JULIO CRUZ BECAME FIRST TERRIER MAJOR LEAGUER

A Redlands Connection is a concoction of sports memories emanating from a city that once numbered less than 20,000 people. From pro football’s Super Bowl to baseball’s World Series, from dynamic soccer’s World Cup to golf’s and tennis’ U.S. Open, major auto racing, plus NCAA Final Four connections, Tour de France cycling, more major tennis like Wimbledon, tiny connections to that NBA and a little NHL, major college football, Kentucky Derby, aquatics and Olympic Games, that sparkling little city sits around halfway between Los Angeles and Palm Springs on Interstate 10. This story’s lightning baseball player, a brilliant second baseman and base stealer, has connected in a far away expectation anyone could imagine. – Obrey Brown

I MET JULIO CRUZ A NUMBER of times, including twice in the clubhouse at Anaheim Stadium when he was a member of the Seattle Mariners, the other after he’d been traded to the Chicago White Sox. The other times came years later. He had long since retired. 

Cruz’s onetime home city, which was Redlands, enjoyed a return as a youth demonstration about baseball. Someone had convinced him to come back for a pre-season baseball clinic at Community Field in 1994.

Brooklyn-born. Moved to Redlands. Graduated. Headed for San Bernardino Valley College. Signed as a free agent. California Angels. That was just the beginning.

Cruz hit .237 over 10 MLB seasons. He is, indeed, a Hall of Famer. In Redlands. Considering that Cruz, a 1971 RHS graduate, was the first-ever Terrier to reach the major leagues, there’s not a single belief he couldn’t have been inducted in that campus’ sports Hall of Fame. The guy has taken part in some of baseball’s greatest moments.

Sports Editor Jeff Lane, my predecessor at the Redlands newspaper, had done plenty on Cruz during his five-year stint on that publication. He was a longshot product – never drafted, never spotted in huge high school or college games, rarely reported to major league scouts. To that point, no Redlands player had ever drifted their way from that city into the major leagues.

Ed Vande Berg, a southpaw pitcher, would be next. Another Redlands product who didn’t pick up top-level play until he showed up at San Bernardino Valley College. By his sophomore season, Vande Berg was named State Player of the Year after posting an 18-1 mound record.

Who’d have believed that two ex-Terrier high schoolers would wind up playing on the same major league teams – Cruz and Vande Berg eventually became teammates with the Mariners for a handful of seasons.

Cruz, a 1972 Redlands High graduate, played at nearby San Bernardino Valley. Though undrafted, he was signed by the California Angels on May 7, 1974 as a free agent after his performance at a longshot tryout held at UCLA.

Yes, the Angels sent Cruz into their minor league system. As a 19-year-old, he batted .241 for Idaho Falls of the Rookie League in 1974. He went right up the Angels’ chain – .261 for Quad Cities, .307 for Salinas, .327 for El Paso and .246 for Salt Lake City at age 22.

JUlio Cruz
Julio Cruz, a Redlands High product, became the first Terrier to ever play in the major leagues (photo by Wikipedia Commons).

Sports Editor Jeff Lane, my predecessor at the Redlands newspaper, had done plenty on Julio during his five-year stint on that publication. Julio was a popular product. To that point, no Redlands player had ever drifted their way from that city into the major leagues.

Ed Vande Berg, a southpaw pitcher, would be next. In fact, the two would eventually become teammates in Seattle.

Julio, a 1972 Redlands High graduate, played at nearby San Bernardino Valley. Though undrafted, he was signed by the California Angels on May 7, 1974 as a free agent after a tryout held at UCLA.

The Angels sent Cruz into their minor league system. As a 19-year-old, he batted .241 for Idaho Falls of the Rookie League in 1974. On he went, right up the Angels’ chain – .261 for Quad Cities, .307 for Salinas, .327 for El Paso and .246 for Salt Lake City at age 22.

EXPANSION — A REAL BREAK FOR CRUZ

The American League, about to expand from 10 teams to 12 teams by 1977, had to make players available in a draft pool. Cruz was left unprotected by the Angels, who had ex-Red Sox second baseman Jerry Remy on their MLB level. For that position, the Angels didn’t need Cruz.

While Cruz batted .366 for Hawaii of the Pacific Coast League – stashed then with the Padres’ chain while Seattle organized its minor league system – it wouldn’t be long before he got his shot in the majors.

On Nov. 5, 1976, Cruz had been the 52nd player taken in the American League expansion draft when two new franchises appeared – Seattle and Toronto.

Suddenly, he was a “sudden” Mariner.

In a curious draft footnote, pitcher Butch Edge was taken by Toronto out of Milwaukee’s chain. Edge would eventually wind up in Redlands years later as the University of Redlands’ men’s golf coach. Other players taken in the draft included Pete Vuckovich being plucked away from the White Sox by Toronto. Vuckovich eventually wound up with the Brewers, winning the 1982 Cy Young Award.

Edge, at least in 1979, and Vuckovich would eventually wind up playing against Cruz. It was the Redlands-based player who turned into a Seattle stalwart. Longing for star players, Cruz’s base-stealing skills turned him into a popular Mariner.

He stole 59 bases in 1978, then swiped 49, 45, 43 and 46 bags over the next four seasons. What’s lost in those numbers is that he stole 49 in just 107 games in 1979. During that MLB strike-shortened 1981 season, Cruz swiped 43 times in 94 games.

If there was a weakness to his game, Cruz’s on-base-percentage was awfully low – his highest at .363 in ’79 – but he put a lot of bunts in play to try and get on base.

There were some decent teammates in Seattle – Al Cowens, Richie Zisk, Dave Henderson, Willie Horton, Bruce Bochte, Ruppert Jones, among others – with pitchers like future White Sox teammate Floyd Bannister and Hall of Famer Gaylord Perry playing in Seattle with Cruz.

In fact, Cruz was on the field on May 6, 1982 when Perry (10-12 that season) won his 300th game. He beat the Yankees at the Kingdome to notch this milestone victory. Julio, not to confuse anyone with his shortstop mate Todd Cruz, scored a run, laid down a sacrifice and threw out four Yankees and put out two more.

It was Julio, in fact, who fielded the grounder off fellow second baseman Willie Randolph for the final out.

Gaylord Perry
Hall of Famer Gaylord Perry notched his 300th career victory in a Seattle uniform. In fact, teammate Julio Cruz made the final out when he fielded Willie Randolph’s grounder (photo by Wikipedia Commons).

In fact, Julio was on the field on May 6, 1982 when Perry (10-12 that season) won his 300th game. He beat the Yankees in the Kingdome to notch this milestone victory.

It was Cruz, in fact, who fielded the grounder off Willie Randolph for the final out.

TRADED TO THE CHISOX

On June 30, 1983 — MLB’s trading deadline — Seattle swapped Cruz to the Chicago White Sox for second baseman Tony Bernazard. The results of that trade might’ve been the foundation for the ChiSox vaulting to an American League Western Division title by 20 games over Kansas City.

That ’83 season was convincingly his best season – 160 games between his two seasons, 130 hits, 57 stolen bases and 24th on that year’s MVP balloting. That season was won by Baltimore shortstop Cal Ripken, Jr., whose team knocked off the ChiSox in the playoffs.

Incidentally, White Sox catcher Carlton Fisk (3rd), Baines (10th), LaMarr Hoyt (13th), Greg Luzinski (17th), Richard Dotson (20th) and Rudy Law (21st) got MVP voting support ahead of Cruz.

“Let’s Do It Again” was the theme for 1984.  What the ChiSox did was fall back to fifth place, 14 games under .500. General Manager Roland Hemond, who leveraged the Bernazard-for-Cruz swap, brought in pitcher Ron Reed and practically stole future Hall of Famer Tom Seaver from the Mets.

Their contributions weren’t enough to offset poor showings, perhaps reflected by 1983 ace pitchers Hoyt (13-18) and Dotson (14-15) one season later.

There were 54,032 fans at Yankee Stadium when Seaver beat the Yankees for his 300th career win. Cruz, in the dugout batting less than .180, wasn’t part of that ChiSox 4-1 on-field triumph.

On the field, though, were Hall of Famers like Rickey Henderson and Dave Winfield, MVP Don Mattingly and, of course, Seaver. Managers Tony La Russa and Billy Martin squared off against each other.

One night later, Cruz was back in the lineup, going 2-for-2 off Ron Guidry, caught stealing by Yankee catcher Butch Wynegar.

The 1985 White Sox club bounced back to win 85 games and actually led the division in June. By 1986, the club was in disarray with new general manager Ken Harrelson, who had replaced both Hemond, and manager Jim Fregosi. It would be four more seasons before the Chicago White Sox finished over .500.

Roland_Hemond_at_SABR_Convention_2014
Chicago White Sox General Manager Roland Hemond was responsible for landing Julio Cruz in a trade with the Seattle Mariners in 1983 (photo by Wikipedia Commons).

Cruz was living off an impressive free agent contract that was signed in December 1984, a six-year deal between $3.6 and $4.8 million. He never completed it. He played in 1,156 career games; swiped 343 bases; don’t forget an impressive .982 defense at second base.

Released by the White Sox in July 1987, Cruz signed as a free agent with Los Angeles. But the 1987 Dodgers already had a second baseman. Steve Sax would go on to lead his team to a World Series title a year later. Cruz, who drew release, never actually played for the Dodgers. This onetime Terrier was finished.

Ten years of his MLB career was now complete.

A TERRIER HALL OF FAME RETURN

He was part of the second class of Hall of Fame inductees at his former Redlands high school. In fact, Cruz unwittingly opened the door to a humorous line given by fellow inductee Brian Billick, of Super Bowl football fame.

Cruz spoke emotionally about his Terrier days. The memories. Boy, he had fun. The teams he’s played on. There was some success. The Terriers, with Cruz in the lineup, won the first Citrus Belt League title in 1971 — 44 years after their previous championship from 1927.

At the Redlands Hall of Fame podium, Cruz shared a memory. “Just being in the showers with guys like Brian Billick was a thrill. Those were highlights for me. I’ll never get over that.”

Billick? Billick, the Terrier great defensive back and QB who was head coach of the 2001 Baltimore Ravens when they won the Super Bowl, was also being inducted that same night at the University of Redlands.

In fact, Billick broke the crowd up when he said, “Cruz, it’s amazing to me that you felt like the highlight of your high school career was taking a shower with me.”

Those Hall of Famer viewers started busting up.

A few years before that Hall of Fame moment, Cruz, along with ex-major leaguer Rudy Law and Hall of Fame pitcher Ferguson Jenkins took part in a baseball clinic at Community Field. Former Pirates and Yankees pitcher Dock Ellis was also on hand.

Dozens and dozens of area youth showed up for that historic event at the corner of Church Street and San Bernardino Avenue. This was a rare moment for local youth. Dads let their kids know who this guy was: Cruz, of Redlands. Former major leaguer. Little guy. Second baseman. Switch hitter. Lots of speed. Wanna get your kids into the big leagues? Listen. Watch.

Jenkins, Ellis and Law couldn’t have been more classy. Cruz, the ex-Terrier, knew he was at home. Those players gave tips. They shared stories. They shook hands. Smiled. They signed autographs.

Cruz eventually became a coach. Broadcasting games eventually came up for the Spanish-listening Mariner fans, Cruz taking his Brooklyn-to-Redlands-to-Seattle-to-Chicago travels really well.

Why not a Terrier Hall of Famer? He fit the mold. Came into that Hall that same season as Brian Billick, the ex-Terrier football player who led the Baltimore Ravens to the 2001 Super Bowl. Billick and Cruz even shared the same roster as Terrier basketball players during those early 1970s.

While playing with, or against, MLB Hall of Famers like Fisk, Perry, Seaver and Baines, Cruz wound up playing for one Cooperstown-bound manager — La Russa.

It was, if anything, a diamond-style Redlands Connection.

*****

Cruz was 67 when he died of cancer in February 2022. There were a few chats we had together in years leading to that moment. It was 15 years before he died that his first wife, Rebecca, died from cancer. He was married to Mojgam upon his death.

 

“LUCKY LOUIE,” BUTTERMILK, 1939 CRASH, ALL PART OF MEYER’S INDIANAPOLIS 500 LEGEND

A Redlands Connection is a concoction of sports memories emanating from a city that once numbered less than 20,000 people. From pro football’s Super Bowl to baseball’s World Series, from dynamic soccer’s World Cup to golf’s and tennis’ U.S. Open, major auto racing, plus NCAA Final Four connections, Tour de France cycling, more major tennis like Wimbledon, tiny connections to that NBA and a little NHL, major college football, Kentucky Derby, aquatics and Olympic Games, that sparkling little city sits around halfway between Los Angeles and Palm Springs on Interstate 10. For a smallish-style city like Redlands around 1920, its connection with USA’s diligent Indianapolis is amazing. No one ever heard of an I-10 in those days. – Obrey Brown

IT WAS ALL ABOUT BUTTERMILK, or even a well-known nickname that almost everyone’s heard by now, the original “Lucky Louie.”

Louis Meyer, it seems, never even went to Redlands High. I’d searched high and low through all the Makio, Redlands High yearbooks, of that day and age. Once I’d discovered he launched a brilliant Indianapolis 500 connection, I searched for his locality. Nothing showed up. I later found out why. Meyer told me. It was simple.

“I never went to school there.”

Turns out, Louis was a summer visitor. There was a Ford auto shop just off Redlands’ downtown sector. Just opened. Nowadays, it’s Old Redlands. Real old Redlands. Edwin “Bud” Meyer, an Austrian-born eventual racer, was Louis’ older brother. He owned and operated that Model T garage. Louis, that younger brother, was where he learned to drive – not a race car, but a regular automobile.

Their dad, Edward Meyer born in France, began racing a motorcycle in 1896. Learning to drive a race car wouldn’t take much longer, Louis told me.

Louis Meyer
“Lucky Louie” Meyer, who won the 1933 Indianapolis 500, asked for a cold drink of buttermilk after the victory. Who knew, at that time, that the practice would develop into one of the sport’s greatest moments (photo by Wikipedia Commons)?

It was “Lucky Louie” Meyer, who drove at the 1933 Indianapolis 500, asking for a cold drink of buttermilk after winning that race. Who knew, at least that day, such a celebration would develop into one of the sport’s most identifiable moments?

By 1926, Louis wanted to be a driver.

Louis was, said a nephew several decades afterward, was “the original Lucky Louie.” He walked away, unhurt, from crashes and various other scrapes. The family name is Meyer, and if there wasn’t a wrench, steering wheel, huge auto businesses, or some kind of speed duel going on somewhere among them, you probably had the wrong people.

Louis Meyer, a three-time winner of the Indianapolis 500 (1928, 1933 and 1936) died in Searchlight, Nev. in 1995. He got his start, learning to drive race cars from his brother, Edwin T. “Bud” Meyer way around 1920.

“There was a hill in Redlands,” recalls Terry Francis, an El Monte, Calif.-based nephew of highly famous Louis, “where (Edwin) learned to race.”

Not many years later, Louis got to Indianapolis, as a relief driver-riding mechanic in 1927, the Meyer family racing odyssey really hit the highest level.

“Wilbur Shaw got tired,” says Sonny Meyer, who was 69-years-old in 1998, a few years after Louis died. He was Lou’s son from Crawfordsville, Ind. “He was looking for someone to get in the car and drive.”

That was the story, Louis confirmed. Shaw was one of the pioneer champions at Indy. It was Shaw and Meyer.

This was the heavyweight of Louis Meyer’s race beginning at Indy. He never drove a single lap on a speedway, he told me, speeds reaching a never-before-recorded 100 mph. These days? Racers must be licensed before they’re even given a chance to make a practice run on the Brickyard track.

Louis Meyer, 1928 Indy champion
Louis Meyer, pictured in this 1928 photo, won his first Indianapolis 500 that year (photo provided by Indianapolis Motor Speedway).

One year after first racing at Indy, 1928, Meyer won his first Indy 500.

“Dad had that car in second place,” said Sonny, referring to his 1927 race. “Wilbur called him in and wanted to finish the race.”

By 1927, drivers had changed from the leather-helmeted, mustachioed daredevils handling huge, ungainly machines to young jousters in low-slung bombs. Louis Meyer was a young jouster. He had never won a pole, but lined up in the front row twice. Ready to notch a few triumphs was about to veil.

MEYER STARTED INDY TRADITION

It’s no myth that Meyer was the one who started a milky tradition at Indy. Winning drivers who drink milk in Victory Lane in modern days can look back to Meyer for that one: That year was 1933.

“It was,” said Sonny, “actually buttermilk. He had a real palate for buttermilk. He told someone, ‘If I win this thing, I want you to have a cold drink of buttermilk for me after the race.’ ”

Said Francis: “The dairy council saw that and said, ‘We’ve got to jump on that.’ Louis made it a tradition at Indy.”

Historically, Meyer became the first three-time winner at Indy . In 1928, Meyer led in only 19 of those 200 laps, but that included the all-important final one at the checkered flag, notching his first 500 triumph.

Sonny recalled that his mom, June, Louis’ wife, had no hint her husband would be racing at Indy.

“She was somewhere back (in Pennsylvania),” he said. “She towed a wrecked car back to the shop. My uncle (Eddie) was racing at a track in Reading. She was there to watch that race.”

Louis Meyer chuckled over that memory. June, he said, found out he’d won that year’s Indy 500, “when the track announcer asked the crowd to give out a cheer to Eddie Meyer … the brother of the Indianapolis 500 winner.”

In 1933, Meyer recorded a three-lap victory over Shaw.

In 1936, Meyer won from the 28th starting position, tying Ray Marroun’s record for winning from the farthest back on the starting grid.

In 1939, Meyer crashed on the 198th lap, got up and walked away – literally. It was at that time that “Lucky Louie” exited racing. Famed carmaker Henry Ford made Louis a proposition, one that would bring him back to Southern California in charge of building Ford engines, including the Offenhauser.

Some numbers: He won $114,815, taking 1,916 total laps around the Brickyard track over a dozen – winning three times, second in 1929 and finishing Top 10 on six occasions.

“He always told me,” said Sonny, reflecting on that 1939 incident, “that he knew he wasn’t going to climb back into a race car.”

That, said Francis, “is why they call him Lucky Louie. All those years at Indy, the offer from Henry Ford, the crash, walking away – everything.”

Sonny? Louis’s son? Don’t let it hide that he built 15 winning Indy 500 engines.

FROM DRIVER TO ENGINE BUILDER

Louis Meyer, said Searchlight, Nev. Museum historian Jane Overy, said, “was the nicest man.” Lou died, she told me, when the city’s museum was getting set to open. He was featured prominently. Meyer had beaten the odds just to make it that far.

“There were 11 kids,” recalled Sonny Meyer. “Only three lived.”

Those kids were Eddie, the oldest, then Louis, and then, Harry, the last among those living in Southgate, Calif. “He rode with my dad,” said Sonny, referring to Harry, “as a riding mechanic (in the 1937 Indy 500).”

Meyer’s Indy-racing career concluded with that 1939 crash, which left him 12th.

Until then, the greatest engine ever raced at Indy was the “Miller,” developed by Harry Miller, Fred Offenhauser and Leo Goosen. The rights to its design were purchased by Offenhauser and the engine renamed after him. Then it was purchased by Meyer and Dale Drake and renamed the Meyer-Drake “Offie.”

It was a high-powered, specially-designed racing engine that was constantly improved over the years. Until Ford came along with its million-dollar automotive budgets and challenged for supremacy in the 1960s, Meyer had a running contract with the up-and-coming Michigan-based company.

“After he crashed (at Indy),” said Sonny, “he said he knew he wasn’t going to climb back into a race car. Henry Ford made him a proposition.”

NO REAL FUTURE IN RACING

There wasn’t much major racing around the U.S. beyond the Indianapolis 500. NASCAR had yet to see its beginnings. Louis Meyer returned to California and took part in “board” racing at places like the Rose Bowl and Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.

The “season” started around Trenton, N.J., the only real race before Indy. “We’d go to Ascot (in L.A.),” recalled Sonny. “I remember because we’d have three or four drivers sleeping on our floor when we lived in Huntington Park (a Los Angeles suburb).”

Louis Meyer’s son still remembers being farmed out to neighbors, “while my mom (June) and dad went racing. During the season, they towed the race car with a rope. Mom was in the race car.”

Meanwhile, Ed Meyer still had his Redlands garage.

Sonny Meyer has a way of remembering his family’s Huntington Park address. “Dad won his first Indy 500 in 1928,” he said, “in car No. 14. That was our address: 2814 … Broadway. I still remember our phone number. It was Lafayette 8325.”

The Meyer family is more than just “connected” in racing’s history books.

Retirement was just a short drive away. For years, the Meyers had traveled to Cottonwood Cove – nine miles from a non-descript, desert community of Searchlight, Nev. It’s where Louis and June Meyer settled down for their final years.

Driving through the tiny community, located somewhere between Las Vegas and Laughlin, it became a hideaway for other celebrities, notably Hollywood’s Edith Head, early Academy Award-winning actress Clara Bow, among others.

ONE FINAL CHAT WITH ‘LUCKY LOUIE’

In a very short conversation I had with Meyer in 1994, most of his Indy 500 memories had faded. Already, I’d spoken with some of his younger relatives. He’d recalled the memory of his Pennsylvania-working wife’s discovery of how he’d won the 1928 Indy 500.

Racing, said Louis, nearing age 90, “has been good to me and my family. My only regret is that time goes by so very fast.”

Truthfully, chatting with Louis didn’t last long. His elderly age was most likely the reason he decided to hang up.

Louis Meyer was born on July 21, 1904, dying on October 7, 1995. Born in lower Manhattan, New York the son of French immigrants, Meyer was raised in Los Angeles where he began automobile racing at various California tracks.

There was no track in Redlands, nor even near Redlands. Ed Meyer’s Ford shop was there, though.

Racing fans these days might not believe there were board tracks in such places as Beverly Hills, which had a 1 ¼-mile oval dubbed Beverly Hills Speedway. Or the Culver City Speedway. There was the Northern California-based Cotati Speedway in Santa Rosa. There was the mile-long Fresno Speedway and a one-mile Los Angeles Speedway in Playa del Rey.

“Yeah, Redlands,” said Francis. “That’s a key spot for the family. You never forget something like that.”

Meyer won the United States National Driving Championship in 1928, 1929 and 1933.

He died at 91, in that Searchlight community he had been living since 1972. In 1992, Meyer was inducted into the International Motorsports Hall of Fame. He was named to the National Sprint Car Hall of Fame in 1991. He was inducted in Daytona Beach, Fla.’s Motorsports Hall of Fame of America in 1993.

There was a nice little corner in Searchlight’s museum dedicated to the early racing legend.

Said the Hall of Famer, Louis Meyer: “A lot of people had me confused with the movie guy … Louis B. Mayer (of MGM). I always got a little kick out of that.”

ANOTHER ARTICLE WRITTEN by Legacy Brand, John G. Printz and Ken M. McMaken

https://legacyautosport.com/the-meyer-legacy/

BOB KARSTENS: A LOCAL HARLEM GLOBETROTTER … IN REDLANDS?

A Redlands Connection is a concoction of sports memories emanating from a city that once numbered less than 20,000 people. From pro football’s Super Bowl to baseball’s World Series, from dynamic soccer’s World Cup to golf’s and tennis’ U.S. Open, major auto racing, plus NCAA Final Four connections, Tour de France cycling, more major tennis like Wimbledon, tiny connections to that NBA and a little NHL, major college football, Kentucky Derby, aquatics and Olympic Games, that sparkling little city sits around halfway between Los Angeles and Palm Springs on Interstate 10. It is a reality that almost every major sport, plus a bunch of others, can be connected to Redlands. This story’s connector has connected in a far away expectation anyone could imagine. – Obrey Brown

BACK IN THE LATE 1990s, an older man was spotted shooting baskets at the outdoor courts at Redlands High School. A few feet away, a high school baseball game was about to take place. The man shooting baskets, who looked around his 80s, was shooting hook shots from half court. Repeat that: Hook shots from half court. A man in his 80s? Remarkably, if they didn’t swish through the net, his shots at least hit the rim.

It was startling to meet Bob Karstens.

There he was, from the top of the key, he hiked the ball through his legs – in the manner of a football center – at the hoop. Again, if his shots didn’t go in, they were close.

At one point, he broke out three basketballs, dribbling them simultaneously, as if he were a hoops-playing magician. I was waiting to cover a high school baseball game a couple hundred feet away. Something was up with this elderly man, though. I couldn’t take my eyes off his activity.

Friendly. Outgoing. Gentle. The man spoke in respectful terms.

“I’m Obrey Brown. I write for the local newspaper, about to cover that baseball game over there. Saw what you were doing and decided to come over.”

BOb Karstens - 2
Bob Karstens, photographed around 1942 and ’43, during which time he was one of three white men to play for the all-Black Harlem Globetrotters. (Photo by Harlem Globetrotters.)

Yes, he introduced himself. “Bob,” I told him, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“Thanks. Likewise.”

There was something different. I had an eerie, inner sense. We continued to chat, this smallish man who stood a couple inches shorter than my 5-foot-10 height, seemed to brighten up when I told him I was from the local newspaper.

“You might be interested in this …” he started saying.

After three decades in the newspaper business, it’s a phrase I heard often enough from folks seeking publicity. Usually, it might come from a pushy parent, or a publicity-seeking coach, or a public relations/Sports Information Director informing me about a once-in-a-lifetime story that I just couldn’t miss. Hey, I came after him, though. Okay, Bob, finish what you were saying. “I might be interested in this – in what, Bob?”

Karstens, who was standing in front of me, was not Black. As a matter of fact, without his shirt on, I could tell that he needed a little sun. It pays to listen, though. Outwardly, his sunless white guy mentioned he spent a season playing for the Harlem Globetrotters.

In case you’re wondering, the Globies were a dedicated Black man hoops squad.

“I spent a year with them back in the 1940s,” Karstens explained, “during the war.” It was, he told me, legendary Reece “Goose” Tatum was taken into the Army. The Globetrotters needed a clown prince.

Goose Tatum
Harlem Globetrotters’ Clown Prince Reece “Goose” Tatum went into the military in 1942, opening up a spot for Bob Karstens, who became one of three white players ever to suit up for basketball’s magicians. (Photo by Blackthen.com.)

Abe Saperstein, the Hall of Fame founder and orchestrator of the ‘Trotters, apparently tapped Bob on the shoulder and said, “You’re it.”

Abe_Saperstein
Abe Saperstein, the Hall of Fame founder of the Harlem Globetrotters, was the man who signed Bob Karstens to fill in for Goose Tatum during the 1942-43 season. (Photo by Wikipedia Commons.)

Karstens himself had been a gifted ball handler from the House of David (Benton, Mich.), the famous traveling bearded baseball team that barnstormed the country. Not much known for anything in sports beyond baseball, Karstens told me, the House of David had dabbled in some hoops play during the late 1930s and into the 1940s.

Here’s the rub: I didn’t necessarily believe Bob, not at first. In my business, you’ve got to hold people at arm’s length when they tell you curious stories. I could, literally, share experiences about people that turned out to be half-true. Or true for a week, but not the next. Or outright false. Still, there was something genuine about Bob.

Suddenly, I placed covering that high school baseball game in my back pocket. Bob invited me over to his house a couple blocks away – down Roosevelt, across Cypress, over onto Lytle. When Bob opened his garage door, he led me to three huge boxes full of stuff.

It was full of Harlem Globetrotters’ memorabilia. Suddenly, all my doubts about this guy ended in a hurry. Karstens, I could see, was standing in photos with Saperstein, Tatum, Meadowlark Lemon, a bunch of well-known Globies … and WILT CHAMBERLAIN!

Suddenly, my notebook was produced. Pen in hand, scribbling madly, all the ramblings and utterings he’d voiced over at the high school – you know, when I didn’t originally believe him — started getting recorded. I had a lot of catch-up to do, including asking a bunch more questions.

“How long have you lived in Redlands?”

“Where’d you learn to play basketball?”

“What kind of money did you make?”

“Did you really start that pre-game Magic Circle routine?”

Truthfully, I didn’t have to ask many questions. Bob was spinning tale after tale. Just follow along, Obrey. Keep listening. Keep writing. What a story – and I had it! My pen just had to keep up with his stories. Reporters came along later and fabricated the idea that they’d uncovered this man, somehow sniffing out a story that I had handed to me by the man himself.

Karstens, who was from Davenport, Iowa, took over for that Army-bound Tatum on the ‘Trotters’ 1942-43 roster. Any memory of the ‘Trotters will instantly recall their legendary pre-game introductions at center court, dubbed the Magic Circle pre-game routine.

It’s recorded: This was Karstens’ invention. He organized this ritual. He played on the all-Black ‘Trotters eight years before even the NBA was integrated. Part of the ‘Trotters’ history is that playing doubleheaders with those early NBA teams, thus allowing this relatively unknown league to grow into prosperity.

Also this: Karstens invented the “goof” ball, the ball that bounces in all different directions because of various weights placed inside, plus he invented the “yo-yo” ball. Seasoned ‘Trotter fans know the routines well.

This guy lived in Redlands?

He loaned me some photos from his stash for my next day’s sports section. I had a gold mine of a notebook – quotes, stories, photos and prime history. I sent our photographer, Lee Calkins, over to Bob’s house for an updated mug shot of my new best friend; the guy I had originatedly cynically, though silently, doubted. I made up with myself, though.

Karstens. The Globetrotters. Tatum. Saperstein. Chamberlain. A bunch of brilliant players. Once Tatum returned from the service, Karstens returned to the sidelines. Leave it to the ‘Trotters, though, to promote someone on their all-Black team that wasn’t Black!

Karstens, for his part, stayed on as ‘Trotters’ team manager until 1954, having coached the infamous Washington Generals along the way. That team was the ‘Trotters’ nightly opponent. After leaving the ‘Trotters (changes in management, pay, plus family, always on the road), Karstens went into construction. By 1994, he was inducted into the ‘Trotters’ Hall of Fame.

At 89, Karstens died on Dec. 31, 2004. I covered his Redlands funeral that was attended by former ‘Trotter players Geese Ausbie and Govonor Vaughn. When that pair of retired Globies took their turn at Karstens’ services, Ausbie looked down at Bob’s widow, Pauline, asking, “Did anyone bring a ball?”

It was classic clowning, a special moment for a departed member of their legendary team.  A wife, three sons and four grandchildren were among Karstens’ attending survivors in a fully side service. There were plenty of funeral onlookers. This man had quite a following at the Church of the Nazarene.

The ball? Vaughn smoked his former teammate, Ausbie, a shadow ball pass. To those in attendance at this church — corner of Citrus and Grove — this couldn’t have been a better sendoff. Shadow ball, incidentally, is an invisible ball. One guy pretends to throw it, another guy pretends to catch it. If the right group of guys are performing this, it’s highly entertaining. This was, apparently, Bob’s ball entry into Heaven.

Looking back, there were personal stories about track legend Jesse Owens and baseball’s amazing Jackie Robinson — Karstens right in the middle of everything. Bob told me that he ran into both of those sports legends on the railroad. A railroad conductor once asked him to depart from the Blacks-only section of the train. The Globetrotters were the most powerful basketball team in the world during the 1940s, long before the NBA produced its eventual gold mine of hoops-playing legends.

It was, of course, always a delight to watch them play. Probably few know the full history of Saperstein’s original creation from the 1920s.

The ‘Trotters are a full century old. A small portion of their rich history had surfaced about an hour’s drive east of Los Angeles, in Redlands – a long way from Harlem, a New York City suburb.

“I had the skills to fit in and do the tricks,” Karstens said.

Showed at an old age on that outdoor court at Redlands High.

 

A SEARCH WAS ON FOR ANCIENT REDLANDS GOLFER PHILLIPS FINLAY

A Redlands Connection is a concoction of sports memories emanating from a city that once numbered less than 20,000 people. From pro football’s Super Bowl to baseball’s World Series, from dynamic soccer’s World Cup to golf’s and tennis’ U.S. Open, major auto racing, plus NCAA Final Four connections, Tour de France cycling, more major tennis like Wimbledon, tiny connections to that NBA and a little NHL, major college football, Kentucky Derby, aquatics and Olympic Games, that sparkling little city sits around halfway between Los Angeles and Palm Springs on Interstate 10. There was a golfer from Redlands who jumped into the nation’s highest efforts. – Obrey Brown

The 2024 U.S. Amateur Golf Championship, now 108 years old this year, was held at Hazeltine Golf Club in Chaska, Minn. beginning in August. Ninety-four earlier, a Redlands golfer took on a legend in the same event.

It’s not really known when Phillips Finlay learned how to play golf – or from whom.

Phillips Finlay, 1929
Phillips Finlay, whose golfer career started in Redlands, made a name for himself, both at Harvard University and in major amateur championships while playing against the likes of Bobby Jones and Francis Ouimet. He’s shown here at the Chevy Chase Club in 1929 (photo credit, Shorpy Historic Picture Archive).

It was George Lawson, who served as Redlands Country Club’s head professional from 1901-1937, that originally taught him. That Finlay, from Redlands, was a student at famed Harvard University was one thing. That he was highly contestant in golf’s grandest prizes is yet another.

Finlay eventually disappeared after showing up prominently, not only on Harvard’s golf team, but also as a stalwart challenger to some of golf’s major tournaments. After a stretch from 1927 through 1930, the older brother of Redlands’ Madison Finlay was seemingly nowhere to be found.

A motivated sports writer from the Redlands area was searching.

Following the 1930 U.S. Amateur, Finlay couldn’t be spotted, at least in major tournaments. Only adding to the curiosity is that Finlay had become a prominent golfer. Then disappeared. Keep reading, especially with the U.S.’s connection in World War II upcoming. Finlay was never again viewed in golf.

Meanwhile, amateur golf raged atop professional play during the 1920s. Professional golf had yet to catch on. There was no Masters tournament, not yet anyway. The PGA Championship, which would eventually become one of golf’s greatest prizes, was a tournament without yet much tradition.

Legendary Bobby Jones won the 1927 United States Amateur, which was played at the Minikahda Club of Minneapolis. Finlay, who made his presence felt, traveled from Harvard University, engaging in medal play for the qualifying round of that year’s Amateur Championship.

A New Jersey golfer, Eugene V. Romans shot 71, made headlines as the low medalist. Youthful Finlay, who had just passed his Harvard entrance examinations, trailed Romans by a single shot.

It’s eerie to think how close Finlay, who lived on Long Island in New York at the time, reached such prominence. Jones, top amateurs Francis Oiumet and Chick Evans, a U.S. Open champ – were three of the 1927 U.S. Amateur semifinalists. All three shot opening rounds of 75.

On the second day, Jones got rolling, shooting a course record 67, winning the medalist (that’s low stroke score) trophy for the tournament with 142. George Von Elm, who beat Jones in 1926, barely qualified with 79-75-154.

Onetime champions who qualified included Evans, Ouimet, plus Max R. Marston. A Minneapolis insurance man, Harry G. Legg, a Minneapolis resident that graduated from Yale, knocked off Von Elm, 1-up, on his home course.

Third day: Jones, trailing Maurice McCarthy, Jr. of Long Island, by a hole at the turn, had three holes remaining. McCarthy missed a short putt, squaring the match; overshot the 17th green, losing the lead; overshot the 18th green, losing the match two down.

Ouimet beat Max R. Marston, 3 & 2.

These were all legendary golfers — Ouimet, Jones, Evans, Romans, you name it — that Finlay took on. He kept battling, perhaps in the manner that Ouimet had done, depicted years later in the motion picture, “The Greatest Game Ever Played.”

But Finlay was cut down by Ouimet, who went on to write a favorable article about the Redlands product, even displaying some of the matches between the two in a book called “A Game of Golf,” which was published in 1932.

IVY LEAGUE ATHLETES WERE PROMINENT

Was this truly A Redlands Connection? Jones and Ouimet were each impressed with the youthful Finlay, whose long driving skills were attributed to the unusual length of his swing.

In 1928, Finlay would rise again at the U.S. Amateur, played at Brae Burn Country Club in West Newton, Mass, not far from his Harvard digs.

Bobby_Jones_1930_winnaar_US_Amateur
Legendary amateur golf champion Bobby Jones had his hands full with Harvard’s Phillips Finlay during the Roaring 20s when the Redlands golfer squared off against some of golf’s greatest players (photo by Wikipedia Commons).

Jones came up against Finlay in that year’s semifinals. Jones knocked off J.W. Brown, 4 & 3 in the opening round. Ray Gorton took Jones to the 19th hole in the second round before tumbling. Jones had his way with John B. Beck, 14 & 13, before coming up against Finlay in the semifinals.

Finlay, that long-driving Harvard sophomore originally from Redlands, got quite a whipping. He lost decisively to Jones, 13 & 12.

On the other hand, A Redlands Connection had struck early. An 18-year-old from Redlands had played the legendary Bobby Jones in the 1928 U.S. Amateur semifinals?

This was news! This is brilliant golfing history, especially from Redlands.

Jones claimed his fourth U.S. Amateur title, 10 & 9, over reigning British Amateur champion T. Philip Perkins. By this time, Jones, had been national champion – winning either the U.S. Open or Amateur championships – for six straight years. During that span, Jones won four U.S. Amateurs, two U.S. Opens, plus a pair of British Opens.

Finlay was chasing a legend.

JONES WRITES OF FINLAY IN HIS BOOK

There were 162 entries in the 1929 U.S. Amateur field. Finlay, for his part, tried the event at Pebble Beach. It was the first time this tournament had been played west of the Mississippi.

In a major upset, Jones fell to John Goodman, an unbelievable caddy from Omaha, Neb., in the first round.

A documented quote, however, was lifted from “Pebble Beach: The Official Golf History.” That still youthful Finlay went up to Jones with an apology. “I’m so very sorry you lost this morning, Mr. Jones. I was looking forward to beating you this afternoon.”

Finlay lost to 18-year-old Lawson Little, a Northern Californian who later won the U.S. Amateur in 1933 and 1934. It was Little who eliminated Jones-killer, Goodman. That 1929 winner turned out to be Harrison R. “Jimmy” Johnston — his final ever tournament triumph.

Prior to that event taking place, Jones spoke of playing a practice round with Finlay at Pebble Beach in his book, “Bobby Jones on Golf.”

“There had been so much talk about Phil’s long driving ability,” Jones wrote, “that the publicity given that part of his game must have affected the boy’s play.”

Critics may have affected Finlay’s approach, wrote Jones.

“Whether Phil was aware of it or not,” Jones continued to write, “this sort of thing had an effect upon his game … so that he immediately eased up on his stroke in an effort to hit the ball straight.”

Jones, in his book, had referred to Finlay in Chapter 8, “Hitting Hard.” Jones held up Finlay’s style of long driving.

“On this day we played,” wrote Jones, “he had quite a bit of trouble on the front nine, getting a little farther from his normal stride at each tee shot as he held himself back more and more.”

After losing his ball on a duck-hook on the ninth hole, Finlay sought Jones’ advice. The four-time U.S. Open champion told him straight out that he thought he was holding back, “that I thought he would do better if he would take a good healthy wallop instead.”

On the tenth hole, Finlay blasted a drive, losing it into the Monterey Bay. After that, said Jones, “He drove very well, indeed.”

Check out this Pebble Beach foursome:

Jones, plus British Amateur Champion Cyril Tolley and Francis Brown of Honolulu. Jones shot two-under par, 70, while Tolley, Finlay and Brown shot rounds of 79, 80 and 82.

JONES, OUIMET: LONG DRIVING WAS KEY TO SUCCESS

Then there was Ouimet, the upset U.S. Open champion of 1913 that inspired the 2005 Disney movie, “The Greatest Game Ever Played,” portrayed by actor Shia LeBeouf, and after regaining his amateur status removed controversially from him by the USGA, he won two U.S. Amateur titles.

Ouimet knew of Finlay, having authored an article, “The Art of Long Driving.”

FrancisOuimet1913
Frances Ouimet, the unexpected winner of the 1913 U.S. Open, was one of golf’s top players in the late 1920s when a youthful Redlands-based golfer, Phillips Finlay, was bursting onto the amateur golf scene. Ouimet even wrote about Finlay in his book (photo by Wikipedia Commons).

First words in that piece were right to the point: “One cannot watch Phillips Finlay hit a tee shot without becoming just a bit envious, for this capable young man makes the game seem simple.”

It seemed a far cry from the troubles Finlay, whose photograph featured a knickers-clad youth, hair combed neatly, while following through on a tee shot. Ah, that Pebble Beach round, 80, came with Jones.

Wrote Ouimet: “Finlay is not yet 20 years of age, and when he reaches his full growth there is no telling how far he will drive a ball.” Long hitting, concluded Ouimet, was an advantage.

“I am wondering what will happen if a standardized ball is introduced. Perhaps it will bring these boys back on earth, for I must confess on some holes Finlay can miss a shot and arrive on the green as quickly as I do.”

At a match played at Wollaston Country Club in Milton, Mass., Ouimet caught a prime example of Finlay’s lengthy drives. “I was driving well for me, but (I was) yards and yards in back of my young friend, who was having a field day.”

At Wollaston’s 17th hole, a 500-yard hole against the wind, “my tee shot was a good one, but at least 60 yards in back of his prodigious knock. A perfectly hit brassie (No. 2 wood) gave me a look at the green.”

Finlay smashed a two-iron, his shot carrying a big sand bunker guarding the green.

Wrote Ouimet: “It seemed a bit too much to expect of his number two iron, but that is the club he used and his ball landed on the green. I threw up my hands. He could have missed that shot and gotten to the green in the same number of shots I required.”

Ouimet, noting a round played by Finlay at North Carolina’s famed Pinehurst Country Club, felt there was no limit for the Harvard golfer. He had read an account of Finlay’s 290-yard average drives on 14 of the 18 holes.

“When he was attending Exeter (Academy in New Hampshire, Finlay’s college prep school), one of his professors wrote a friend of mine saying Phillips Finlay was the longest driver in the game.

“Apart from Finlay’s long driving ability, he has other excellent qualifications to make him a leading golfer.”

Ouimet had predicted quite a future for Finlay, a huge part of A Redlands Connection.

FINLAY’S CRIMSON CAREER WAS TOPS

A Harvard golfer, as Finlay was at the time, meant he was among the nation’s collegiate elite — that’s both student and golfer. If there was ever a pre-eminent sport on that Cambridge-based campus, it was golf. He was a three-time Harvard letter winner (1929-31).

In case it’s escaped anyone’s attention, consider that Finlay was battling the likes of Jones, Quimet & Co. before he became a Crimson letterman.

Finlay would captain the Crimson’s team in 1930 and 1931. During his junior season (1930), Harvard won 11 of its 13 medal play matches convincingly, losing only to Princeton, 8-1, on May 10, then a season-ending loss to Yale, 5-4, at Myopia Hunt Club.

By 1931, Finlay’s senior year, Harvard had returned to beat Yale, 6 ½ to 2 ½. The Crimson split back-to-back matches against Princeton, losing 6-3 and trouncing the Tigers, 9-0. There was a 5-4 loss to Dartmouth at Belmont Springs Country Club on May 9, 1930.

Finlay, a 1931 Harvard graduate, kept charging. The long-driving hitter, the captain of Harvard’s golf team, was beaten in the opening round of the 1930 U.S. Amateur at historic Merion (Pa.) Golf Club. A narrow 2 & 1 loss to 1926 British Amateur champion Jess Sweetser didn’t quite reflect Finlay’s early round lead. Sweetser birdied the 16th and 17th holes to take control.

After that, not much showed up in the golf world on Finlay. His family continued on. His brother, Madison, in 2007, was “still riding around on his cart every night with his dog,” said C.L. Simmons, the longtime Redlands Country Club golf professional.

Madison died later that year at age 94, long having long outlived his older brother.

The Finlays’ family, led by their dad James Ralph Finlay, originally came to Redlands in 1918, purchasing a home at the corner of South and Fountain.

When it came time for high school, Finlay took off back east to the private academy for both of them – fairly young Phillips was five years older than Madison, who wound up at USC. Neither brother showed up at Redlands High School, which was about a quarter-century old during their high school days.

FINALLY LOCATING PHILLIPS FINLAY

Phillips Finlay was a Navy man, eventually serving in the South Pacific. In fact, that had been an educated guess as to his disappearance from prominent golf results. The military. Killed in the war? Would’ve been a sad fact. Imagine a budding golf career coming to an end like that. But it was not true.

“He gave up playing serious golf,” said his niece, Joanne Craig, of Redlands, “after he got back from the war.”

Settling in Pasadena with his Phillips’ wife, Elizabeth, Craig described that Phillips just occasionally played golf. That niece had one settling recollection about golf. That length off the tee never failed. By the way, in 1939, Phillips and his wife, Elizabeth, lived in Pasadena over 20 years before moving to golf-radiant Pebble Beach in 1960.

“The 17th tee is not at the same place it is now,” Craig said, referring to Redlands Country Club, “but my uncle drove the green. That was almost unbelievable to me at the time.”

Joanne and her cousin, Fredrica, Phillips’ and Elizabeth’s daughter, both attended Stanford. Eventually, her cousin’s family left Southern California. It was Pasadena to California’s golf paradise.

“They moved,” recalled Craig, “to 17 Mile Drive” — a famed street in the Monterey, Calif. region. That’s up by Spyglass Hill Golf Club – near Pebble Beach, where Finlay died in 1972. He was 62.

 

IT WAS TOUGH FOR DAVIDSMEIER TRYING TO GET INTO MILWAUKEE

Redlands Connection is a concoction of sports memories emanating from a city that once numbered less than 20,000 people. From the Super Bowl to the World Series, from the World Cup to golf’s U.S. Open and the Olympics, plus NCAA Final Four connections, Tour de France cycling, major tennis, NBA and a little NHL, aquatics and quite a bit more, the sparkling little city that sits around halfway between Los Angeles and Palm Springs on Interstate 10 has its share of sports connections. – Obrey Brown

Danny Davidsmeier joked about a pair of Redlands East Valley High School area products, Tyler Chatwood and Matt Andriese, who are current major league players.

Chatwood, who now pitches for the Chicago Cubs, had been drafted by the Angels and traded to Colorado.

Andriese was an original draft pick by the San Diego Padres, eventually traded to the Tampa Bay Rays.

“I’m a hitting coach,” said Davidsmeier, “and they made it to the majors as pitchers.”

If he could list the entire roster of youth-level players that he’s instructed,  that entire collection might be able to fill a full high school league of all-star level talent.

Matt Davidson comes to mind. A current major league slugger, who was a high school MVP as a freshman at Yucaipa, got drafted by Arizona and traded to the White Sox. Davidsmeier started coaching Davidson at age 11.

It’s Davidsmeier, perhaps, who bridges the gap with a growing number of ballplayers who have taken paid hitting instruction from him for nearly two decades. And why not?

His background is insanely interesting.

Imagine being an All-State player at San Bernardino Valley Community College in the mid-1970s. It came just before his days as an All-American shortstop at USC.

ddavidsmeier
Danny Davidsmeier, a highly popular batting instructor around Redlands, Yucaipa, Highland, San Bernardino, Colton and beyond, displays his USC medallion. Davidsmeier, a career baseball player for 22 years, was an All-American shortstop for legendary Trojans’ coach Rod Dedeaux (photo by USC).

The Yucaipa High product, who came out of the Thunderbirds’ program one year before Jeff Stout began an unprecedented 42-year run as their coach, was taken in the draft by the Milwaukee Brewers. Redlands’ Dee Fondy was Milwaukee’s chief scout.

Sounds promising, doesn’t it?

Mention names like Robin Yount and Paul Molitor to Davidsmeier. He laughs.

It wouldn’t be surprising to hear him say it. “Those guys,” he might say, “kept me out of the major leagues.”

Both Yount, a shortstop, and Molitor, a second baseman who later moved to third base, are Hall of Famers. In the early 1980s, the two — along with second baseman Jim Gantner — blocked Davidsmeier’s promising pathway to the major leagues.

In those days, they were known as Harvey’s Wall Bangers, a reference to Brewers’ manager Harvey Kuenn, who was quite a hitter in his day. Besides Yount and Molitor.

Imagine hitting .371 with 16 HRs as a USC senior in 1981. It was there that Davidsmeier played for legendary coach Rod Dedeaux, a former shortstop in his own playing days.

USC? All-American? That got Milwaukee’s attention — third round selection in 1981, No. 72 overall. That’s the same draft, incidentally, in which first-rounders like Joe Carter, Matt Williams and Ron Darling were selected.

Tony Gwynn was taken in that same third round, too, just 14 picks before Davidsmeier.

As for Davidsmeier, he spent his best years playing minor league baseball, rising to Triple A Vancouver just two years after being drafted.

CRACKING THE BREWERS’ LINEUP

While Yount-Molitor-Gantner were thriving in Milwaukee, Davidsmeier’s hopes might’ve been curtailed by their all-star level play.

Davidsmeier’s most productive season might’ve been in 1982 when he hit .272 with 10 HR as a 22-year-old shortstop  at Class AA El Paso. That was followed by four seasons at Triple AAA Vancouver. No, the numbers weren’t overwhelming enough to land him a spot replacing Molitor, Yount or Gantner.

Led by the MVP season of Yount, the Brewers reached the 1982 World Series, losing in seven games to the St. Louis Cardinals.

Even playing behind such a talented crop of major leaguers might’ve inspired other organizations to seek out Milwaukee’s prized minor leaguers — like Davidsmeier.

Milwaukee, in those years, was loaded. Besides Molitor and Yount, there were players like first baseman Cecil Cooper (.298, 241 career HR), Gorman Thomas (268 HR), Ben Oglivie (.275, 235 HR), plus another future Hall of Famer, catcher Ted Simmons (.285, 245 HR), while Gantner (.274) was as sure-handed an infielder as anyone.

Throw in Hall of Fame numbers from Yount (3,142 hits, 583 doubles, 126 triples, 251 HR, .285) and Molitor (3,319 hits, 605 doubles, 234 HR, 504 stolen bases, .306).

That’s the lineup Davidsmeier was trying to crack.

Doug DeCinces had a hard time becoming Baltimore’s third baseman with Hall of Famer Brooks Robinson playing ahead of him in the early 1970s.

In that same era, center fielder Garry Maddox would’ve rotted away in San Francisco if the Giants hadn’t traded Willie Mays to the Mets.

Thank goodness Wally Pipp had a headache one day in New York. Lou Gehrig might’ve never gotten a chance.

Yes, Davidsmeier spent plenty of Arizona-based spring training sessions with the Gantner-Young-Molitor trio ahead of him on the Brewers’ depth chart.

Gantner was considered good enough to drive Molitor from second base to third base.

Davidsmeier, too, had played all three spots.

By age 28, Davidsmeier was ready to head elsewhere — Italy, Mexico, Taiwan, Canada, Czechoslavakia, Korea, Japan and Columbia, to name a few stops.

ROAD TRIP COMES TO AN END

Twenty-two years on the international road led Davidsmeier back home — Yucaipa, Loma Linda, Redlands, Highland, the entire area. He became a growingly popular private hitting instructor.

Main base for Davidsmeier these days is Loma Linda. The batting cages there went from Hitter’s Choice Batting Cages to its new name, IE Performance Center & Batting Cages. The re-opening was scheduled for June 2-3.

Davidsmeier says he likes the new layout. The husband-wife ownership of Dr. Alan Herford and Kirilina Herford liked the atmosphere. They took over the place, signing a 14-month lease. It wouldn’t be a stretch to believe that Davidsmeier’s part of that atmosphere.

If you’re in the cage with Davidsmeier, it’ll be a productive moment.

Name a productive hitter from the area. Chances are decent that Davidsmeier has worked with them in the practice cages.

Current major leaguers Davidson, Chatwood and Andriese come quickly to mind.

Cracked Davidsmeier: “Matt and Tyler lived down the street from each other in Yucaipa. They got a lot of experience just working out with each other.”

 

HALL OF FAME: TIM MEAD SAT NEXT TO HANK AARON, INDUCTED FRICK WINNER

Tim Mead, a Highland, Calif. product, wound up as president of the Baseball Hall of Fame after a 40-year career with the Los Angeles Angels. He resigned his post after two seasons.

From Highland to Anaheim to … Cooperstown?

COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. — It’s a far cry from Hibiscus St. or Colwyn Ave., where Tim Mead grew up in Highland, Calif. over four decades ago.

His onetime address in Cooperstown — 25 Main St., just a short hop from Otsego Lake in this upper state New York community where baseball’s early roots were planted over a century earlier.

On the weekend of July 20-21, the former Highland resident — a 1976 graduate from San Gorgonio High — was presiding over the 2019 Major League Baseball Hall of Fame inductions.

“I’m just trying to stay out of everyone’s way,” he joked a few days after the smallish upper state New York town came to life while inducting Roy Halladay, Edgar Martinez, Mariano Rivera, Harold Baines, Lee Smith and Mike Mussina into baseball immortality.

Mead didn’t even hesitate with a description about the sacred home of baseball’s greatest participants.

“The Hall,” he said, “is everything anyone ever imagined.”

Throw this in for Halladay, whose death last year took center stage at this year’s inductions: “Brandy’s speech,” said Mead, referring to Halladay’s widow, “made a difference.”

Lost, perhaps, beneath the spectacle of those July 21 inductions was a banquet honoring some 58 living Hall of Famers, with Mead and MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred among the ONLY “civilians” at the Otesaga Hotel.

“For an hour and a half, I sat next to Hank Aaron,” he said, “asking him what his favorite stadiums were to play in and about the pitchers he had to face.”

The Otesaga, looking out on the lake near where the Susquehanna River begins, is right around the corner from the museum itself.

“This is the elite of baseball history,” he said, noting they were “accomplished legends.

Mead said, “I’ll treat this (Hall of Fame) group just like the clubhouse in Anaheim.”

In other words, he won’t be sharing any private conversations, like the ones he had with Aaron, or one he had with Sandy Koufax.

“I asked (Aaron) his favorite ballpark,” said Mead, “and where he liked to hit.”

It was one of Mead’s first official duties as Hall of Fame president to induct now-deceased broadcaster Al Helfer as this year’s Ford C. Frick Media honoree on Saturday, July 20.

“I’d just gotten back from the Tyler Skaggs ceremony,” said Mead, referring to the L.A. Angels pitcher whose untimely death hit the team hard.

It was an Angels’ team Mead had worked for since 1980, having retired after the 2018 season. He was immediately tapped to take over in Cooperstown for the retiring Jeff Idelson.

“I’d been to the Hall of Fame three times before,” he said, rattling off the years 1996, 1999 and last year (2018), “for Vladdy (ex-Angel Vladimir Guerrero).”

Angels fans might recall that it was 1999 when iconic pitcher Nolan Ryan was enshrined.

ROOKIE HALL PRESIDENT

Mead’s duties at his new position include watching over historians, librarians and curators that are typically associated with any museum. He’ll stay in constant communication with all 30 MLB teams, living Hall of Fame members “and their families.”

His growing-up digs on Hibiscus St. to his current post, 25 Main Street in Cooperstown, N.Y., should probably be considered an unusually standout transition. 

Hibiscus is right around the corner from Central Little League, which may not have existed in Mead’s youth days.

Upon his family’s move to Colwyn Ave., Mead was a little closer to San Gorgonio High, where he famously didn’t make the school’s Varsity baseball team. He’d been prepping for it his whole life, playing in Highland Little League, PONY League, Colt League and Big League, which is Little League’s age 16-18 division.

At San G, he was sports editor for the school’s newspaper, The Oracle.

Bill Havard, the school’s junior varsity coach, convinced the varsity coach to allow Mead onto the JV squad as a senior, which isn’t considered rational since a senior JV player might be taking playing time away from another player heading for a possible varsity roster spot.

Havard, who went on to prominence coaching in Redlands over a 46-year period after leaving San G, was tied to Mead from that point on.

The Spartans were highly competitive in baseball that Mead was cut from the Varsity in each of his four seasons under head coach Bill Kernan.

He quickly recalled his “friends for life,” including Ted Rozzi and Spartans’ 1977 CIF-Southern Section pitching hero Tim Miner, plus former Cal State San Bernardino coach Don Parnell.

“I graduated,” said Mead, “a year before they (San G baseball team) won it all (in 1977).”

That might’ve been a San G Hall of Fame moment, but Mead had his own Hall of Fame pathway. Four years after graduating, he surfaced as an intern for the California Angels after his days at Cal Poly Pomona. Forty years later, he retired as an Angels’ executive. His years in various roles proved more than enough to land Mead as Idelson’s successor.

“It’s a chance to celebrate,” said Mead, “and to say thank you. That’s what the Hall of Fame is about. A portion of (the ceremony) is to celebrate a great career, but what it’s all about is that it’s a greater chance to say thank you.

“They (inductees) write those speeches,” said Mead, “and you learn a little more about each person. They expose themselves quite a bit. The whole process is very humbling … for everybody.”

FOOTNOTE: Two months after Mead revealed that there were no players elected via 75 percent of the required vote, he resigned as president of the fabled Cooperstown museum and Hall of Fame memorial.

Here was his comment to the Los Angeles Times:

“I made the recent leap with every intention of following in the footsteps of my predecessors, in continuing their efforts in maintaining the Hall of Fame as a critical component of the game. Try as I might, even with the unwavering support of my family, these last 22 months have been challenging in maintaining my responsibilities to them.”

 

HIGHLAND, APRIL 15, 2004 — JACKIE ROBINSON DAY

Three generations of Jackie Robinson descendants are pictured, including his oldest nephew, Ted Colbert, right, Colbert’s daughter, Jennette, center, and his granddaughter, Kristina, front left, a freshman at San Gorgonio High School. The trio live in Highland. Photo by Obrey Brown

* From my files: Eighteen years ago, three generations of Jackie Robinson descendants living in Highland

It was April 15, more than just the deadline for filing income taxes.

On that date in 2004, Kristina Williams, a freshman member of San Gorgonio High School’s track & field team, couldn’t attend her dual meet against San Bernardino.

“Family,” she said, “is more important.”

Family, in this case, means Jackie Robinson.

Williams is the great, great niece of baseball’s pioneer player who broke the color barrier in the major leagues in 1947. On April 15 across the land, it was Jackie Robinson Day at every major league stadium hosting a game.

It corresponds with the date, April 15, 1947, when Robinson stepped onto a major league field for the first time in a regular season game.

Rachel Robinson, Jackie’s widow, stood on the field at Shea Stadium in New York — center stage for the heritage day. Robinson has plenty of relatives spread across the land.

That includes Highland, a city located next to San Bernardino, Calif.

Williams lives with her mother, Jennette, in Highland. Jennette Williams’ father, Ted Colbert, is the oldest nephew to the onetime Brooklyn Dodger star who retired after the 1956 season. Robinson’s family legacy lives on.

“I see him,” says Williams, who has played JV volleyball and varsity basketball for the Lady Spartans prior to the spring track season, “as an inspiration. In our family, we talk about him a lot.

“It took up a lot of courage to stand up against a lot of animosity.”

The Williams family moved to Highland from Glendale, Ariz., due mainly to Jennette Williams’ bout with cancer. She is a patient at the City of Hope. They have been around Highland for about six months. They may be gone soon; possibly to Pasadena — closer to her medical center.

On that April 15 date, Jennette Williams, along with her mother, Ola, attended the Jackie Robinson Day ceremony at Anaheim Stadium. “I got to see a lot of people I hadn’t seen for a long time. I saw my uncle Mack’s family,” she said.

Mack Robinson, a fairly famous athlete before Jackie Robinson’s prominence started on the American baseball scene, was his older brother . “You’ve got to know, I grew up with this, all this talk,” said Jennette Williams.

Neither Colbert, nor Kristina Williams attended in Anaheim. At first, the notion seemed to be that Colbert was ill. Or that Williams wasn’t dressed properly for the pre-game event.

But Colbert spilled the true facts. “There are certain family members they’d allow on the field for something like this. I’ve done it a lot. Kristina wasn’t going to be allowed on the field for the ceremony.

“I stayed home with her. I let her go out with her friends.”

A shrug of the shoulders. Yes, she feels bad. Kristina , an ailing travel softball player suffering from a rotator cuff injury, said, “I’d be out playing softball instead of track.”

In class, it’s a different story. When it comes to writing essays about famous Americans, she didn’t have far to go for anyone. “I’m related to him,” she said.

Of course, she wrote about Jackie Robinson.

“Everyone (at San Gorgonio High) thinks I’m lying about all this.”

Before that April 15 Mariners-Angels game in Anaheim, representatives from both teams said they were delighted to take part in the celebration of a great life and a greater legacy. Garret Anderson and Chone Figgins, said Jennette, each expressed great admiration for what Robinson did.

Colbert, 64, says there are players in this generation who don’t know the name of Jackie Robinson. “I really believe that,” he said. “There aren’t very many, but there are a few. I’m disappointed in that.”

Being a nephew of baseball’s great legend didn’t bother Colbert, who noted there were still barriers for Black players, even after Jackie’s MLB debut in 1947.

“That kind of thing (racist reactions) happened every day when I played a game. It was O.K. with me. Other players would give me their best.”

His memories of Robinson are immense. “I was a bat boy in a lot of the games he played in,” he said. “I remember a game at Wrigley Field in L.A. when Satchel Paige pitched against Bob Feller. There were 43 strikeouts in that game.

“I think Jackie went 0-for-3.”

Colbert talked about a time Robinson returned from Brooklyn after his 1947 rookie season. “He must’ve had 30, 40 cousins who were at his (Pasadena) home, ” said Colbert, “and he gave them all a dollar. That was a big deal.”

Colbert recalled the patience Robinson had with fans. Colbert said, “We went to the theatre one night to see the Ten Commandments. We walked up to the mezzanine level. All of a sudden, everyone started coming at him for autographs.

“He was just as cool as anyone I’ve ever seen.”

If Robinson hadn’t broken the color barrier, said Colbert, “I don’t know who’d have done it.”

Colbert doubted that it would have been Larry Doby, the first American League black player. Nor could Roy Campanella, the famous Dodger catcher, an eventual teammate of Robinson’s in Brooklyn.

“It would’ve probably been Willie (Mays),” he said. “Nothing bothered Willie.”

Kristina Williams has learned her family history well. She said, “He didn’t play baseball just to be the first Black player. He wanted to play baseball.”

Right, said Colbert. “He wasn’t out for that. They had to get the right man for that. He was that man. He went to college. He was in the military. He was a little older. He had everything they needed.”

Seventeen years after Robinson’s 1972 death, Kristina Williams was born. She started figuring out who her famous relative was in about fifth grade.

Williams had one elite memory about Robinson before moving to Highland. During an eighth grade basketball game in Arizona, Williams said she was walking down the hall at a rival school. She spotted a poster of Robinson in a classroom, walked in and told the teacher she was a relative of the Hall of Famer.

“The teacher took the poster off the wall and gave it to me,” she said. “Right now, it’s on my wall at home.”

PART 3: WILLIE … ALMOST MICKEY … AND THE DUKE

Redlands Connection is a concoction of sports memories emanating from a city that once numbered less than 20,000 people. From the Super Bowl to the World Series, from the World Cup to golf’s U.S. Open and the Olympics, plus NCAA Final Four connections, NASCAR, the Kentucky Derby and Indianapolis 500, Tour de France cycling, major tennis, NBA and a little NHL, aquatics and quite a bit more, the sparkling little city that sits around halfway between Los Angeles and Palm Springs on Interstate 10 has its share of sports connections. – Obrey Brown

That was Jordan Snider out in center field, wearing jersey No. 44. The site was The Yard, which is the home field for the University of Redlands. Snider was a senior Bulldog.

Temecula Chaparral High, located about an hour’s drive from the University of Redlands, was where this right-handed ballplayer had come from only a few years earlier.

Batted .295 in 2008, .361 as a sophomore in 2007, .252 in his frosh season right out of the Pumas’ Varsity program, where he’d hit .305 with two HRs in Temecula.

Starting all 36 games as a Bulldog senior in 2009, he’d played four straight seasons with winning teams, hitting .321 with 4 HRs.

His grandfather watched him play a plus number of games.

I’d shown up to chat with University of Redlands baseball coach Scott Laverty. Game still taking place. I’d have to wait. Sitting on the first base side of the bleachers, I took a seat near an older gentleman, wearing a hat to keep the sun off his head.

Seemed to be a nice guy. You run into that occasionally at ball games. Nice guys. Friendly. Talkative. It’s always fun to talk a little baseball, right?

After the game, I approached Laverty for a little post-game chat.

We talked a little about the game. At one point, he said, “I saw you out there talking to Duke.”

Duke?

There was no need to explain. The second he said that, I knew he’d meant Duke Snider. It all came together like clockwork. Jordan Snider in center field. “Duke.” Something told me. I was a little tongue-tied, though. I’d been talking to a baseball Hall of Famer and didn’t even know it. I was a little ashamed.

Duke Snider (Photo by Wikipidia Commons)
Duke Snider, from his Brooklyn Dodgers days, wound up in Fallbrook, where he drove from to watch his grandson play at the University of Redlands.

“That’s his grandson out there in center field,” said Laverty.

Well, that adds up, doesn’t it?

It was a Snider from Temecula.

Edwin “Duke” Snider, the Duke of Flatbush, lived a little south of Temecula. The kid was all-conference one year. A good fly-chaser out in center – just like his grandpa.

There might’ve been something symbolic about Jordan wearing No. 44, especially since his grandfather wore No. 4 in Brooklyn for the Dodgers. A tribute, most likely.

DUKE OF FLATBUSH ORIGINALLY FROM COMPTON

The Duke of Flatbush really came from Compton, Calif. At the end of his life, he lived near in the San Diego County city of Fallbrook – a nice retirement area.

A couple games later, I showed up at Redlands … looking for Duke. Sure enough, he was there.

“Do you have a minute?” I asked him.

You always hesitate when asking someone – a Hall of Famer, celebrity, well-known name, you know – if they’d mind an interview. He was there to watch his grandson who, at that moment, was playing in the same part of the field he’d played in 45 years earlier.

“For crying out loud,” I could just hear anyone say, “I’m here to watch my grandson play. Maybe later.”

But he didn’t say that.

Brooklyn, L.A., New York Mets and, finally, the Giants in San Francisco.

I’ve got to say it. There was nothing all that special about the interview. My questions would’ve been stale and useless. What do you ask a guy like that? Nothing that hasn’t been asked a hundred times before, right?

I settled on an angle about how he finished his career in a Giants’ uniform, 1964. Sold to San Francisco by the Mets. I tried to have a conversation rather than an interview.

“I can’t say I was all that upset at the trade,” he said at Redlands’ The Yard with a few people listening to the chat. “I was friends with a lot of those guys, anyway, Willie (Mays), Al Dark (Giants’ manager), Don Larsen …”

Besides, he said, “I lived out here on the West Coast.”

Oh, man – Don Larsen! The guy who’d pitched a perfect game against the Dodgers in the 1956 World Series?

How many times must he’d have been asked about Larsen?

I skipped the topic.

Did he remember his last home run?

“I do,” he said. “Candlestick Park. San Francisco. Jim Bunning, a very good pitcher. Yeah, that was my last one. Only hit four that year. Fourth of July game, I think, pretty sure. I never hit another one.”

That was his 407th.

You play much center field?

Duke laughed. “For the Giants? Not quite. Somebody named Willie Mays was already playing there.”

Though he was mostly a pinch-hitter, he said, “I played either left or right.

“I remember being in the lineup one day … can’t remember where we were playing, though. Dark had me leading off. Mays was second. McCovey was third and Cepeda was hitting clean-up. What’s that? A couple thousand home runs between us, or something like that?”

Mays at 660, McCovey’s 521, Duke’s 407 and Cepeda’s 379 equals 1,967 lifetime bombs. There may not have ever been another quartet in major league baseball hitting back-to-back like that with those kinds of impressive numbers.

Said Snider: “I can’t remember anything about the game, though – who won, nothing.”

Upon reflection, I should’ve asked him about Jackie Robinson.

Or Leo Durocher. Roy Campanella. Gil Hodges. Don Newcombe. Sandy Koufax, mystery man who rarely does media interviews.

That would’ve been a nice tack. What was it like to have Koufax on the Dodgers for those six or seven years before he started blazing away?

Never got another chance, either.

A couple years later, the Duke died in Escondido.

We’d talked baseball in Redlands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART 2: WILLIE … ALMOST MICKEY … AND THE DUKE

Redlands Connection is a concoction of sports memories emanating from a city that once numbered less than 20,000 people. From the Super Bowl to the World Series, from the World Cup to golf’s U.S. Open and the Olympics, plus NCAA Final Four connections, NASCAR, the Kentucky Derby and Indianapolis 500, Tour de France cycling, major tennis, NBA and a little NHL, aquatics and quite a bit more, the sparkling little city that sits around halfway between Los Angeles and Palm Springs on Interstate 10 has its share of sports connections. – Obrey Brown

Subbing for the Cashman part of the song, “Willie, Almost Mickey and the Duke.”

I never came close to chatting with The Mick. I’d only seen him play in person a couple times. That came in 1968, his final season, but only because the Oakland A’s had moved to the Bay Area. It meant the Yankees had a few stops to make out there.

About a decade later, during the 1977 season in Oakland, I got a press pass to a mid-week afternoon game with the visiting Yankees, a team managed by Billy Martin. These were the Reggie Jackson Yankees who, incidentally, wasn’t in the lineup against his old team.

Billymartin1
For some reason, Billy Martin, one of baseball’s fiercest managers, showed up in Redlands sometime in the early 1980s (Photo by Wikipedia Commons).

It was Vida Blue against Ron Guidry.

The world champion A’s had long since been disbanded – trades, free agency, you name it. The Yankees, meanwhile, had picked up Jackson and Catfish Hunter from those old A’s teams.

Guidry, leading 2-0, had tamed the A’s for 8 1/3 innings before he gave up ninth inning home runs to Manny Sanguillan and Dick Allen to knot the score at 2-2. Martin replaced Guidry with Sparkly Lyle, who was the Cy Young Award winner one season earlier.

The game went 15 innings. Blue lasted 13. Finally, in the 15th, the Yankees broke through for three runs, winning, 5-2. There weren’t even 10,000 fans in Oakland’s park that day.

I couldn’t wait for the post-game chat in the clubhouse. I wasn’t really working for anyone. I’d gotten a media credential through my college, Chabot. There was no difficulty getting a pass – not like it is today.

As a budding reporter, I wanted to watch the New York reporters talk about the game with Martin. I wanted to experience the give and take between media and manager. I’ll never forget that as long as I live. I figured that was part of my “education.”

With Martin, the media discussed Guidry’s brilliant game, despite giving up the ninth inning HRs. There was expected second-guessing: Why didn’t you bring Lyle in to start the ninth. Martin, a little annoyed, told them he felt Guidry had “enough gas left.”

There was some discussion of Jackson not being in the lineup on his return to Oakland. He’d played the day before and struck out three times. Martin said, “We just wanted to give him a day off.”

Vida Blue, he told reporters, looked sharp and strong.

The chat lasted, maybe, 20 to 30 minutes. It started to break up. Guys had deadlines. Martin probably had plans, too, especially since he was a Bay Area guy. I was one of about a dozen guys that circulated in the visitor’s office.

I won’t ever forget how he looked right at me, saying, “Something I can do for you, son?”

In all honesty, I had a couple questions for him. I’d hesitated to ask. After all, I was a nobody.

“That play (Graig) Nettles made in the ninth, the double play,” I said, “was unbelievable. Went to his left. Sort of a semi dive. That bailed Lyle out of a tough spot.”

It came in the ninth. Sanguillan and Allen had homered. Wayne Gross drew a one-out walk off Lyle. Earl Williams, a home-run hitting catcher, was looking to drive one out, too. But he cracked a shot into the hole toward left field. Nettles, reacting quickly, got the ball to Willie Randolph at second in a hurry.

Double play, ending the threat.

I also asked him about a couple of steal attempts that catcher Thurman Munson had shut down. A’s speedster Bill North was one of those. There was some dispute on the call at second by North, but he was called out.

There were a couple other plays I wanted to ask about, but I didn’t want to press my luck.

Martin took those questions on with a full head of steam. Those N.Y. reporters ready to depart instead hung around. On Nettles and Munson, Martin rhapsodized about how “this game wouldn’t have been won without those plays. Big keys to the game.”

Was I done? He wanted to know. Yeah, I said.

“You know, we’ve got a lot of high-priced talent here from New York that didn’t even pick up on those plays,” said Martin. “You keep asking questions like that, young man, you’re going to go a long way in this business.”

Where was my Mom? My friends? A tape recorder?

I couldn’t believe this.

Billy Martin said that to me? In later years, I wondered if he was just picking away at his regular press corps.

SHOWING UP AT A REDLANDS AMERICAN LEGION

Seven or eight years later, I was sitting in my Redlands newsroom office. I got a call from an area baseball-lover, Fred Long. Guy had been a scout for Montreal, maybe Kansas City or Milwaukee. Can’t remember each of Fred’s affiliations.

“O.B.,” he said, “Billy Martin’s here.”

He was drinking beer at a local American Legion Post.

What the hell was Billy Martin doing in Redlands?

I dropped everything. Rushed over to the legion post. Sure enough, there was Billy Martin, a beer in front of him, four guys sitting around him, a bar tender hanging out. Talking baseball. I snuck myself into the mix, listening, hearing the chat back and forth.

For nearly three hours, I watched him down one beer after another. He never cracked. Kept talking baseball. There was talk of Mickey Mantle, his good buddy. “No one,” said Martin, “could come close to his power … or speed.”

How he shouldn’t have lost his jobs in Minnesota or Texas or even the Yankees. He’d just gotten finished managing in Oakland, of all places – Billy Ball!

It was the off-season, I should report. Martin was in the Redlands area because he’d married a gal who had Yucaipa connections. Yucaipa was the city just east of Redlands. While she was visiting friends and family, Billy visited the legion post. He’d had a little military in his background. He felt comfortable in such a place.

Finally, when I felt comfortable enough, I mentioned that Yankees-A’s game in Oakland from a few years earlier. How he’d been real classy to me in the clubhouse after the game. I asked him, despite all the beer he’d downed, if he’d remembered.

He stared right at me. Took a swig of beer. He even grabbed a pretzel and stuck it into his mouth, kind of smiling as he thought. I figured he was getting ready to say he’d remembered.

“No,” he finally said, “I can’t quite remember anything like that. It’s been a few years, right?”

Oh, yeah.

Said Martin: “A lot’s happened since then.”

Part 3 of Willie, Almost Mickey and The Duke next week.

RONNIE WARNER: LIFER, OBSERVER, COACH AND A CARDINALS’ DIE-HARD

Ronnie Warner, a Redlands High product from the 1980s, has spent his entire 32-year professional baseball career in the St. Louis Cardinals’ chain, rubbing elbows with the likes of Hall of Famers Ozzie Smith and Tony La Russa, not to mention future Hall of Famers Albert Pujols and Yadier Molina (photo by the St. Louis Cardinals).

Dateline, St. Louis:

Pop Warner is a household name around this Midwestern city.

Around Redlands a few decades ago, he might be remembered as Ronnie Warner, a 6-foot, 3-inch point guard in basketball, or a possible high school QB, even a would-be track sprinter, but certainly a baseball shortstop.

Get ready, Dodgers’ fans, because the St. Louis Cardinals had gotten a wake-up call after a few years of sub-par seasons. Retired Hall of Fame manager Tony La Russa’s successor, Mike Matheny, was dismissed. Manager Mike Shildt, who led the Cardinals to three straight playoff berths, was fired last fall, replaced by Oliver Marmol.

Warner, a Cardinals’ lifer now at 32 years and running, is now coaching third base in St. Louis — his fourth season in that spot.

It’s a long and winding way from those days hanging around with his Redlands buddies Glenn Trunnelle, Jerry Requejo and Buck McGilvary. There was a shoutout for his old Redlands High baseball coaches, Bill Havard, not to mention Don DeWees.

“I learned a lot from those guys,” said Warner, who could also be remembered for playing point guard on the Terriers’ varsity basketball team. “Then we’d run into those Long Beach  (high school basketball powerhouse) teams in the playoffs and I’d find out just how good I really was.”

What he was really trying to say was this: How good he wasn’t.

In baseball, though, Warner was the skinny, no-power, no-hit kid that was in the lineup every day for the Terriers at shortstop. “They DH’d for me,” said Warner, chuckling, “because they said I couldn’t hit.”

Who knew what his future would be?

At some point, the kid went to his dad, Ron, now into his 80s, and said, “Dad, I want to concentrate on baseball.”

Concentrate, he did.

There was that appointment with Barry Martin, an academic counselor at RHS, who sat down with the younger Warner to chat about post-high school goals and ambitions.

Did he want to go to college? Play sports? The course set that day was more than helpful.

“I should’ve gone back to thank him,” said Warner, “because he really helped me.”

Armed with a serious plan, Warner left Redlands for Riverside City College. Afterward, there were near commitments to Univ. Pacific (Stockton, Calif.), St. Mary’s (Moraga, Calif.) and Cal State Northridge. Instead, NCAA Division 1 University of Wyoming came calling.

It’s where Warner stoked those fires that eventually got him drafted by the Cardinals (17th round, 1991). If you’re talking baseball history, you can argue whether it’s the Yankees, Dodgers, Giants or Cardinals that gets the most positive historical recognition.

 

The offer was for $1,000. Rookie ball. Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. A scout called him to find out if he’d accept the offer.

“I had no idea I’d last this long,” said Warner.

Pop Warner? No, not the legendary football coach, Glenn Warner (Cornell Univ. and Stanford, among others) who has a current nonprofit youth football program named for him all across America.

Pop Warner, aka Ronnie Warner of Redlands, got that nickname from his first manager, George Kissell, in Hamilton. At practice one day, Kissell explained to Warner, not to mention all the other players, about the legendary football coach.

“By the time I got back to my locker, the trainer put a piece of tape over my name. It said, ‘Pop.’ ”

The nickname stuck.

Except for this: A few years later, when he was playing at Memphis, Warner heard someone calling him from the stands.

“Ronnie … Ronnie.”

“I thought, ‘no one calls me Ronnie around here.’ I looked up in the stands and it was Randy Genung.”

Genung had been Warner’s basketball coach at Redlands High.

“Another big influence in my life,” Warner said.

Forget his minor league numbers. Anyone can look those up. Getting to the majors as a player was another question.

“I think I was good enough to get there,” said Warner, who never got that call, “but I wasn’t good enough to stay there. I morphed into coaching. I used to coach some of the guys when I was playing. The organization wanted me to coach.”

In the Cardinals’ chain, he’s done everything from roving minor league instructor to manager at Triple A Memphis, Double A Springfield, Class A Palm Beach — 1,500 minor league games as a manager — plus a batting practice pitcher for the MLB Cardinals in 2000.

“The (catcher’s) throw went down to second,” said Warner, “and Ozzie threw it to me. I remember thinking, ‘Hey, I’m getting a ball from Ozzie Smith.’ ”

Said Warner: “We still reminisce.”

His best season as a player might’ve been his last, 1999, when he slugged a career-high 11 HRs and batted .290. Keep in mind that the Cardinals’ shortstop during Warner’s minor league years was either Smith or his replacement, Royce Clayton. By then, Warner was more a utility player than a fulltime shortstop.

St. Louis hosted the L.A. Angels in June, but that interleague duel didn’t include a return trip to the West Coast. The Cardinals were in L.A. to play the Dodgers this week.

He, his wife, Laura, and their kids are Colin, Ben and Callie, who live in St. Charles, Mo.

“The travel’s a grind,” said Warner, who started the 2023 season again as Cardinals’ third base coach. “Anyone who thinks this is easy … I’m lucky to have a good wife.”

She’s married to a guy with a household name.