I woke up alive again. My pernicious bronchial asthma attack almost killed me a week ago. I had slept for ten hours and felt good enough to reach Encinitas again. My second daughter had put money in an envelope for me. She had come down from Los Angeles to have a tooth looked at in Oceanside , but sadly, she had it out with a tooth cleaner.
My day began at the corner Starbucks on Broadway and Kettner. In back of me a harmless homeless bearded one walked back and forth-first to the restroom and then out the door to light one up. Two middle school chums sat, drank a cold one, and scrolled their cell phones. A few of their friends waited for the 993 bus to take them to Dana Middle School in Point Loma. A young gal spoke to a the counter manager. The manager had middle aged freckles and bright blond hair.
"Love the way you've got your hair. How dyado it?"
"I pick up my hair and then roll it around my pony tail."
I quipped in. "Now I suppose you will be calling a Starbucks drink the Pony Tail. a gob of chocolate with a rainbow syrup wrapped around it." They laughed while I cleaned off the dust from my coffee roll and left.
It was now eight o'clock and my #567 Amtrak ride left at eight twenty four. I parked my stuff on a bench and read the beginning of Poinciana by Phyllis Whitney. The best way to write is to read-every stinking moment.
The Green Line Trolley stopped in back of me. I stood up and watched the usual hoard of miserable people walk and cross towards Kettner. There wasn't a happy face in the bunch. They left and a tall bewildered man stayed. He looked back, and then forward. He looked lost. He wore casual pants and thongs. Lonely for company, I asked him if he might be lost.
"I'm lookin for the Coaster train...Need to get to Carlsbad badly. I have three sons living in the area."
This is your lucky day. I have a blog on San Diego. The #567 doubles as a Coaster train in a few minutes. Here is my card.
"I see you write football stories. Whom did this guy play for?"
He played for good old U.S.C. and still lives at 97.
"Did you ever hear the name of Sangster?"
Yes, he played in the backfield with Schindler. His first name was Bill and three fingers were missing from his passing hand. You better hurry up and buy a ticket. You can get one over there. Bob gave me his card...I entered the first level, reserved for the elderly and disabled, like me.
It was now eight twenty. I looked outside and there was Bob. He was hunched over buying a ticket for the wrong train, the trolley. The conductor didn't help. Yet after the good-old 567 began its run to Los Angeles, and of course all intermediate stops, I figured he would get on the real coaster, alive at nine forty for the main beach stops like Carlsbad, where he wished to go...the conductor came my way and told me he got on-board.
I walked up and down another car and found Bob arguing with his computer.
"I can't get it to run!" I should him where to hook it up and continued with my conversation. That is where the name of Jackie Robinson came up. To save time, I have edited and ran his stories together to make sense. I had told him that Schindler played against Robinson in 1939.
"Well George, my Dad played quarterback for Muir High School in Pasadena. He played on the B team alongside Robinson. He was their quarterback. His coach told him 'never to run or throw the ball. Just hand it to Robinson.'"( B players were usually smaller and tenth graders.)
"Once, according to my Dad, their was a track meet next door at Glendale High School. The track coach came over and told the football coach if he could borrow Jackie for one event, the long jump. 'You can use him but if he gets injured, I'll kill you!'"
"Robinson wore his football uniform and cleats to this meet. In his uniform, he carefully marked off where he should take off. Jackie won this event and Muir won the meet by two points."
The conductor announced that the Sorrento stop is next. He told me that Bill Sangster, his Dad's friend and also a football player on that same Muir football teams became close friends. He died a few years back. I told him that Schindler still lived, now at 97 years of age, and the only one from the 1936 Trojan Team. I gave him a picture.
"I will keep in touch with you. If you have time I will schedule a book signing for you. By the way, my Dad was the Supervisor for Los Angeles County for several years. My last name is Dorn...I will privy you for more stories."
My stop was next. I felt like playing the piano and writing about this tale on the 567 out of the Santa Fe Station. On Bob's card was mentioned he was President of Advanced Management Systems Interactive, out of Santa Barbara. (not edited or finished.)
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