A San Diego Legend, the Ambrose Schindler Story

And there it was! The small box contains items lost a long time ago. Flash drives of Schindler speaking and also pictures of my family.
   The opened box contained my original documents of my two years of interviews of the Greatest Trojan of them all. "'Lil' Amby' the Forgotten Trojan was the title. 6-25-07.My boxes had been in storage in Carlsbad for the past five years. Of course these interviews will take on a different perspective now that I have become a better writer than the earlier one. . And now I live in Surf City, where a cleaner air blows the cobwebs from my mind.
   Amby introduced me to Carl Benson after I entered his ranch style home. A tall blond Swede looking  gentlemen  strangled my hand with his massive one, and left. An unsmiling Schindler confessed that his guard has a stomach ailment and  lived not far from his home. (Two years later, I interviewed the retired Torrance  school principal at his home above P.C.H.)
    "Now there are only five of us still alive from our 38 team. And now I can't even get my dearest friend Don Shell on the phone. My closest buddy and ex-judge now lives in Bakersfield, and it is now hard to understand him on the phone. Bob Robertson, our end, lives in Santa Cruz along the coast. But I just can't, cant get over the death of my surfing buddy, Bill Fisk."
    His watery eyes displayed his grief. The 38 Trojans became his family. This time the hole was not in the line, but in his heart and it showed. I had never seen anybody so deeply taken by death. He proceeded to the kitchen phone which also was dead. Something had gone wrong with his phone line ever since his voice mail had been activated. He wished to inform the Trojan office of the death of Alhambra's  Bill Fisk, the player that manhandled him when his San Diego Cavers played an away game at the school just east of downtown Los Angeles.
   On this early morning a few minutes after ten, we sit in his den. My large map of downtown San Diego changes his mood from sadness to excitement. He points out Wilson Jr. High School, Balboa Park, the San Diego's Golf course, and the Golden Hills Municipal playground. not far from his house on Fern Street.
   "There George is the seal pond in Balboa Park where I worked after the war. And over here is where I peddled my bike on my paper route I got up at four thirty each morning to get, wrap and deliver those papers. Mom never needed to get my out of bed. After my paper route, I would eat some oat meal, eggs, and bacon."
   "There is where I took the street car to San Diego High School. Never did I have time to study because after football practice, I had my chores to do around the house. My geometry teacher called me to his desk and wished to know why I wasn't 'doing better than a D when it should have been a B.'"
    "That was when my friend Pepe' tutored me in geometry. I wouldn't eventually have received a B in the class if he hadn't tutored me. His brother would drive us to the La Jolla Golf Link's before dawn. We knew where to retrieve the lost golf balls. After climbing the fence, we knew which rough had collected the most. balls. We would go to the club house and  attempt to sell them. On several occasions we sold them to the same golfer who had sprayed their balls into the rough."
   "I never would have made my grade a 'B' without his help. I never knew what happened to my buddy. He even taught me some of the Mexican language. And George, I would say 'Gracias to his relatives if  still alive."
   At this juncture in the den he needed a toilet break. My Sony tape recorder had stopped, but now the thrill of listening to his stories. (And it is only fitting to allow you too, to take a break and enjoy the weekend.)