Coach

Yesterday I received a two-sentence message from an elementary school chum that my oldest friend, Larry Chase, had passed away. As of the moment, there is no further information as to what took his life. The shock and sadness is more than palpable; I cannot imagine a world without him.

Larry and I met on our first day of kindergarten in September 1954. We were what used to be called “playmates,” played Little League baseball together - although on opposing teams - and were members of the “Sundown” tribe of the Woodcraft Rangers . . . sort of like the Cub Scouts, although only to be found in California. I long remember the four “paths” or “flames” we were taught by our tribal leader Harold “Pep” Duffy: “truth,” “beauty, “fortitude” and “service.” Back in the 1950s we had a well-known Indian Dance troupe which would travel from place to place arrayed in feathers, bonnets and breastplates - all made and supplied by Wynn Fairchild, who was the major supplier of Indian costumes and regalia for Hollywood westerns. (That’s me when I was the tribal chief back in 1958, standing next to Pep. So far as I can recall, every “Sundown” mother had a crush on Pep, my mom and Ace’s mom Sally included).

Larry was one of shortest and smallest of the gang. At one point Pep taught us all the art of boxing. When we had our first public bout, he gave Larry the privilege - due to his relative tiny stature - to select who he wanted to go up against. He surprised us all when he chose yours truly - the tallest of the tribe - to be his opponent. He flattened me in the first round . . . and then apologized.

Besides my slightly older sister Erica (Riki), Larry was one of the last people who knew me before the family “got Stoned” back in October 1956. How’s that? As per a ditty our mother wrote and sent out at the time:

“We take this means to verify, the Schimberg’s decision to simplify;
We’ll henceforth be known by the surname of “Stone,”
It’s easy, it’s short, we changed it in court.”

When Larry found out what my new last name was, he immediately dubbed me “Rocky.” Up until yesterday, there were only two people who called me that name: Larry and Erica. Today, I’m sad to say, that number has been cut in half. Ironically, the only one who ever calls me “Schimberg” is my wife Annie.

Larry and I were over the moon when we learned that we were getting a Major League baseball team in Los Angeles; the Dodgers were moving from Brooklyn to L.A! Baseball was a huge part of our lives. As I mentioned above, we played on opposing teams in Little League. I was a member of the “Seven-Up Dodgers,” he the Union-Made Bakery Braves.” Everyone wanted to be on the Braves for the simple reason that their sponsor provided free cake and cookies every time they won a game. It was a great inducement; Ace’s Braves were the best team in the league by a long-shot. Our Dodgers, on the other hand, were at the bottom of the pile; seems that none of us were all that motivated by the offer of a free Seven-Up for every victory. I well remember a game we played against one another; with two outs in the bottom of the seventh inning (the limit in little league), the bases were loaded and it was my turn to bat. Just as I began pawing at the dirt (like my favorite player, Duke Snider), Larry sat down right next to second base proclaiming: “It’s only Rocky; he won’t get a hit. We win!” And of course, I wound up striking out. I actually found Larry’s gesture to me wonderfully funny . . . it did nothing to harm our love for one another.

Ace, by the way, was the one who made me into a right-handed thrower. Being born a lefty (which is great for writing Hebrew and miserable for English), my father naturally bought me a southpaw’s glove. Larry found that to be bizarre, and seeing that I really could throw with little agility, lent me his right-hander’s glove . . . and voila! I became a right-hander. To this day, I can throw much further with my right arm, but far more accurately with my left. Once I started throwing righty, my manager moved me from first base to center field where I would cap off my so-so little league career by throwing out a runner at the plate. Thanks Ace!

The Chase family eventually moved from Debby Street to Costello where at the end of the street, mirabile dictu, sat an establishment called “Don Drysdale’s Dugout.” We naturally assumed it to be a restaurant owned by our favorite Dodger pitcher. Of course we didn’t know it was really a saloon, and just thought it was a place where anyone could go in and see Dodger great Don at table and eating. And so, we decided that one day we would go in and get his autograph. Little did we know that not only was it a bar, but that Don probably never showed up . . . that he had merely leant it his name for purposes of publicity. Well, going against our parents’ wishes, we did go in . . . only to find out that it contained nothing but a couple of mid-afternoon drunks . . . and no 6’6” Dodger right-hander. To say the least, we were depressed as all get-out. We quickly changed our allegiance from the right-handed Drysdale (who, it turned out, was an alcoholic) to the Jewish leftie Sandy Koufax . . .

Larry was by far the smartest brave in the tribe, and would go on to become a full professor of communications theory at Sacramento State University . . . where he picked up the nickname “Coach.” He was much beloved by his students who found him to be profoundly wise and preternaturally youthful . . . until yesterday. According to his older brother Richard (“Dickie”) who is professor emeritus at the University of Southern California’s Marshall School of Business, Coach had been suffering from some heart problems of late, and passed away without notice. . . leaving all of us without a chance for uttering final words of love and admiration. He is survived by his daughter Mere . . . his beloved wife Terry Jean having passed away several years ago.

What we have left, of course, are our memories of a shortish Brainiac with a twinkle in his eye and a perpetual smile on his face. I myself will long remember our days as members of the Sundown tribe, that single punch which sent me to the canvas, the many Dodger games we attended together - both at the Los Angeles War Memorial Coliseum and then at Chavez Ravine, hearing the name “Rocky” and having a dear, dear friend who knew us before we all got “Stoned” more than 65 years ago.

Rest in peace Ace, say high to your mom and dad, Pep. Don Drysdale, Gil Hodges, Junior Gilliam and of course, Duke Snider

And please know, you made the world a much much better place . . .