterans Day I left the Caltrans Girl and Miya the Wonder Dog behind and walked to Redlands.
It’s a five-mile trek and the destination was Redlands’ USA Cyclery to get my refurbished bike.
I have a Schwinn Voyageur I bought 4-5 years ago at the San Jose Salvation Army. I think it was owned by a Stanford student who discarded it when he graduated.
Highland to Redlands along Palm Avenue which turns into Alabama Street is a long march. Nobody else was out walking this terrain, nor even riding. My goal was to stay safe while eluding coyotes, vagrants and Dodgers’ fans.
It was a pleasant 65 degrees and I had my Smart phone tuned to some country classics – since I’ve already heard every rock song in the world 1500 times. Lefty Frizzell and Tammy Wynette, I’ve found, can brighten any day.
Along the way I saw the wash to my left up close and the San Bernardino International Airport to my right. The brightly colored jets twinkled in the sunlight.
The route crosses the I-10 freeway with cars and 18-wheelers whizzing by underneath. Eventually I descended into Redlands and from there it was a short hike to the bike shop.
There I met an elderly but fantastically fit man, John Evans, 80, who was removing his high-tech bike from the back of his rig. I struck up a conversation with him and learned he taught at Moreno Valley High for 30 years. His wife was the athletic director’s secretary for a while. I told him I formerly was a sportswriter for the Riverside Press-Enterprise and that piqued his interest. We tossed names like former Mo Valley coaches Rocky Ford and John Dahl and I quizzed him about his bike rack. It was a fun chat.
Finally, the store opened and I was first in line. Time to pay up, grab my bike and ride home.
Downtown San Bernardino has seen better days, but it’s still fun to visit and has more than a few fascinating old landmarks.
By John Murphy
Sunday I eschewed Redlands and got my walking fix in downtown San Bernardino.
Berdoo old-timers call it. Or “Dino” as the young kids like to say.
It’s a tough town. Seen better days. In 1977 it was named an All-American City. But three recessions around the end of the 20th century and start of the new millennium took their toll.
Now the downtown area is a shadow of its former self. But it’s where I worked as a sportswriter for the San Bernardino Sun from 2000 to 2009. So I have fond memories of the area, my old boss Paul Oberjuerge and my former co-workers.
The Sun building had its quirks though. It took up an entire city block and was built on the site of the old Fox Theater and a former hotel. The place was ancient and had more than its share of pests (besides the publisher and editors). They included cockroaches, rodents and bats. Yes, bats.
Passing the Sun I eventually reached the majestic San Bernardino County Court House, built in 1926. I’ve appeared there a time or two, but nothing serious.
Next to the courthouse is the San Bernardino County Government Center. Back in the day it had a cafeteria. I recall in September of 2000 having lunch there with the previous Sun prep sports editor, Louis Amestoy. I quizzed Louis about the job he was leaving and wrestled with my decision about taking it. Eventually I did and that’s how I got to work with such wonderful people as Oberjuerge, Chuck Hickey, Brian Goff, Suzie Ahn, Chris Wiley, Mirjam Swanson, Dennis Pope, Derek Rich, Michelle Pereda, Mark Reinhiller, Michelle Gardner, Harvey Cohen, Danny Summers, James Curran and the rest.
Having circled the old Sun, I headed down North D Street and took a right on Court. Good to see Molly’s Café still there and featuring a burger-and-drink special for $3.99. Then I padded past an ornate building that used to be a sports bar (I don’t recall the name) and past the equally old and beautiful American Trust Building where a pawn shop resides.
Hanging a right at E Street I eventually came upon the spectacular California Theatre at 562 W. 4th Street. The old girl was part of the Fox Theatre chain and opened in 1928. Can’t say I’ve been inside, but I’ve read it still has its original Wurlitzer Style 218 pipe organ. Humorist Will Rogers gave his last performance there before dying in a plane crash in 1935.
The dark skies had opened now and it was pouring rain, but I trudged on. My trek took me around the Rosa Parks Memorial Building on W. 4th Street, past Franky’s Donuts and Deli and then back to my car.
Out of the cold and rain at last, I checked the Fit app on my phone and saw I only walked a mile. But it was a pleasant stroll down memory lane and it’s one I’ll surely take again.
Back in the 1960s and the 70s, the Warriors practiced at San Bruno War Memorial Gym where I played as a kid.
By John Murphy
You’ve heard of “15 minutes of fame?” Well, this was mine.
Back in 1975, when I was 19, the Golden State Warriors swept the Washington Bullets four games to zero to win the National Basketball Association title. My friends Keith Larsen and Steve O’Brien and I were giddy.
I will never forget Game 4 with the Warriors on the cusp of the title. A TV camera focused on Golden State coach Al Attles in the huddle with the game and title already secure.
“When the game ends,” Attles said in his deep baritone voice, “Somebody grab Barry’s kid and we’ll go out that tunnel.”
The Warriors won and the Bay Area flipped. Then word leaked the Warriors’ plane coming back from DC would land at San Francisco International Airport. Well, that’s right where we lived and we just HAD to go.
So it was we wound up on the tarmac at SFO waiting for the plane to arrive and our heroes to emerge. It didn’t take long.
The big bird pulled in and the Warriors disembarked … Rick Barry, Clifford Ray, Keith Wilkes, Bill Bridges, Derrek Dickey and the rest. A stage was set up and the plan was for the team to gather there for a few brief speeches.
Well, there might have been a few Lucky Lagers involved … because as the Warriors strode from the plane to the stage, I got a brilliant idea. I ducked underneath a rope and hopped up on the stage with the champs.
“Look at Murph!” I could hear my buddy O’Brien screeching in his high-pitched voice. “What’s he doing up there? How’d he get up there?”
Intoxicated by victory and cheap beer, I was in all my glory. I stood with my oversized new friends and waved at the cheering crowd … then nodded at my disbelieving pals who could only shake their heads in amazement.
It was all great fun until a Warriors’ PR type noticed and gave me the boot. Didn’t matter. I had my 15 minutes of fame and a story to tell for the ages. What a night.
More coveted than clean water or hand sanitizer in these pandemic days are dogs. Man’s best friend. Everybody wants one, it seems.
So the CalTrans Girl and I were tickled Saturday morning when the Devore Animal Shelter called and said they had a pooch for us – a 3-year-old, toy poodle/terrier mix named Nadia. She was found with another small dog running loose in an unincorporated area of San Bernardino.
The dog was advertised on the shelter’s site and we expressed interest along with some other folks. A lottery was held and we finished fourth – but were moved up the ladder because the winner pulled a no-show and two others didn’t answer the phone. You snooze, you lose.
So it was that we tooled up the 210 freeway Saturday afternoon and took the Kendall turnoff.
“Go through that door and wait in the cubicle on the right,” the shelter volunteer said. Five minutes later a woman named Melissa led a skittish, unkempt mutt into the cubicle who was at first curious, then decided to turn tail and run. We didn’t take it personally.
Melissa rounded up the shy canine and brought her back. I got down on her level so I wouldn’t be so imposing and pet her dirty, matted fur.
“Who’s a good dog?” I mindlessly asked. She responded by licking my hand, a good sign.
Then I gathered up the scrawny dog and delivered her to the CT Girl. It would be her dog after all. That works well for me as I won’t have to buy her food or clean up poop. I’ll take her for some walks though, as I’m OK doing the fun stuff.
The meet-and-greet went well and it’s a match. We have a dog! We changed her name to Miya and will pick her up Monday at a pet hospital in Highland.
This fills a void for the CT Girl who misses her old pooches, Bert and Beya — who both died of old age within the past few years.
My better half has been on Cloud 9 since the adoption and has even stopped hammering me for all the wrong stuff I do. I think I love this dog already.
Awakened this morning and glanced at the alarm clock. The four-inch high numbers said “4:00” – damned early, but I didn’t care. It was time for my morning walk.
I rose and put on the exact same clothes I was wearing Saturday, right down to the socks and underwear. Figured I could squeeze an extra half-day out of them.
Then I padded through the kitchen, grabbed a bottled water and opened the front door. A bright full moon greeted me in all its post-Halloween splendor.
Tooling up Base Line Street in my Corolla, I saw the AM-PM in this distance. My morning cup of coffee awaited.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I said to the security guard,” as I entered the store. Then I fell into line behind a portly woman with three bags of chips spread out on the counter. “Pack of Camels” she said to the clerk. I shook my head in amazement.
Forty-seven cent cup of joe now in hand, I left AM-PM and drove across the vacant Fitness 19 parking lot and onto Boulder Avenue. From there I headed south toward Redlands where on the way I passed not one, not two, but THREE drivers pulled over to the side of the road with their emergency lights flashing. Stranded motorists, no doubt.
I could have stopped and helped, but I didn’t. Needed to get my miles in.
Tonight the Los Angeles Dodgers try to win their first World Series in 32 years as they meet the Tampa Bay Devil Rays in Game 6 of the World Series.
But the game still on my mind is Game 4. You know, when the Dodgers’ so-called “Little League” screw-up at the end wrested defeat from the jaws of victory. Next thing we knew the Rays won and their hero was running around the field like a loon. Great theater.
Twitter exploded. An LA sports anchor nearly melted down. Among the dumb things she said is that players being paid “millions of dollars” shouldn’t make such mistakes. Uh, no. You’re wrong.
Anyone who has played baseball past Little League knows that baseball at its core is still a game. The best hitters fail nearly 70 percent of the time. Nothing is guaranteed in the field where things happen at lightning speed. A momentary lapse in judgment or physical gaffe turns a routine play into an error. Ask Bill Buckner.
Pro players shouldn’t make errors? Poppycock. You never played the game.
The CalTrans Girl put her foot down. I need to shed some excess. No, not weight – but the crushing amount of memorabilia around our place.
I’ll start small. Up for grabs (email me at email@example.com) are an array of newspapers that once belonged to the beloved area sportswriter Harvey Cohen.
–It’s a party of two: McGwire joins Maris by hitting 61at homer. San Bernardino Sun, Sept. 8, 1988. Includes a grab-bag column by Paul Oberjuerge, an Aquinas High football preview by the late Brian Goff and a $5 off coupon for the Club Temptations gentleman’s club in Riverside.
—Yaz finally gets No. 3,000. San Bernardino Sun, Sept. 13, 1979. Features an Oberjuerge story on the San Francisco 49ers’ OJ Simpson (“Has the Juice gone sour?”). Also, Claude Anderson previews Bloomington High and the Desert-Mountain football league.
—Duran survives the brawl in Montreal. Riverside Press-Enterprise, June 21, 1980. Has an Angels’ game story by Alan Lassila and a Dodgers’ gamer by Jim Alexander. I was two years into my career at the time, but 30 years from joining Lassila and Alexander at the Press-Enterprise.
—Ali tops Spinks. Orange County Register, Sept. 16, 1978. Hard to miss is an ad touting Spires’ ham and eggs special for $1.69. It included hash browns, toast, jam and butter – all contrary to my current doctor’s admonition to lower my cholesterol. If it was 1978, I’d be at Spires.
—Yes They Can – And Did, 4-1; Tanana, Angels Defeat Kansas City to Clinch AL West Division Title. Orange County Register, Sept. 26, 1979. Has AP gamer on Ron Cey and the Dodgers slamming the Giants 11-2 (lucky win) and an ad for the Remington correcting selectric typewriter.
—715. Aaron Sheds Ghost of Ruth With Record Homer in Fourth Inning. Houston Chronicle, April, 9, 1974. It was “just like any other home run,” Aaron said.
—Magic Moment. World Has Changed Considerably Since American College Kids Shocked the Soviets in the “Miracle on Ice” 20 Years Ago. Los Angeles Times, Feb. 22, 2000. There’s a story on Ken Griffey Jr. joining the Reds and more column inches about hockey than I will read in a lifetime.
That’s it. Package deal – contact me first and you get them all for nothing. We’ll have a pandemic-friendly, contact-less exchange and the CalTrans Girl will be happy. At least for a nano-second.
My three older siblings — brother Jim and sisters Cathy (middle) and Anne. Cathy is married now to husband Joe Fama and lives in San Bruno.
By John Murphy
Other than my parents, my first real glimpse of success was of my oldest sibling, Cathy.
My best times with Cathy came when I was a pre-teen when she’d take my buddy Keith Larsen and me to University of San Francisco basketball games. We’d watch stars like Dennis Black and Pete Cross do their thing, then repair to Front Room Pizza for a pie.
Cathy studied nursing at USF and I saw her inner toughness as she poured over her thick nursing books, yellow highlighter in hand. When I asked her what she chose to highlight she said, “Anything I don’t understand.”
Once my big sis became a nurse, I recognized her generosity as she bought me thoughtful and expensive gifts – a wristwatch on my birthday and a portable typewriter to write my newspaper stories.
Cathy still followed USF basketball after graduation. And in 1971 or ’72 she took me to a game against Santa Clara University at San Jose Civic Auditorium. This was a big deal. The schools are bitter rivals and my brother Jim, then an SCU student, would be there.
My sis wanted it to be a special night, so she whisked me to San Jose’s 5-spot Drive-In. It’s now a Mexican restaurant but back then was like something out of American Graffiti. It was all good until it took an hour to get our chili burgers. Ah, well.
Then it was game time. Spirits were high. Two revved-up cheering sections. Nine or 10 fistfights. And the Dons and Broncos battling.
San Francisco dominated most of the game as its dandy of a coach, Bob Gaillard, watched. The Dons led by 10 or so with 3-4 minutes left.
Then the unthinkable. Santa Clara started fouling, USF missed free throws and the Broncos roared to victory.
Don fans were downcast as we filed out. Then we ran into my brother who may have gloated a bit.
Cathy seethed. It wasn’t her night. But I left knowing that anybody who’d go through all that for me, has her heart in the right place. Always has.
Rechristened as the “San Bernardino County Sun” 20 years ago, The Sun was proud of being the newspaper of record for America’s largest mainland county.
By John Murphy
Earlier this week I had reason to contact Corona Centennial principal Alexis Barile and the memories flooded back.
Back to the days when Barile was Alexis Onishi and coached the Summit High girls basketball team – and even back to the start of the new millennium when her husband Tony Barile was the football coach at San Gorgonio High.
In the fall of 2000, I was at the Victor Valley Daily Press and Louis Amestoy was the prep editor of the San Bernardino Sun. But Amestoy took a job in Hemet so I replaced him. Before he left, he took me to photograph the athletes of the week, at San Gorgonio and Yucaipa high schools. There I met former San G athletic director John Powell and ex-Yucaipa AD and football coach Jim Taylor.
Powell operated not so much out of an office, but a big classroom or storage room that was a beehive of activity. It had a table in the middle. At lunch all the San G. coaches congregated there, eating their sandwiches, shooting the bull and lobbing an occasional barb at me.
It was a salty bunch. Powell, Ed Clark, Bill Eatinger, Chris Ybarra, John Tibbels, Tony Barile, Ty Stockham, etc. I took my athlete of the week photo with a little point-and-shoot camera that actually used film and yukked it up with the guys before heading off to Fontana High or Aquinas or wherever.
That was 20 years ago. The math is easy because that was the year 1999 melded into 2000 and the world was supposed to implode because everyone’s computers and our nation’s infrastructure wasn’t going to be ready for the change. Somehow, it didn’t.
The first decade of the new millennium is a blur. Alexis Onishi took the Summit girls to a section title game in 2008, dated former Summit football coach Barile, got married, had twins, etc. Now she and the hub are both at Centennial where she sits in the Big Office and Tony teaches and assists Matt Logan in coaching the Huskies’ perennially powerful football team.
Me? I went from San Bernardino, to Riverside, to San Jose, to Half Moon Bay, to the Central Valley and then came back again – and still bug some of these fine Inland Empire folks for interviews all these years later. Go figure.
The Olive Avenue Market was populated Sunday morning by about 40 members of the 129-year-old Riverside Bicycling club.
By John Murphy
Sunday morning I saw them from a distance at Redlands’ Olive Avenue Market – 40 or so members of the Riverside Bicycle Club, gathering at the historic corner market on the day of a ride.
Olive and Fern avenues are a regular walking area for me. Trekking to Terracina Boulevard I usually see clumps of bicyclists in their black shorts, helmets and fluorescent shirts, commanding their high-end bikes.
“I like to get some exercise and keep the immune system up,” said 42-year-old Dan Gaston of Riverside. “It’s a good way to stay fit and live longer. You meet nice people and it gives me some freedom from the kids for a while and gets me out of the house.”
The Riverside Bicycle Club, according to its web page, was founded in 1891 and is the oldest continuous bike club west of the Mississippi. It has 250 members and does 400 rides per year.
Redlands is a big bicycling town, hosting the Redlands Bicycle Classic, a five-day stage race that covers 350 miles. It was canceled this year due to the coronavirus pandemic.
I told Riverside’s Gaston and his friend I have a “transportation bike” I bought at the San Jose Salvation Army for $35 and asked where to get it tuned up. They suggested Don’s Bike Shop in Riverside but said there is also a worthy establishment in Redlands not far from the market (presumably Don’s Bicycles at 700 E. Redlands Blvd, Suite 1b).
Back in, gulp, 1971 as a freshman in high school, I purchased a Raleigh 10-speed at Kezar Cyclery in San Francisco. It was orange. I rode it all over my hometown of San Bruno in those days before I had a driver’s license.
Occasionally I’d even ride that Raleigh to my high school in San Mateo, eight miles away. One day, in 1974, I took a detour through leafy Hillsborough to gaze at the big houses and happened upon a grand estate with a dozen or so huge satellite dishes out front. Didn’t take long to figure it was the family home of Patricia Hearst who had been abducted by the Symbionese Liberation Army that year.
Until I get my thrift-store Schwinn tuned up, the only riding I will do will be on my pseudo-Peloton stationary bike (it’s called a “Sunny”) that I ride most mornings. I don’t take those video classes like the Peloton devotees where instructors in another state exhort you. Mine is the slacker approach – cueing up a taped episode of Seinfeld or some rock ‘n’ roll to forget I’m exercising.
The sun sinks Thursday night in Highland, as seen from Boulder Avenue.
By John Murphy
Woke up this morning and looked at my new alarm clock and it said “15:32.”
“What the heck?” Oh, military time. I wasn’t in the military … having registered for the draft at age 18 in San Mateo but escaping deployment because there was no lottery that year. Whew.
Last night I hiked up Base Line Street past St. Adelaide’s Catholic Church and passed a 30-something man dribbling a soccer ball on the sidewalk. He nodded, then maneuvered past and fired a shot onto the grounds of the United Methodist Nursery School (“We Potty Train”). You see some odd things in my part of Highland.
Up near the 210 overpass Starbucks still does a brisk business and the K-Rail remains out as construction continues.
I ducked between the Arco and Valero gas stations on the other side of the freeway and wound up on a street called Pluto. I noticed a half moon out and a dad running alongside his helmeted young son as he taught the boy to ride his bike. Good job, dad.
From there I cut across the Fitness 19 parking lot and headed south on Boulder. As I did, I glanced west and saw the big orange sun descending into a horizon dotted with palm trees. Ah, SoCal.
Then I cut across a flood control area and onto a street called Cherokee Rose. An unleashed brown dog came around the corner, followed quickly by his owners — a gray-haired couple in their 70s. They nodded at me too, then vanished with their pooch into the sunset.
The Palm Plaza shopping center is the one really interesting place on the west side of Palm Avenue in Highland.
By John Murphy
The CalTrans Girl and I live on Norwood Street in Highland. Normally when I walk in the area, I head north toward Base Line. But Wednesday night traffic impeded me, so I took a left on Palm.
Palm Avenue is a long, busy thoroughfare that extends from the Historic District to Redlands. I set my sights on 5th Street where Farmer Boys restaurant resides, thinking that would provide enough steps.
There was a long, beige wall to my left on Palm. Along the way I saw the largest red ant mound of all time extending from the ground almost all the way to the top of the wall. Units are now being leased to out-of-town red ants.
Cars whizzed by on Palm as I paused for a drink of water. In the distance on Church Street, I could see the giant cement structure now sitting across the street from the ancient Portofab building. Don’t know what the new business is, but it’s providing some jobs, no doubt.
I crossed 5th down near Farmer Boys (home of the New Bourbon Bacon Cheeseburger) and headed back. There was a large McDonald’s billboard urging me to “Fly the Coop for Breakfast” and dig into either its Chicken McGriddles or McChicken Biscuits, both two for $3. Didn’t seem in line with my recent health kick.
One intriguing spot on the west side of Palm is the bustling Palm Plaza shopping center in the 7700 block. It’s a testament to diversity, housing “I Love Sushi,” and the “Green Frog Sports Bar and Grill” and “Pho’s Vietnamese Restaurant” and “Thai Spoon” and “Juanitos Tacos” and “Jenny’s Diner,” among others. There’s also “La Michoacana Ice Cream” and the “Plaza Ono Produce and Carniceria” where the ribeye is muy bueno.
Leaving the plaza, I took a left on Cypress to add some length to my stroll. This took me into a blue-collar, car-heavy area with nice people who nodded as I passed.
Ambling along 9th Street on the way home, I passed a house with Chevy vehicles in the driveway and ghostly dolls hanging from a tree in the front yard. Halloween is coming.
Redlands High grad Rick Gonzales is the self-described “clean-up guy” at Saverino’s Deli and helps hobbled senior citizens when he can.
By John Murphy
Tuesday I left my Fontana school job and headed for Redlands. Needed to get some miles in.
I parked near the Foamy Car Wash on West Redlands Blvd. and then set out. It was hot but I had my Hydra Flask.
I strolled past the sprawling grounds of ESRI and saw Latino gardeners toiling there. Brutal work. I don’t know where we’d be without them.
I took a left on Tennessee Street and ambled past Redlands Adventist Academy and Arrowhead Christian across the street. ACA had a banner out front, celebrating its section basketball champs.
I trudged up Tennessee past Carolyn’s Café and headed back on Brookside toward the car wash. Along the way I noticed more blue-collar workers – delivery guys for Fed Ex and UPS, getting their jobs done without fanfare.
I was near the end of my trek and my left knee ached. I took a seat in front of Saverino’s Deli on West State Street and rested. But self-described Saverino’s “clean-up guy” Rick Gonzales was collecting the outdoor furniture. It was closing time.
“Would you like me to leave a chair and a table out here for a while, sir?” said Rick, dressed all in black.
“Nah, that’s OK,” I said. “I’m all right.” Then I got up and limped way.
Twenty yards later I heard someone chasing me down. It was Rick with a large Styrofoam cup of ice water for me. What a guy!
“Why are you doing this?” I said.
“You look like you need it, sir,” he said.
Yeah, I did. So thanks to Rick Gonzales, the Redlands High grad and ex-Loma Linda University helipad team member. I don’t know much about him but he was my hero this day.
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.
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.
Redlands’Orange Blossom Trail — both a joy and the bane of my existence of late.
By John Murphy
Tuesday night I hopped. I hopped on my right leg to the bathroom. I hopped to get one of my beloved Mexican ice cream bars.
The sharp pain in my left knee caused this. Like someone was jabbing a knife into it. Wednesday morning it was worse. So I called in sick to work and made a doctor’s appointment.
Empathy did not flow from the CalTrans Girl, my better half who now works at home. She was the oldest of four children growing up in Manila. I was the youngest of four in San Bruno. We play our roles brilliantly.
“You’ve been walking too much,” the CT Girl said. “Why do you not believe me?”
She was right. Again.
A long line had formed outside Kaiser Permanente in San Bernardino. I was running late. But soon I made it through the COVID-18 checkpoint and was sent to waiting area 7 of the small hospital.
I had not been here in years and found it decorative. Prints of old Highland orange labels and vintage San Bernardino postcards lined the walls. Waiting room 7 boasted a Lake Arrowhead motif and even had an oar on the wall.
Ten minutes late, I knocked on the doctor’s door. A serious woman in glasses answered and said, “You’re not supposed to knock.” I was relieved she didn’t take the oar off the wall and paddle me.
Things improved. I stopped violating rules and the receptionist’s mood brightened. Soon I met the doctor, a trim man named Chung-Pang Hsu, M.D. of Upland. He had that lean runner look.
“What seems to be the problem?” Dr. Hsu said.
I told him I’d been trekking 4-5 miles a day, highlighted by Saturday when I got lost in Redlands and traversed seven miles. My knee was hurting.
“Seven miles?” the doc said. “I am proud of you.”
Suddenly I wasn’t such a dunce. Dr. Hsu, in his 60s like me, revealed he’s a marathoner, but “only” runs 15-minute miles. He is my new hero. He recommended buying good running shoes, running in a straight line and to stop leaping off logs – a stunt I’d pulled recently with bad results.
A day off my feet and a few anti-inflammatory pills later, I can walk again. It’s back to work today and perhaps a long hike – if I can get by the CalTrans Girl.
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.
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.
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.
The sun sets over the Zanja, as viewed from the Orange Blossom Trail.
By John Murphy
I took my recent Orange Blossom Trail odyssey on Monday to its logical conclusion (deafening applause) as I trekked to what I think is the western edge.
I began near the former Redlands Daily Facts building and really didn’t intend to blog this. Sunday’s entry garnered a whopping 30 views and it occurred to me that writing for so few readers is akin to talking to myself. But then my late mom talked to herself a bit and she was a teacher, raised four kids and lived to 100, so maybe there are worse things.
On I went. Eventually I reached the historic site of Taylor’s Bar and Grill at the corner of San Timoteo Canyon Road and Barton. I’ve listened to rock ‘n’ roll there but didn’t know the history of the joint. So I googled it and found a 2014 story in the Daily Facts.
Tookey Taylor opened the establishment in 1934, one year after prohibition was repealed. But as of 2014 it was owned by Jim Murphy (no relation to me). His father, Patrick “Paddy” Joseph Murphy owned speakeasies during prohibition and later a legit bar in New York City. Jim wound up here after joining the Air Force in the mid-1960s and being stationed at the now-defunct Norton Air Force Base.
You can’t throw a rock in Redlands and not hit something historic. So it’s fitting Monday’s sojourn also took me by the San Bernardino Asistencia of Mission San Gabriel.
There’s an El Camino Real mission bell out front and the grounds feature a rustic Spanish chapel and original adobe buildings. It’s on the site of the old Politana rancheria and was built to graze cattle. Members of the Serrano and Cahuilla people also resided there. They were converted to Catholicism by the Franciscan priests and toiled for them, digging the nearby Mill Creek Zanja (irrigation ditch) which is still visible around town.
Back to the OBT. I veered off course and took a right on California Street. From there I marched all the way to the vicinity of Mission Elementary and, amazingly, what I think is the start of the OBT. Go figure.
The trail winds along the ancient Zanja and passes a farm or two. There were runners, walkers and bicyclists; old farm equipment and cacti; a sunset and full moon; and several miles to cover before I reached my car.
Final stats: Six miles walked, two hours and one minute elapsed and 12,870 steps. Try it.
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.
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.
The OBT featuring remains of the old Kite-Shaped Track railroad is a pretty sight at sunset.
By John Murphy
Call me anything but late for a party. But one fiesta I’ve been tardy for is the Orange Blossom Trail.
The 7.5-mile trail was built in 2014 and runs across Redlands. I was living up north then, so I’m just getting caught up. Highlights of the trail include the University of Redlands established in 1907, remnants of the Kite-Shaped Track railroad from the late 1800s and the Mill Creek Zanja, a historic irrigation canal dug in 1819 Native Americans. Fascinating.
My focus last week was the eastern portion of the trail. It begins on Grove Street, but I added a twist to it – starting in Sylvan Park at the State Historic Landmark plaque commemorating the ancient Zanja. The addition stretched my trek to 3.65 miles in the mid-afternoon heat.
“Spanish missionaries introduced the principal of irrigation in the San Bernardino Valley, thus opening the way to settlement,” the historical marker reads. “Franciscan fathers engineered, and Native Americans dug this first ditch or Zanja in 1819.”
The work was hard. The Serrano people used shovels and other tools made in the blacksmith shop at the San Gabriel Mission to carve out the ditch.
Leaving Sylvan Park, I took a right on Colton Avenue and passed through the McGregor Gate onto the campus of the U. of Redlands. The landmarks are many here but the one that caught my eye was the majestic front door of the Currier Gymnasium, circa 1926.
Ahead I marched, past the tennis courts on the right and out the far end of campus to Grove. From there it was only 100 yards to where I’d be joining the official trail.
The OBT is a dual-purpose path with asphalt for bicyclists and decomposed granite for runners and walkers.
Separating the trail is train track with scrub brush and flowers peeking through the ties. The track, forged in Germany, is from the old Kite-Shaped Track railroad that helped popularize Redlands and environs in the early 20th century.
As on most trails around Redlands, there are messages. “SERVICE ABOVE SELF” the Redlands Rotary Club has printed on a wall to the left that separates from the trail from a mobile home park.
Ahead there were more reminders of the railroad. Wood pilings that once supported an old railroad bridge rise out of the Zanja which gurgled with water on this day. Also visible was a row of concrete trusses dated 1916. Wow.
I’m 64 years old now and 3.6 miles in the heat is tough. As the miles passed, I dreamed about the ice cream bars in my freezer at home. I thought briefly about resting in the cool grass of a nearby park.
Then a lunatic in a Los Angeles Dodgers cap came roaring down the bike path on a 10-speed, pedaling as if his shorts were on fire. Despite his dubious choice of baseball teams, I said hello.
“His John,” he responded … and to my surprise it was area teacher, former baseball coach and cancer survivor Daren Espinoza! At least I think it was him. Maybe I was hallucinating.
Clearly it was time to head home. But I’ll be back soon.
Sunset in Highland is beautiful, no matter the side of town.
By John Murphy
Thursday night I hit the Highland pavement with nothing special in mind.
I tuned my Smart phone to the E-Street Channel discussing the 45th anniversary of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” album.
Springsteen honks Dave Marsh and Jim Rotolo hosted. Marsh is at once intriguing and vexing; he knows so much about Springsteen he interrupts himself in mid-sentence to impart more knowledge. But I enjoyed it.
Plodding up Base Line Street toward the 210 overpass I spied the ongoing construction. “All Live’s Matter” someone scrawled in orange on a brown metal beam. I shook my head at the misguided sentiment and punctuation mistake.
Crossing the 210, I made my first foray on foot into East Highland in months. The city is divided physically and socioeconomically by the freeway – with my side near St. Adelaide’s Catholic Church being the grittier. The east side has large homes and modern shopping centers.
I passed the Valero gas station where I often fuel up and ambled past the watershed. Then I took a right at the sprawling grounds of Immanuel Baptist Church. Boys juked and launched shots on the basketball court and a young girl dribbled a soccer ball on the green grass. It was 89 degrees – a perfect summer’s night.
Moving on, I took a right on Cherokee Rose. It led me back to the watershed and a favorite shortcut. I found myself trespassing during a walk for the second consecutive day.
Up Boulder I trekked, checking out the bucolic splendor to my right and the sunset to the left. Then I cut through the parking lot of Fitness 19, my shuttered gymnasium. Thank you, Covid-19.
Crossing the 210 again and nearing home, I took photos of the purple mountains to the west highlighted by an almost-pink sky. And St. Adelaide’s steeple, flanked by two palm trees. Breathtaking.
Ahead of me, a weathered man with a gray beard and tan fedora trudged. He pushed a cart full of junk and watched me take photos.
“At 3 a.m., the spirits come out,” he said, gesturing to the church. Then he pointed to an empty lot across the street and said, “And all kinds of stuff happens over there.”
“I’ll keep my eye out for it,” I said, nodding. Then I headed home.
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.
Redlands Community News Sports Editor John Murphy has won first place on a CNPA contest for a profile of Redlands resident John Tyree, who is a high school football coach in Banning at age 83.
“Great writing and style,” said the judges for the California Newspaper Publishers Association. “Kudos to the writer for taking risks in the approach to this piece, which result in a fantastic, engaging read.”
He also won a third place for a story about a member of the San Manuel Band of Mission Indians playing football for Aquinas High School.
“The piece had a straightforward narration that nonetheless gave some texture to the interview subject and the world of the story,” said a judge.
Murphy also finished in the top 10 in an Associated Press Sports Editors contest in game stories category for a story on Aquinas’ section title basketball win against King of Riverside.