Larry's Impact

 

A few weeks ago I posted a few short pieces on relatively unknown people who have done notable things. While compiling a list of those who I wished to profile in the future I took great care to ensure they were little known outside their own communities, as the focus was on those who have devoted their lives to their communities be it through tireless volunteering or rallying support for causes bigger than themselves yet were not known on the national level.

One name that kept coming to mind was Larry Lucchino. Though well known in baseball circles, I pondered whether to do a brief profile on him. Smiling broadly at my own foolishness, I quickly realized that I couldn’t not do a piece on the man most responsible for bringing A Ballpark to San Diego. Nor could I write anything brief about a man who has done so much for so many. The following contains much of what I have already written in not only these past few weeks, but in years past and sadly, since the moment I learned of Larry’s passing.

We all know the public pedigree; Larry Lucchino revolutionized the Gameday Experience forever with the opening of Camden Yards. From there he came to San Diego and spearheaded the often lost-cause effort of building Petco Park. Three years after leaving San Diego for Boston, the Curse of the Bambino was broken and the Red Sox were World Series Champions for the first time in 86 years. While never employed by the Cubs, those in the know are well aware that Larry Lucchino had a hand in the Cubs winning the Fall Classic for the first time in over a hundred years. Although not given his start in baseball by Larry Lucchino, it is fair to say that Theo Epstein made his way to the Cubs front office in large part due to what he learned working under Larry.

Even today another Lucchino protégé, Sam Kennedy is President and CEO of the Red Sox.

My life may not be as illustrious as the lives of those I have just named but I do know that my life would have been much different if it were not for Larry Lucchino.

It all started in late January of 1998. After a six-year hiatus from formal education, (“Hiatus” being a gentle term to describe what amounted to being a drifter and construction worker across the American Southwest) I started classes at Southwestern Community College in Chula Vista. I started with four classes and fourteen units per week, two of which leaned toward my interests in media and film, the other two focusing on my love for the outdoors. One of the classes was Acting for Television and Film and our first assignment was to do a political roundtable-type program on a subject of our choosing.

I talked my group into writing and producing a segment on the recent stories revolving around Padres ownerships’ desire to build a brand-new ballpark. Once the topic was agreed upon I raced to the library to seek any and all info I could find on the then-new trend of building “Retro” ballparks. I made calls to relatives in Colorado, peppering them with questions about Coors Field. Due to internet access and my knowledge of its use being minimal I took a grassroots approach, stopping random people on the street and on the busses. Anyone I could find in Orioles gear would be inundated with questions. I would start conversations with anyone about baseball, hoping it would lead to talk about these newer ballparks.

Little did I know I was only weeks away from not only having a fly on the wall view of the literal and figurative building of a new ballpark, I was also to become one of hundreds of people led by Larry Lucchino in the effort.

Some call it fate, some may even call it destiny. I for one, believe when they say “What we call coincidence is just God’s way of working anonymously.” One afternoon not long after my first day of school I stopped by the bathroom on the way home, a seemingly routine action that would change my life forever.

As I walked out of the bathroom I noticed a flyer:

San Diego Padres

Entertainment Department

Pad Squad

Open Meeting This Monday

I don’t recall the exact words on the flyer but I have a vivid memory of my thoughts when I read them: “I’ve been training my whole life for this!” Since my first game in 1983, baseball was in my heart; the initial excitement once I had the ticket in my hand, the drive to the Stadium, the tailgate feasts and the electricity of the crowd, I was consumed by it all.

At the time, all I knew about the Pad Squad was they were the kids my age who would shoot goodies into the crowd with a water balloon slingshot. I had been using one for nearly ten years at that point, with balloons, eggs and one memorable occasion with snowballs in a beautiful meadow in Idyllwild. And at the many games I had gone to in 1996 and ’97, I thought to myself “I could do it better than that!”

Two months later, on April 8^th 1998, I got my chance to prove it. And prove it I did, all the way to the World Series. Twelve more years in the sun followed, bringing into my life countless friends and at least a hundred memories for every seat in the Stadium and Ballpark combined, far too many to list here.

During those thirteen seasons and over a thousand games, I was given the opportunity to rub elbows with some of the greatest names to ever play the game. I was and still am on a first-name basis with some of the greatest Padres of all time; players, managers and coaches alike. The most unique part of it all for me was having days where I would be standing next to Hank Aaron or Willie Mays one moment then sitting with a family in the nosebleed seats. A few moments after that I would lead my crew in singing Happy Birthday to a centenarian who was at her first baseball game; minutes later I would be clear across the Ballpark preparing to send a family off to Hawaii, then racing down to the field to lead our moment in the spotlight, Slingshots.

Yet the true magic happened off the field and outside the ballpark itself. They say after a loss you have to leave it on the field. But when you’re in a position like I was in for those years you simply cannot do that, as everything that happened there finds a place in your heart and stays there forever. Most notably, I met my wife at Petco Park just two months after we opened it. Now, we bring our four children to the game, just as kids who used to follow the Pad Squad around The Murph now bring their own children out to the ol’ ballgame.

Equally important was meeting the man who would guide me to sobriety. I say with firm conviction I would not be alive today had I not gotten sober. Had I not gotten sober and stayed sober, my daughters would never have been born.

I often say I have a “Family of 40,000” and so many of them have meant so many things to my family. The godparents of three of my children are former Pad Squad coworkers, and the godmother of our youngest, Chloe (Who shares her birthday with none other than the man her older brother was named after) is in my life as a direct result of Petco Park. She’s my sister-in-law, and now my wife and I are godparents to her son, our nephew. The circle continues.

Lifelong friends from before my baseball days along with my Ballpark family helped prop me up emotionally, spiritually and financially during those harrowing early days of sobriety. Summer Serrano; Padres fan extraordinaire, was the first person I talked to after my last drink. Incidentally, it was a conversation with (fellow Pad Squad from 1998 and Godfather to my son Joseph), Armando LaMadrid, as good a friend a man could ever have, that led me to making the decision to walk away from the Pad Squad, which was vital to my focusing on turning my life around.

And I’ll always cherish my friendship with FranKlin “K-Man” Lewis, who became something of a father figure to me. Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t talk of Mark Gomez; who taught me what I consider the true meaning of success. The mere thought of Mark never failed to change my mood for the better, and being someone like that for others is something I feel is the pinnacle of true success.

I mentioned in a letter to someone much closer to Larry than most that much of my perception of Larry is image, as even though he signed my paychecks for three years, I never had anything resembling a conversation with him. I guess we were always too busy. Not that he didn’t seem approachable to me, just that I likened the relationship I had with him to the one I had with longtime clubbie Tony Petricca; always passing each other in the hallway with a friendly hello or nod while moving on to the next task. Always moving, always planning, always doing.

Recently I also wrote that I have worked for two types of people in my thirty-five years in the workforce: those who get the bare minimum of effort simply because I don’t want to hear the griping, and those I work my tail off for because I don’t want to let them down. I am certain you can guess which Larry was, as was every person who worked below him and above me.

Former Padres Director of Media Relations Glenn Geffner said it best:

Larry Lucchino didn’t merely expect excellence from those around him.

He demanded it.

And he didn’t merely demand it.

He taught it.

He nurtured it.

He inspired it.

And he rewarded it.

Glenn’s words illustrate why Larry was head and shoulders above the rest. Again, all of this is written from my perspective and from my perspective, he was Tony Gwynn-committed to his craft, he was Patton-fiery in his leadership and he was Mister Rogers-dedicated to his community.

As I sit here in my little office at home, I have shelves containing over five hundred books to my left, maps of the United States and local wildlands on the wall to my right and on the wall behind me, dozens of pictures from my years with the Padres. Pictures of my family of six at the game, pics with guys like Bruce Bochy and Press Gate Bruce, Tony Gwynn and Trevor Hoffman, Jerry Coleman and Captain Jack Ensch and of course, Rudy has a picture with Rickey Henderson.

Now I know some of you may be thinking “Why is he making this all about him?” and to think this is understandable. Yet I write it because it is my story about Larry Lucchino. The Impact. As Alex Montoya put it just a few day ago, Larry had an impact on so many people. The number of which would be impossible to calculate. How many people met the loves of their lives at Camden Yards or Petco Park? How many friendships were created at one of the many community events Larry put on over the years? Not only that, but how many lives were impacted by people who learned excellence from Larry? How many lives will they go on to impact?

I know I have impacted lives. I hear it every time I go to the ballpark, I read it every time someone reaches out and thanks me for words I have shared. Yet I am just one person and to ask how many people have been impacted as a direct result of Larry’s impact on another well, that’s about as easy to answer as “How big is the universe?” or “How many total blades of grass are on all the ballfields in all the world?”

I have often closed my baseball related blogs with the words “Baseball is just how we met…”

Today, I can firmly say to every person I have met in baseball…

“We met because of Larry Lucchino…”

Thank you, Larry…

 

 

 

 

Lord of the Ringworm and Other Observations

 

In some states, hunting laws state it is illegal to hunt in “baited” areas. That is, a person may not scatter corn or other foods with the intention of attracting game animals for an easy kill. In most of those cases, whether or not a person knows the area is baited matters not; they will still be prosecuted. On that end, when a person hunts an area he better make damn sure the area he’s hunting isn’t baited. The average fine for hunting a baited area can be up to five hundred dollars in some states

As we all now know, when it comes to Major League Baseball the financial penalty for “unknowingly” taking a banned substance depends on the size of the suspension as well as the players salary. At last count, this will amount to around 2.9 million dollars for Fernando Tatis jr. Or, more than double the amount both Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb made over forty-four total seasons.

But what is the real cost of Tatis’ mistake, if that’s what it really was? No word yet on endorsements but it’s a safe bet to say the people at Gatorade aren’t exactly enamored with El Nino. And I won’t even get into the speculation that sprang up in the immediate aftermath. Hell, I am certain there are some tinfoil-hatted nutjobs out there who are convinced this situation has roots in the New World Order or some other such far-fetched conspiracy.

But one thing is certain; in the minds of baseball fans across the country, his name is tainted on a level surpassed only by Bonds and Clemens. And it will remain so for the duration not only of the suspension but also his career and beyond. Unless of course, he comes back and performs. Home runs will bring forgiveness and if the Padres part ways with him (something I feel would take yet another seriously bad decision on his part to happen), whichever team he ends up with will have a fan base that will quickly forget his past deeds. And they will be forgotten even quicker if he begins with a hot streak at the plate.

Why?

Simple. Many of us tend to judge players by the color of their… jersey.

I will use a decidedly more harmless example of my own experiences in having borderline hypocritical thought when it comes to baseball. Nomar Garciaparra. Great player with borderline Hall of Fame credentials. He had that little quirk between pitches which looked like he was adjusting his batting gloves. When he came to the plate with the Red Sox, I would smile and think to myself “What a weirdo! But a hell of a ballplayer.”

Later in his career he’s with the Dodgers and I don’t think it’s weird anymore. In fact, my thoughts run more along the lines of “What an a**hole! Someone should chop his f***ing hands off if he keeps delaying the damn game like that!” Yes, I often did think that way with a beer in my hand.

All because the color of his jersey…

When it comes to PED’s I was no less hypocritical than a preacher taking the offering plate to the casino. Barry Bonds. I booed every chance I got, I laughed at every insult hurled from the stands. But when it came to Ken Caminiti, I mustered every excuse I could to justify his actions with as much fervor as I showed in my hatred for Bonds. “He only did steroids to help heal properly” or “At least he admitted to it”.

In 1996 Cammy was the most electrifying player in Major League Baseball. And he was our guy. As Ted Leitner wrote, and if anyone has the pedigree to say such a thing, it’s him; no one electrified the city quite like Ken Caminiti. His exploits that season were not only the greatest in Padres history but among the greatest in baseball history as well. Add to that his intense but caring personality and its little surprise some of us chose to defend him while condemning Bond’s standoffish and sometimes surly nature.

Ken Caminiti was the closest we ever had to being the Face of Baseball and I find it ironic yet not at all surprising that the next and only other Padres player to be considered such has found himself caught up being the biggest story in baseball for all the wrong reasons. It makes me wonder what things would have been like had we been afforded access to social networking in Caminiti’s day.

Any time any celebrity gets negative press for any reason, someone will invariably say “You can’t judge…” Which really means “You have an opinion which is better informed than mine, but I don’t agree with it so I’m pulling the ‘judge’ card…

Others have said “You don’t know the pressure he’s under.” They’re right. And he doesn’t know the pressure I am under to raise four children and guide thirty-five Scouts to be good adults with strong moral compasses…

Baseball is a form of entertainment, a form of exercise and can also be a means to look in the mirror. When Mookie Betts made that late inning, rally killing catch against us in early 2021 he began pounding his chest. Padre fans complained about how cocky he was. Not me. Hell, even I clapped my hands a few times. As much as that catch hurt, as a baseball fan I could not help but cheer it. Funny how the ones who pissed and moaned about Betts were the same ones who defended that bush-league stutter-step and god-awful swag chain as “entertainment” …

As against as I was of Tingler publicly blasting Tatis for grand slam, I am equally for Preller speaking out this time around. Tatis didn’t just hurt himself, his team or even the game of baseball. He betrayed the trust of every San Diegan wearing a number 23 on their backs…

A recent article in the San Diego Union-Tribune stated that of all the Major Leaguers fined and/or suspended due to violation of anti-doping laws, 57% of them came from the Dominican Republic. Not to justify or rationalize use, but the story makes some good points considering the DR standard for “poor” makes poor people in the US look like lottery winners. This does not apply to Jr, as his dad made a total of 17 million US dollars in his career. Not exactly poor by any standards…

When Jr signed his “statue” contract it was reported around eight percent of his money would go to Big League Advance, a company which loans money to minor leaguers in anticipation of a big payday once they reach the majors. No word on whether or not he’ll owe for money lost due to suspension…

More than a few season ticket holders have asked for a refund due to Tatis’ suspension. I wonder if they’re also asking for refund on those swag chain replicas…

Elsewhere in the league, Pirates rookie Rodolfo Castro was suspended one game for bringing his cell phone onto the field during a game. According to him, “None of this was intentional…” I don’t know how a man can put a phone in his pocket without intending to…

Castro’s blunder has to be the biggest “Rookie Mistake” since Ruben Rivera stole a glove from Derek Jeter’s locker. In his 8^th season in the Majors…

On a brighter note, Ted Leitner and Larry Lucchino were inducted into the Padres Hall of Fame. Much deserved, as Uncle Teddy will likely go down in history as the longest serving Voice of the Padres and Larry, well, I can count on one hand the others who were equally as important to the team. But none have been more important…

HoF Part Deaux: still waiting for Bob Chandler and Jack Murphy to get the Call from the Hall. Bob was there through the good and bad; Jack ranks right up there with Larry…

Jonathan Papelbon said he would drill Tatis if he were still playing. I wonder if he would be playing if he had said such a thing while he was playing…

Gotta wonder why Commissioner Manfred didn’t threaten harsh punishment for any active (relevant) pitcher who may throw at Tatis? I guess The Commish felt El Nino didn’t deserve the protection he gave the Houston *Astros…

Speaking of drilling players, always thought it was ironic how Randy Johnson would pitch high and tight to batters who dared to bunt against him. Yes, the same Randy Johnson who used to bunt during the vast majority of his at bats…

My god I hope I’m not jinxing anything but if Aaron Judge hits sixteen more home runs to make 62, should they put an asterisk indicating the feat was accomplished without PED’s?...

Okay, enough about baseball and PED’s. Fall us upon us and you know what that means: NFL football and social media taken over by people complaining about pumpkin spice everything. So glad we live in a world where that’s the biggest concern for so many…

More Than a Game

 

Sometimes my favorite things to write about are in fact the most difficult to write about.

The hours following yesterday’s games was one of those times. I will admit I went into it with some apprehension. After all, this was supposed to be our year. In April the entire baseball world had their eyes upon us and the last time it was this was when we opened Petco Park.

I’ll start at the beginning. The day began with what I hoped was not a harbinger of things to come. I made an early trip to a local market for tailgate supplies yet for some reason, the employee at the service counter insisted I was not lined up in the right spot. This although she had no problem with the three people that cut in front of me. Speaking silently with my wallet I decided they did not want my money. So taking a half hour away from precious tailgate time, I chose a much more guest-centered market closer to home.

Aside from the score to the game this was the only negative experience of the day. It has been said these past two games were a microcosm of the historic collapse of the second half of the season. Still, I came away from our Summer Home with a heart overflowing with gratitude; this because the entire day from arrival downtown was a microcosm of everything I have loved about Padres Baseball since 1998.

As I have written many times before, I simply cannot have a full gameday experience without a tailgate party. Maybe it is due to the fact my first ever game in 1983 started and ended with a tailgate. Several red snapper tacos, nachos, chocolate chip cookies and a Pepsi later I was ready to pass through the gates. As is custom, just as my ticket was scanned Our National Anthem began.

Being that we only had general admission seats for Park at the Park (I’ll start calling it Gallagher Square when they start paying me. Maybe…) we did the most natural thing; find an usher we know and get some better seats. It didn’t take long, as we were quickly seated near the Field Level employee section by Patty Cahill, who is one of the kindest people I have met in or out of baseball. As often happens during a sellout game those seats didn’t last long. Of course, I was out walking around at the time and ran into yet another member of my Family of 40,000. Harry Maker is well known not only in the Ballpark but across baseball. His somewhat good natured and clean heckling of opposing left fielders is the stuff of legend. Next time you see me ask me the Luis Gonzalez story. Better yet, find Harry and ask him. He is easy to spot; he is the guy with the Rollie Fingers mustache who can always be found near the home dugout during batting practice and front row in left field during the game.

The following is a big reason I have had some difficulty in getting my words out, as this part of todays story goes back two decades. Sometime in 2002, I met a family of three with a two-year-old daughter. That family is now a family of four and that “little” girl is a twenty two year old nursing student. That in itself would have warmed my heart if it was the only part of the story. But that’s just the beginning.

When our son Trevor was on his way my wife and I had some reservations regarding the hospital we had chosen for delivery. Not the hospital itself or our doctor but the head nurse in the prenatal unit. I’ll just say every interaction with her was far from pleasant. After a series of negative experiences with this woman my wife and I decided we would prefer to deliver at Sharp Mary Birch.

When I related the story to my friend, the father of that family of four, he asked who our doctor I gave him the name of our doctor. He replied “He doesn’t delivery at Mary Birch… but I do!” That conversation took our friendship to another level, as Chris Lafferty became the OB/GYN for the births of both Trevor and Joseph. As luck (or maybe it was the Baseball Gods) would have it, there were six available seats next to Chris and his wife Monica.

Much as I loved spending time and catching up with them, I have never been good at sitting still for long so again I made another foray out into the stands. During one trip around the concourse I ran into yet another old friend from the stadium days. From that conversation I came away with enough steak sandwiches, garlic fries and cokes to feed the whole family.

The last game is always bittersweet and today was no different. Considering how well the team had played through June and into July the bitterness stung a bit more than usual. Yet equally sweet and bitter were the quiet moments; as I thought of the loved ones we’ve lost over the years. Like looking down the stairs to the media gate, where the kids’ Fairy Godfather Bruce Ragland used to greet all with the warmest of smiles. Or up to Section 301 where my dear friend Keith Milledge was always ready to share a laugh or lend a shoulder. And of course Field Level 108 where Mark Gomez used to brighten even the darkest days. Or Al Wilkinson, whose conversations I cherished so much I made a tradition of spending late-inning downtime with him and his lovely wife Tracy. Last but certainly not least, I thought of the knowing grin I would get from Summer Serrano when relaying yet another story of bending the rules for the sake of the Fan Experience. I have said it before and I will say it again (and again); if baseball fandom were military, Summer would be part of Seal Team Six, the Best of the Best.

Yet of all the experiences of the day, the greatest of all came in the bottom of the 9^th inning. Jake Cronenworth led off and we were down one run. I leaned over to Chris and said “If he gets on, I’m gonna go down to the concourse and rally the crowd like the old days…” Sure enough, The Rake drew a walk and off I was, my sons in tow. I start the old routine, giving three quick claps and encouraging the crowd to join in. out of synch with the usual rally sounds these days, I caught on quickly and was able to choose my spots. Manny walks, crowd gets louder. As they quiet down I get back into my routine. It had been eleven years since I had done it but it felt like I had not skipped a beat; literally and figuratively.

Tatis comes to bat and I’m getting the same adrenaline when we had names like Vaughn, Finley or Caminiti at the plate. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Behind home plate and on the first base side the crowd is strangely quiet, maybe they do not recognize this now-graying kid running around in the Finley jersey. Yet the third base side is rockin’ and I think about my buddy Joey, a now grown man who was rocking ‘til the end on Opening Day in 2005. So we decide to stick to that side. After all, I knew well as long as I could get a section or two going, everyone else would join in sooner or later.

Alas, it was not to be. After Tommy Pham walked to load the bases with only one out, the game ended much like the entire second half of the season and now our season did; swinging futilely.

Yet even after coming away with the loss, after knowing we would have no joy in Padreville this October I came away with enough gratitude to share with the other 39,999 family members in attendance.

For you see, as much as I love the Sacred Game; everything about on and off the field, I think of all the love; the hugs, the high fives, the smiles, the reminiscing. I think of all of that and never have trouble reminding myself:

Baseball is just how we met.

Thank you Larry…

Ode To The Redbirds

 

Dear St Louis fans, 

Allow me to begin by offering my condolences in the passing of Cardinals legend Bob Gibson. When a team icon passes we tend to gather together in strength, sharing memories and telling stories going back to their rookie years. Adding insult to injury, large gatherings are not very popular these days and I know you all would rather be at Busch Stadium celebrating one hell of a pitcher and one heck of a man.

As a lifelong San Diego fan (who worked in the Padres Entertainment Department for thirteen years), the Cardinals were something of a monkey on our backs or better yet considering our 1-9 postseason record, we had the whole dam zoo on our backs.

Yet through the years, I’ve respected no team more than yours. From my grade school years delivering newspapers, reading about Ozzie Smith and Vince Coleman to digging up books at my school library and reading about the Gashouse Gang to this day, when your local nine had me biting my fingernails in anticipation of yet another playoff rout; your organization and more important you, as fans, have been a class act all the way.

As I stated in an earlier blog, I’ve never worn the cap of another team. Yet there was a time I came close to donning a Cardinals hat. The setting? 1994 baseball strike and the Padres ongoing fire sale. Mind you, my complete loyalty would not have shifted and it wasn’t just because my Padres were losing. It was because then-ownership and Major League Baseball in general was leading me to nearly stop loving the game itself. And I must admit, part of the reason was Axl Rose had taken to wearing one onstage.

And I have a feeling you all were equally angered as we were when Tony Gwynn’s quest for .400 was dashed by the strike. Speaking of Mr. Padre, it was Tony’s quest for 3,000 that cemented a permanent place in my heart for the St Louis fans and organization. We had the opportunity to see a 500th home run and 3,000th his in the same game and from my perspective, you treated Tony with every bit of adulation and respect as you did Big Mac.

Every team has its rivalries and I am quite surprised there has been little to no talk of a Padres/Cardinals rivalry. Then again, going one and nine against you makes me think of a fight between Mike Tyson and Steve Urkel. Yet never once did I see any gloating, never has a Cardinals fan claim superiority over what the teams on the field do. In fact, I can safely say that in over a thousand games as an employee and several hundred more as a paying fan, not once did I hear or see a negative word or action from the St. Louis faithful.

When the season schedule came out every year I eagerly looked for two things; who we were playing Opening Day and when the Cards were coming to town. I knew when the ‘birds came to town we were sure to see baseball at its most pure, on the field and in the stands.

While your season ended a little more than you hoped, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Think of your team’s history and hold your head high. Think of the class, grace and dignity shown by your fans over the years and hold your heads even higher.

I don’t get out to the bars much these days but if you do spot me at one, say hello. And you’ll have a .394 Pale Ale on me…

Twenty Four Years in the Making

 

I’ll have to preface this by tipping my cap to the St. Louis Cardinals. I’ve never rooted for a team other than the Padres, never had more than one team. Though I did root for the Giants (or to be more specific, Bruce Bochy, Tim Flannery and a handful of dear friends who love the Giants just as much as I love the Padres) during the 2010, 2012 and 2014 playoffs.

Yet there was a time where I was on the verge of buying a Cardinals hat. No excuses, but this was during the Werner-era fire sale AND Axl Rose had also taken to wearing one on stage. Looking back, I think Tony Gwynn was the ONLY reason I didn’t just go ahead and do it. And it should come as no surprise that #19 factored in the massive respect for the Cardinals organization and fans. Just one hit away from 3,000 and on the road, Tony stepped to the plate to a standing ovation every at bat.

These weren’t trash talking, fair weather idiots at Busch Stadium, these were BASEBALL fans who cherished all that is good in the game. In later years I looked forward to the Cardinals coming to town. I can’t count how many times we had swept a team and some of their fans would get in my face and say “Padres suck!”.

I had heard it from nearly every team in the league after we had just beat them. And of course, the fans of teams who may have won a World Series or two would start a conversation only to interrupt every reply with “How many rings you got?!” much like the semi-literate Raider fans used to back when I actually gave a crap about football.

Never once heard such a thing from a Cardinals fan. Yet more than once I heard “good game” after a rare occasion in which we beat them. Also resonating tonight is the conversation I had at the 2016 Home Run Derby with a kid half my age, wearing a Stan Musial jersey. And of course I’ll never forget the good-natured ribfest between myself, two elderly female Padres fans and two Cardinals fans; each of whom were about the size of two offensive lines. Not two linemen, two lines. Just good fun at the old ballgame and St. Louis fans knew and still know how to do it better than most.

HOWEVER, there was always a small part of me that would cringe when I would hear about the Cardinals. What self-respecting Padres fan wouldn’t? It was Cal Ripken breaking Lou Gehrig’s record which brought me back to Major League baseball and it was the Moores/Lucchino/Towers trifecta which brought me back to Padres baseball in 1996. Ironically, it was a Cardinals fan who literally got me into the game in 1998 and another Cardinals fan who led me for many years after.

But until tonight, my rear end still stung from that sweep in 1996. I think I still have broom marks from 2005. And even though we finally won a playoff game against them, 2006 wasn’t much better.

So began the drought. Until now. As little as we are used to being in the playoffs, we Padres fans are historically not used to being regarded as one of the best teams in the majors. Yet that’s exactly where we find ourselves this weekend.

And of course, we can’t be there. At least, not in person. But that’s the great thing about being there in spirit. Because when you’re there in spirit, you can be everywhere. 

Earlier today I thought of Ken “Chicken Man” Olinger; who was such a fixture along the first base line at the Murph he became part of Tony Gwynn’s daily routine. Of Frank and Barb Glenski; who traveled so well they toured the Great Wall of China with Kevin Towers when our local nine played an exhibition series in Beijing. I thought of Opening Day 1996; when Ken Caminiti knocked me over and picked me up in one motion as he was walking out of McGregor’s, neither of us looking where we were going. I shudder to think how many of my bones would have been broken had he been walking a little faster. I think of the night in that same bar as I sat with Bruce Bochy and Goose Gossage; drinking Coors Lights and talking duck hunting on the Rio Grande.

I think of my fellow 1998 rookie coworkers Carly, Courtney and Kerry; who acted like giggly little schoolgirls when Archi Cianfrocco walked by. And yes, I think of how I was ten times goofier than all three combined when moments later; Tony Gwynn, Steve Finley and Davey Lopes rounded the corner.

I think of master tailgater Akira Edamitsu, who used to show up for games at six. AM! Also of Dave “Faithkeeper” Moore and Al “Batman” Price, who had such a flashy tailgate spot set up, I think it led to them holding the record of drinks bought for them at McGregors from visiting players.

And yes, I from time to time I unfortunately about my first solo on field assignment; which involved a grass skirt, coconut bra and a hairy chested man. Of course, not all the memories were glamorous. Some of them were downright enchanting. Like the time I got on the elevator and wondered why the hell they were playing the Dodgers broadcast, only to look behind me and see Vin Scully stepping onto the elevator behind me. Or a few years later on the very same elevator; where on my left stood Junior Seau and on my right stood Tony Gwynn.

Yes, this kid from Chula Vista has some memories and some stories. Some of the stories are warm and fuzzy; like the many times I made the day for a family; one moment they’re in the upper deck, the next moment mom and dad see their kids storming the field with the Pad Squad.  Getting paid every day to create memories that will last a lifetime. And best of all, the knowledge of how one kind act could resonate for years, even decades. Such things happen in baseball; so many things off the field only preciuous few are even aware of.

On the surface, it appears that a love for the game is what drives people like me; the few who are in the position I held for over a thousand games. But at least for myself, it’s the love of the game that gets me there. What really drove me was discovering the ability to create such memories for others, and having literally thousands of opportunities to do it every night.

 I often wonder about those fans; the ones I met only once. The family who was having a bad day because the youngest was having an even worse day; and the smiles on all their faces after a quick radio call to the Swingin’ Friar changed the day for them all. The elderly woman who showed up three hours early for an event, on a 95 degree day; who ended up spending most of that time in the ticket office, a small cooler of water bottles by her side courtesy of some kid from Chula Vista. Or the little one who looked like the Pepsi girl with the Joe Pesci voice. What was her name again? Anyway, if anyone sees her, tell her Brown and Gold is a little more stylish than Black and Orange. Even in October.

I know this might sound a little rambling, but give the kid a break, will ya?! Let’s see you try and consolidate a thousand games and a million memories into a two-page blog! Seriously though, I can't recall when more memories flowed in such a short time.

Sometimes as I’m thumbing through the ol’ memory bank I wonder Where Have All The Good Times Gone…

Today, the answer is Right Now…

Summer Time

Last night I was talking to a very close friend about my day; gathering with my Family of 40,000 as we celebrated the life of Summer Serrano. I was at a loss at how to explain what the day felt like; what it all meant. We all have been to memorial services and celebrations of life, yet had anyone been to something like what we experienced yesterday?

From the very beginning, it felt more like Opening Day than a day of mourning. Padre jerseys were everywhere in the parking lot. When I walked into the venue, one of the first persons I saw was a man who wears three World Series rings; naturally there long before everyone else and that’s exactly how you find success in baseball and everywhere else.

In helping Bruce ad Delia, I was inside long before the doors opened to the public; much like I did before games at The Murph and later at the Ballpark. Again, when I shared that I had to keep looking at the walls and the ceiling to remind myself of where I was, I wasn’t kidding. One family member after another poured through the doors, as it appeared they were going to have to accommodate 40,000 people.

With yet another apology to Nick Canepa, whom I still hope knows imitation is indeed the sincerest form of flattery, I will share a few more thoughts on the Celebration of Life for Summer Serrano.

As I mentioned yesterday, we can all come up with at least 3,141 great things to say about Summer. But for the sake of brevity I’ll keep it short…

We all know and love the adrenaline that came along with Trevor Time. And coming from me, you know it means a lot when I say it pales in comparison to the love we all have during Summer Time…

Favorite personal quote of the day came when introducing my son to Tim Flannery- “You’ve been coaching him for 13 years Tim, you just didn’t know it”. Honored to introduce Trevor to a man who epitomizes all that is good about the Sacred Game…

Never thought I would cry during “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”. Started out as tears of sadness, ended with tears of joy in knowing what Summer would have thought of it…

Summer never served in the military, but the Medal of Honor Challenge Coin was a fitting tribute for Delia and Bruce. As I’ve said before and will say again and again, if baseball fandom was the military, Summer and the Madres would be Seal Team Six…

Had a brief but poignant moment of conversation with Alicia Gwynn. She and Tony are THE example of what it takes to make a success of the most Sacred form of teamwork…

Longtime Padres employee Andy Strasburg was in the house, sharing a letter from Cooperstown. Check out his stories. My favorite thing about the baseball is the storytelling aspect and for every great story you might have, Andy has at least 61 equal or maybe even better ones…

Though all the speakers of the day shared wonderfully, with laughs, tears and flat out hilarity; I don’t think anyone led the charge better than Brian Beechler. He pleaded with everyone to help get Summer honored on her birthday and it became a reality not long after the sun went down. Hey kid, you did good…

In the days leading up to Monday, I wondered if it would be poor taste to have my son Trevor wave my original Trevor Time flag when we gave Delia a standing ovation. As with many of the ideas I had for the day, I wondered what Summer would have thought of it. I can feel her smile as I write this, and I know her eyes were shedding happy tears when we all honored Delia the way we did…

Delia, Part Deux; She may have given birth to only one child, but she is Mom to hundreds of us…

Hearing Mudcat read the letter from Hoffy brought to mind past services for locally and nationally known dignitaries. I don’t feel quite the same about Summer. We all know she was a hell of a lot more important than that…

As a civilian, I’m not all that up to task on knowledge about military uniform protocol when it comes to baseball jerseys. But who else loved when Chaplain Don Biadog pulled that jersey over his uniform?...

It is often said what we call coincidence is actually God’s way of working anonymously. Summer is the Ultimate fan, Bruce is owner of Ultimate Sports Adventures. Coincidence? I think not…

Seeing Carlos, Andy, Mark and Archi from the 1998 team along with the guy who waved them home for each and every run was a reminder of how much we can accomplish together. Boys of Summer indeed…

Fan Experience Wizard Dr. Charles Steinberg hired Summer to the Pad Squad in 1995. No better place to start, in that her love for the game and everything about it is nothing short of Ruthian…

I’ve done several speaking engagements over the years and each time I came home from one I was filled with gratitude and humility for the opportunity. In the past 6 months I have done two for my Padres Family because of Summer. Greatest two speaking engagements of my life. Thank you…

No matter what I posted on Facebook, the first “like” usually came from Summer. I’m gonna miss that…

In talking with Carlos Hernandez and sharing our mutual sadness, I thought of the many friendships I’ve made with some of the most hallowed names in Padres history. I’ve never looked at it as “Hey, look at me; I know this guy or that guy.” No, it’s just a humility to have such great friends in my life. Baseball is just how we met…

I’ve long believed that the truest and purest measure of success is determined by how many lives you touch in a positive way. On that note, I’ve never been blessed to meet someone more successful than her…

Last time I saw so many Padres fans in Mission Valley, Phil Nevin had Mike Darr jr on his shoulder and Mayor Dick Murphy was boarding a helicopter bound for Downtown with home plate tucked under his arm. It may be safe to say we’ll never see such a large gathering of Friar Faithful in Mission Valley again. And that’s very fitting…

Mr. 3,000

One day in the classic comic strip Hagar the Horrible, main character Hagar was shown toasting the New Year. Another character quipped “Does he really have to toast each day individually?!” During that same year, I made a “resolution” to have at least one drink every day of the year. I was all of seventeen years old and I think I made it to somewhere in mid-May. Yeah, drinking was pretty much life from an early age. It took me nearly 20 years to realize the folly of such habits but it didn’t take nearly that long to learn I was an alcoholic.

Sometime around 1991 I read an article stating a person could be considered an alcoholic if he had a certain amount of drinks per occasion on a certain amount of occasions per week, month etc. I knew then, yet I did nothing. Drinking was too damn fun to even consider the possibility that it just might become a problem. The real problem is a drunk doesn’t know how big of a problem it can become until it becomes too big.

Those of you who have read past blogs of mine and the special few who helped me through those days know that I was in a very dark place when I took my last drink. I was contemplating suicide for the first and only time in my life. I just wanted the pain to end. I thought of so many different ways to do it and I had narrowed it down to a few different ways to make it look like an accident; at one point I actually practiced “accidentally” catching my arm in the seatbelt and plunging onto the street and into the path of an oncoming car. I was that desperate. Past blogs go more into detail of those days and if you’re so inclined, you can find the links on the page you’re reading now.

If there is any wisdom I can share, it’s that there is always hope. I’ve met people who thought their lives were over at 19, and others who got sober in their 70’s. I know men who lived out of shopping carts, eaten out of dumpsters and went years not having any food that hadn’t already had a bite taken out of it. I know women who were estranged from their entire families and guys who watched their fathers die in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey while setting upon the same paths themselves.

These people are now living lives beyond their wildest dreams; having seen their grown children for the first time in decades and their grandchildren for the first time ever in the same day. They’re living lives of service to others and creating joy not with the bottle but without it. They’re having children who will never see mommy or daddy drink and they’re going to ballgames with their sons and daughters; still enjoying the tailgate parties and drinking twice as many Pepsi’s as they used to margaritas and they’re enjoying cherished friendships with those who can drink like normal people. And they’re doing it all because they made a decision to seek change.

Several months ago I came upon the idea of checking up on how many days I had been sober. After all, sobriety is achieved one day at a time. Upon entering my sobriety date I learned I would, lord willing, reach 3,000 days sober on January 5^th, 2019. 3,000. That’s a milestone number in baseball terms. I thought about that first day, 24 hours sober for the first time in who knows how long. Over the years you may have heard a baseball term or two describing things outside baseball and the family I gained during my years in baseball proved to be vital in achieving and sustaining sobriety. It’s safe to say I very well may never had even a single day sober without certain members of my Padres family.

I left the Padres the day after I took my last drink and with less than 12 hours of sobriety under my belt, I had an early-morning conversation with my good friend Summer Serrano. That conversation did something for me I could not do for myself; see life from a perspective other than my own. Without getting into details, she told me how alcoholism affected her as a child, as a teen and as an adult.

Since then, she and her mom Delia have been huge supporters of my writing; it is safe to say that no one has been more supportive of my work. To show my humbled appreciation, I often shared my blogs with Summer before I shared them publicly, making her the first person to read them. Last week, I was excited not only for the opportunity to reach such a milestone of sobriety, but even more so to share it with her.

Now, I can only imagine the look in her eyes and the knowing smile she would have given me when I told her about it. Summer passed away suddenly and unexpectedly on Wednesday. There is really no way to accurately describe how I felt when I received the news. Initially I thought she was posting about another loss to her family and when I realized it was her; it took all I had to keep from breaking down in the lunch room at work.

When Tony Gwynn passed away, we all had each other. Fans gathered at his statue and we laughed, we cried, we consoled each other. When I think of Summer, I think of her as the epitome of “Each Other”. She was what it meant to be a fan. Her dedication to the Padres made the word “Fan” seem downright trivial, and understatement. As I had told her on many occasions, if baseball fandom was the military, Summer and the Madres would be Seal Team Six.

For a brief moment, I considering scrapping plans for this blog piece, at least the title. How could I use such a term when my Padres family is mourning such a tragic loss of a loved one? Then I laughed at myself, for I know damn well what Summer would have said to the idea. She would have given me that stern look of hers and said “Don’t you DARE let go of that idea, I love it!” She probably would have even shed a tear or two, considering her love of baseball and her even stronger love of the REAL Mr. 3000 in San Diego. Yeah, I think there would have been some tears. Tears of joy; rooted in her knowledge that she played a vital role in this sober life of mine.

I don’t know what heaven is. I know people have an idea of what it might be like, and we all have our ideas of what we hope it’s like. And if it’s anything like I hope it is, Press Gate Bruce surely came in for late inning relief of St. Peter sometime Tuesday night. Kevin Towers was just behind the gate, smiling and holding a bottle of Patron. Tony and Cammie are offering a seat next to them, and Summer is giving them that sly grin of hers while they wait for her to decide. Peach is there, along with Mike Darr, Darrel Akerfelds and all the loved ones our Padres family has lost over the years. But of course, Summer declines all their invites and takes a seat with her beloved grandparents, her chair right next to 106-year old rookie Ray Chavez.

And somewhere, from even higher above; from heaven’s press box, a familiar voice says “Oh Doctor, you can hang a star on that life..”