Hang A Star On This All Star

"And you'll be working with Jerry Coleman the former Yankee.  He does sports at 4:30 and 5:30 on your show."  This was being said to me in a bar by the nicest man in radio, Jerry Jackson, the manager of KOGO in San Diego.  Jerry was in Tampa checking out my morning radio program on WDAE and had just offered me the afternoon drive slot on KOGO.  Unknown to me he had been in town for a week listening to the program and had decided to give me a call to see if I was interested in moving west.  I was.  He sprung the Coleman feature on me as we roughed out a deal on a cocktail napkin in a Clearwater Beach saloon.  I was somewhat aware of Jerry Coleman from his days in pinstripes but as a longtime fan of the Detroit Tigers I had hated everything even remotely connected to the Bronx Bombers since I was in fourth grade.  The Yankees had ruined my childhood!  The Tigers were always out of pennant contention by July Fourth and the Yanks never seemed to miss getting their ticket punched for the Fall Classic.  Jerry Coleman?  I guessed that would be okay.  He was, after all, the play-by-play voice of the Padres and KOGO was the team's home station.  I had no idea I was about to meet one of the finest men of the Greatest Generation.

My first day on the air in San Diego was in August of 1976 and, shortly after getting the first hour of the first day out of the way,  into the studio strolled Jerry Coleman with a Padre cap and some Padre paraphernalia for my kids.  I have no recollection of what he said but do remember that he made me feel right at home and that he was glad we'd be working together.  He was one of those guys that you take to from the handshake.  I liked him immediately.  The two years we had together before the Padres, and Jerry, left for another station in the market, were a couple of the best years I had in the radio business.  We saw each other nearly every afternoon unless the Padres were on the road and Jerry would do his sportscast from another National League city.  Each day as he ended his reports he would lock out with, "for KOGO sports I'm Jerry Coleman and once again here's my good friend, Ken Copper."  It warmed me to hear it and I hoped he meant it because I sure thought of him as a friend--a good one.

Jerry has been on my mind a lot the past couple of days.  He passed away on Sunday from injuries  suffered in a fall at his home in La Jolla this past December.  He was 89.  

I don't know why but I always thought he would be around forever.   More than a few folks felt the same way.  He was Superman!  A scrappy poor kid from San Francisco who, in spite of a rough home life,  made the big leagues with no less than the  New York Yankees.   He was also a decorated Marine colonel who flew over 120 combat missions in two wars--World War II and Korea.   A Hall of Fame broadcaster with the Yankees, Angels,  Padres, and CBS radio,  Jerry is also enshrined in four other halls and, if they had one, he'd be front and center for the Good Friend Hall of Fame.  

Two Distinguished Flying Crosses, 13 Air Medals, 3 Navy Citations

Baseball fans often speculate just how great Jerry's career could have been had it not put it on hold for WW II and again for the Korean War.   As it was he played on five World Series champions, was the American League rookie of the year in 1949, World Series MVP in 1950 and an American League All Star second baseman several times.

Jerry Coleman came to San Diego in 1972 to become the voice of the Padres.  He stayed for 42 years.  It was a perfect fit.  The fans loved him and the fact that San Diego is home to such a large contingent of Naval and Marine personnel became icing on the cake for a decorated combat veteran who neither smoked or drank and maintained his Marine fitness regime until the end.

Jerry Coleman, even more than Padre great Tony Gywnn, was Mr. San Diego.  He came, he saw a lot of bad baseball and whenever the usually hapless Pads managed to dazzle him with their play he hung a star out the broadcast booth window as he exclaimed, "Oh doctor, you can hang a star on that baby!"


Jerry's credo was simple and elegant.  Often he said, "There are only two important things in life: the people who you love and who love you, and your country."

A gentleman, husband, father, all star broadcaster, Hall of Fame baseball player and loyal friend, Jerry Coleman's was truly a life to HANG A STAR ON.
Rest easy Colonel, your country thanks you for your service.

JERRY COLEMAN,  AN AMERICAN HERO.

Nanny State Nonsense

2014 is shaping up to be not so friendly to those of us residing in the state of California who don't respond positively to being BOSSED AROUND.  Just glancing at this morning's paper makes me wonder why anyone who values freedom and possesses a lick of common sense would continue to live in this state.  Jerry Brown and his posse of "progressive" pantloads have, as of January 1, imposed a whole new catechism of liberal do's and don'ts that take "mother may I?" to an entirely new bigtop of BS.

Beginning this year Governor Moonbeam and the state legislature have presented Californians with about 800 new laws and some of them are dumber than any lyric ever composed by the always insipid James Blunt.

For those of you wise enough to live elsewhere, here are just a few of the legislative gems we residents of the once Golden State will be forced to abide:

Henceforth motorists may order a special $50 "Snoopy" license plate to raise money for museums. (It's not required yet, but give them time.)

Motorists now must leave three feet of space when passing bicyclists.

Purchasers of rifles and shotguns will have to pass a written safety test similar to the one now required of people buying handguns.  (Yeah, that'll stop the loons.)

Hunters can no longer use lead ammunition.  (The animals will still be just as dead, but you'll feel better about it.)

Illegal immigrants are now eligible for driver's licenses, thus giving them the opportunity to be both legal and illegal at the same time.

Employers can be fined up to $10,000 and lose their business license if they report or threaten to report the nonlegal status of a worker who files a complaint over unsafe conditions or sexual harassment. (Remember, these people aren't supposed to be here in the first place.)

MY CURRENT FAVORITE:  Illegal aliens may practice law under certain conditions. This dandy bit of brain dead pandering comes to us courtesy of ASSemblywoman Lorena Gonzalez, a Democrat (naturally) of San Diego.   Of course it is still impossible for a LEGAL resident convicted of a felony to practice law in California, but logic never is a consideration in La La Land.

On the educational front…

School districts must adopt policies allowing transgender students to use the restrooms and locker facilities of their choosing, as well as play on the sports team of their choice.  Let's see a show of hands.   How many of you think this may provide just a bit of fun for teenage boys?

Homeowners whose residence is more than 20 years old will have to install low flow plumbing fixtures when they do any major remodeling.  (Just remember to flush twice!)

Mattress buyers will pay a fee to recycle their old mattress just like they do now for tires and e-waste.  (Talk about taking the fun out of mattress polo.)

Children can have more than two parents.  (Maybe at least one of them will be cool.)

Residential care facility operators must include instruction on how to help elderly residents who are lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender.  (Excuse me, but how many people in a care facility can even FIND their fun zone let alone know which team they're on.)

And finally…

Breweries will be able to refill any consumer-provided "growler" container with beer to go, even though it may not be from that brewer.  (Okay, they made one good law.)

There you have just a few of the real beauties the state of California has decided will enhance the lives of its nearly 40 million citizens in a brand new year.  

Thanks Sacramento!  At least you've inspired this correspondent to come up with a resolution for the new year.  In 2014 I resolve to leave a smoking patch of rubber at the California state line.  If Jerry needs me, I'll be in Idaho.

Little Drummer Boy

At the gym this morning I was happy to be among my own kind as we grown-ups fought fiercely to beat back the tide of holiday blubber recently launched into orbit around our expanding equatorial region.  It's useless I realize to even attempt a return to moderation at this point when New Year 2014 calories are waiting to ambush us with the sobering realities of adipose tissue, but I try.   

Gone are the days when two or three pieces of Christmas pie didn't mandate a next morning shoe horn for pulling on pants. These days every delicious morsel of good time dining packs its bags to find a home in the dunes of my jeans.  Exercise is required if I want to be around to celebrate a 66th Christmas and make ready for an attack on 2015.  It's a slap in the face from Father Time.

This year I was treated to the look on the face of daughter Katie and her husband Doug as their boy found a new drum kit from his Aunt Kelly and Uncle Pavol under their tree.  Danny kicked off what promises to be an especially noisy new year around their house with an impromptu concert on the new skins.  I predict the kid will be the next Buddy Rich, but then I did get to leave early.

Let there be drums!

Santa was good to my one and only grandson.  He's a lucky lad who,  I'm proud to say,  remains remarkably unspoiled.  

Today we are set to play in the snow at Legoland.  Snow, to a kid from Southern California is something to get excited about.  My Midwestern memories of snowsuits, mittens, boots, and runny noses have no meaning for Dan and he can barely wait to hit the slush pile of machine groomed white stuff at his favorite theme park.

So, if you need me today, I'm afraid I'll be "on the slopes" at Mt. Lego attempting to re-think my attitude about frozen rain and its capacity to entertain.  Perhaps a four year-old can turn around a snow grump of more than sixty years.  To my surprise, this grandpa gig gets better every day.  It's an opportunity that doesn't knock on every man's door.  In my case, it leans on the doorbell.  I'll bet I won't even need gloves.

"I'm ready grandpa.   Let's GO!"

The Best Gift

When my brother and I were kids Christmas was a time of no school and almost palpable anticipation.  Were we going to get cool stuff that we wanted or was it going to be one of those Christmases where our deportment earned us little more than things we "needed" along with the traditional Boys Life subscription and stupid board game from Aunt Shirley and Uncle Louie.  Fortunately, we usually avoided the holiday doghouse and would get fun things like a new bike, wagon or a Hopalong Cassidy cap gun.  Christmas was dandy and a return to school a couple of weeks away.

It's easy to forget what a kid's Christmas is like as we grow older and have children of our own.  Christmas becomes, like it or not, more of a chore and something to get through.  Jean Shepherd's book and movie, "A Christmas Story" captures this dichotomy superbly.  Ralphie, excited for the BB gun that will revolutionize his very existence and the "you'll put your eye out" protective rationality of his mom is there in technicolor for all of us to nod knowingly.

This year, as a grandparent, I have the rare opportunity to be a kid again at Christmas.  At four, our grandson Dan is completely in thrall of Santa, his elves, jingle bells and the baby Jesus.  For the first time it is all there on the big screen of his life.  He got to be one of the wise men in the church children's pageant and didn't mess it up.  The elf on the shelf has come to life at his house and Dan's behaviour has earned him high marks--so far.    He saw Santa at the Mission Bay Yacht Club where the jolly fat man can be found every Christmas in San Diego.  Dan greeted the old boy like a long lost friend and it was obvious that Santa and his Mrs. remembered the lad well.  (He got a candy cane to prove it.)

Who knows how long this Christmas magic will last?  I recall my guttersnipe pal, Bob Chamberlain, hipping me to the "Santa is your mom and dad" deal when I was about six or seven and I, in turn, wrecking my brother's faith at the tender age of five.  

So, this Christmas my wife and I will be at Daniel's house and will experience the day in all its majesty and wonder.  I think it's going to be a good year for him as I see a pile of presents under the tree that say "to Daniel", and Santa knows his address too.

The best gift of all this year comes with no box and no name.  It's for grandma and grandpa as we, for the second time in our lives, see Christmas through four year-old eyes.  Hands down the best gift, ever.

An actor prepares.

"Go ahead, guess what's in the box."

Nailed it!

Dan hangin' with Santa and Mrs. Claus

Santa Will Stick Around A While Longer

Senator Blutarski takes a break from his senate duties.

My Uncle Bob, a son of Illinois, always voted a straight Republican ticket until the day he died.  After that he pretty much voted Democratic.  

It used to be that once the detritus of December 25th was swept away there were no more presents until maybe your birthday.  That, my fellow Americans, is no longer the case.  Now that the bloodsucking leeches of our professional political class have discovered that it's possible to retain their status as privileged characters entitled to the public trough,  Santa is on the job 24/7 all year long. Whatever you need is within easy reach just as long as you keep voting for Representative Santa or Senator Santa of (your state or district here).  

Money is no problem for the punch drunk Palookas of  D.C,

 they'll do whatever it takes to buy your vote with your very own money.

Have a business?  Collect a decent paycheck?  Well, you my friend, have more than you need!  Send your dough to Washington so that it can be redistributed to those who can't be bothered with showing up for a job or are too lazy to steal.  Oh, by the way, when we run out of your money, we'll simply print some of our own.  NOT at problem.  Your kids and grandkids will pick up the tab.

In fact it may well be a good idea to see if your children can secure federal jobs.  That way they'll be certain to be first in line for decent seats on the lifeboat when the USS Democracy hits that iceberg of massive debt that is guaranteed to take it down faster than Bill Clinton's pants at a womens' prison.

Representative Blowhard is unavailable for comment.

Think of about this as you get ready for next year's tax shakedown.  Are you a taker or a maker?  If you are the former, rest assured that the ride can't last forever.  If you actually contribute more than you take from your country, God bless you!  If we stick together, demand reform and educate our children about the bear trap being set for them, then the greatest country the world has ever produced has a chance to continue.  If not, get ready to say "hello"to the ash heap of history where the bones of morally and fiscally corrupt civilizations lie bleaching in the noonday sun.  

Some citizens are catching on.  Max Baucus, the democratic dolt from Montana, deduced that his days of living large on the public arm are over.  He knows the collective IQ of the state of Montana could not possibly sink low enough to insure his re-election;  so he has chosen to "retire".  (For politicians retirement means taking a fat pension, continuing to live in Washington D.C. as a lobbyist and attending the same freeload cocktail parties.)  At least we won't be subjected to any more drunken rants by Montana's no longer favorite political pantload.

"Chivas neat…make it a double!"

 

Aw Come On…It's Still Fun

We started doing it because, well, our parents always did.  Later it became the perfect way to let longtime friends know where we were as the Gypsy existence that is the radio business bounced us through seven or eight states and seventeen sets of call letters in forty years of broadcast bacchanal.  Christmas cards used to epitomise the season and, though it was always tough to get them sent,  the incoming tide of reciprocal greetings made it worthwhile.  The memories of good friends, their triumphs and disappointments experienced during the year rapidly coming to an end was as warming as any yuletide hearth.  Coming home from work to check the day's mail for new cards loaded with annual updates was nearly as good as Christmas Eve.  

Sadly. the whole Christmas card deal seems to have gone the way of, well, radio.  My kids don't send them nor do most of the people we still consider good friends.  I'm sure the Internet has had an impact, though getting an "e-greet" from someone just isn't the same.  Time constraints are profound but probably no greater than they were fifty years ago and, sorry, the "it's too expensive" kiss-off doesn't cut it in the age of $5 lattes and $4 gas.

Nope, this year I will once again send a newsy missive to old pals and relatives (who damn well better read them!) just to let them know we are still above ground and grousing about even more topics than last year.  We won't send any "in town" greetings as it always seems idiotic to mail something to folks you see frequently, however, if you're out of sight, a "not out of mind" card is on the way. 

I promise to continue to inflict all Copper Christmas card recipients with news of kids and grandkids, provided they continue to perform up to my slightly subjective bragging standards.  Also, this gives me an opportunity to catch up on neighborhood gossip as I hand my news stuffed letters to mailman Russ who is the pride of the U.S. Postal Service.  (The preceding has been a paid political announcement.)

So, please give it some thought this Christmas and join me in keeping the tradition of the Christmas card going.  It would make your mom happy. Whether it's the best of times or the worst of times, it's the only time we have.  Catch up with some old pals this year.  

You may get back some award winning dandies like these:

I have no idea who these people are.

"Sit on grandpa's lap?  No way!"

Christmas, it's all about family.

Some people do not fear self criticism.

Didn't We Just Do This?

I hate the holidays.  Well, not really,  but I do dread them almost as much as I used to be giddy with anticipation of their approach when I was young.  Don't get me wrong, the food, fun and family doings are all enjoyable.  It's the velocity of their annual arrival and the finality of the door slamming on another year that gets me down.  Didn't we just have Christmas?!  What year is this anyway?

Yesterday was Thanksgiving.  I realize that's no news flash but it also marks the second year where my wife and I were guests at the table of our youngest daughter Katie and her family.  It was a treat to be with Kate and her husband Doug,  a creative man with a turkey and other tasty traditional Thanksgiving goodies.  I saved room for slices of three different pies provided by Doug's stepmother, his sister Debbie and the the kids' friend,  Christine.  (Pumpkin, Apple-cranberry, and chocolate pecan in case you were wondering.) As my four year-old grandson, Dan, would say, "It was scrumptious!"  I won't need to eat again until July.

We lingered, like most families, for a long while after the feast talking about everything from the value of heirloom jewelry and corn futures,  to the recent acceptance of nephew Michael to Baylor University.  There were laughs about previous Thanksgiving mishaps, childhood stunts, job related stories, the usual stuff of family get togethers.  Seated next to Dan,  I was able to keep him entertained with my passable Donald Duck impression and, when that failed, the fart app on my I-phone.  I "kill" with the Yo Gabba Gabba crowd.

As afternoon became evening it struck me that sometime while I wasn't paying attention the holiday torch had been passed.  Thanksgivings and future Christmases are now the province of Katie and Doug's generation.  There was no memo or meeting to attend, but the compilation of birthdays has moved Linda and me from host to guest for these traditions.  We are now the "old people" who, when not doting on the grandkids, talk of pensions, medicare and how the country is going to hell and aren't we lucky we won't be around to see it. 

As I said, I am beginning to hate the holidays.  They're fun but a big fat reminder that another year is up on blocks and the clock is ticking.  Friends are falling by the wayside, bucket lists need attention or  trimming, and suddenly there is a real awareness of past mistakes that demand correction …if possible.  I plan to get on that right after the holidays.

The hand off has been made.  The kids now own the season until one day--you might as well say next week--they'll look around and wonder just when their own kids took charge.  It's life.  Thomas Lynch, the fine poet and essayist, said it best:  "So it is with this life, we hammer at the moment until all that's left is memorable."

And, as long as we're quoting, let's let the English poet John Betjeman take a shot at this predicament.

"You've been given just one life in this world that matters and upon which every other life somehow depends as long as you live, and also given the costly gifts of hunger, choice, and pain with which to raise a modest shrine to meaning."

Good luck with that.  The clock is ticking.

In the meantime, I wonder if there is any more of that pie?