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Irony - a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often wryly amusing as a result.
Lakewood High School in the city of Lakewood, California, that’s where I went to high school. “Today’s Lancers, tomorrow’s leaders," that’s what the school's motto is. "Lakewood, tomorrow's city today," that’s what the city’s slogan is. Tomorrow must be a better place because they've been promoting it for well over half a century.
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All through junior and senior high school I was bused from West Long Beach to schools on the other side of town. Those days, the schools in Southern California were racially integrated by government mandate; the method was busing. I wasn't really conscious of social issues. Like most knuckleheads, I only paid attention to what I saw and experienced firsthand. Looking back, I realize what happened. ...Ignorance was bliss.
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Irony - a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often wryly amusing as a result.
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.Lakewood High School in the city of Lakewood, California, that’s where I went to high school. “Today’s Lancers, tomorrow’s leaders," that’s what the school's motto is. "Lakewood, tomorrow's city today," that’s what the city’s slogan is. Tomorrow must be a better place because they've been promoting it for well over half a century.
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All through junior and senior high school I was bused from West Long Beach to schools on the other side of town. Those days, the schools in Southern California were racially integrated by government mandate; the method was busing. I wasn't really conscious of social issues. Like most knuckleheads, I only paid attention to what I saw and experienced firsthand. Looking back, I realize what happened. ...Ignorance was bliss.
Continued...
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Interestingly, it seems the athletic arena is the great equalizer when it comes to highlighting the commonalities that exist between all people. Competitors of differing ideologies, or backgrounds, often discover new grounds for mutual respect after engaging one another in hard fought competition. It seems, the closer one gets to the opponent the more one realizes the opponent is the same as one's self. This proved to be true with Jesse Owens and Luz Long in the 1936 Olympics. The Fuhrer didn't approve but we all know how his story ended. ..
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1979 - I was fortunate to have the opportunity to play for the late John Ford his final year coaching football at the high school level; he was a good man, always teaching and preparing us thoroughly. We would have run through a brick wall if he told us to. To this day, I train and prepare myself as if he were watching over me; he was an old school disciplinarian from Texas. When talking to his players he'd always begin and end his sentences with "son." "Come here, son." "Son, that was stupid." His long time coaching partner, Gene Gillies, was the perfect complement, and their lessons were always applicable beyond the gridiron.
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| Coach Ford and Coach Gillies (1979) .  . .  . |
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| Coach Ford and Coach Gillies final high school victory (1979) After defeating Long Beach Wilson at Veteran's Memorial Stadium From left (#77) Bob Dalton, (#81) Adam Pilchman, (#24) myself, lifting Coach Ford, (#22) David Diaz, (#42) Zachary Brown |
If you played football at Lakewood those days discipline was on the menu whether you'd ordered it or not. No facial hair, crew cuts, and shirts and ties on Fridays were standard in that regime. Some guys quit rather than deal with that type of pressure. For me, football was easy; it was the discipline I needed. My old pal, Brian B., from the Long Beach Bears was my teammate again; in total, we played five years on the same teams.
Coach Ford was even nice enough to fill-in on father & son night because my father was unable to make it from the East Coast; he wore my #24 jersey that evening on the sideline. Coach Gillies served as Brian's deceased father's stand-in wearing his #26 jersey as well.
The coaches didn't mince words and had a no nonsense approach that made it clear where they stood; much of what they stressed to us was based on principal. I remember a day, after a late summer practice, when one of the seniors asked Coach Ford if we'd be getting a couple days off for the upcoming holiday; the coach's reply "Gentlemen, we will be laboring on Labor Day."
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| John T. Ford Stadium |
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Disclaimer: The following tale is written in the local vernacular of the day...
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I recall one particular situation, my junior year (1979), when we were preparing to face Compton High School at their place. Anyone familiar with the lay of the land in Southern California those days would tell you, the cities of Lakewood and Compton were at opposite ends of the ethnic universe. Compton High School was 150% "black" and their school symbol was a “Tar babe” (as in Tar babies, or Baby tartars); Lakewood High was 98.765% "white" and we were the "Lancers" (knight in shining white armor, or "white" knight in shining armor). You just can’t make this stuff up.
I recall one particular situation, my junior year (1979), when we were preparing to face Compton High School at their place. Anyone familiar with the lay of the land in Southern California those days would tell you, the cities of Lakewood and Compton were at opposite ends of the ethnic universe. Compton High School was 150% "black" and their school symbol was a “Tar babe” (as in Tar babies, or Baby tartars); Lakewood High was 98.765% "white" and we were the "Lancers" (knight in shining white armor, or "white" knight in shining armor). You just can’t make this stuff up.
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| A Tar babe, or Tar baby |
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As was typical, Lakewood's football team was more diverse than the rest of the school's student body. Brian B., Bruce P., Troy J., Robert D., the Zachary kid from Oklahoma, the two Daryl’s, the Diaz brothers, and myself, were the men of color on the football roster. Camaraderie was fair since many of us had played with or against one another other since the Pop Warner days; yet, still, there were those among us who weren't shy about myopic views on race and, like every corny 70's racial themed high school football movie you've ever slept through, whatever animosity there was targeted the kids from the other side of the tracks. .
For the average local football fan the Lakewood Compton game was an interesting match-up; Lakewood had a golden opportunity to shock the world while, the defending CIF Coastal Conference Champions, Compton was at the pinnacle and had much to lose. Furthermore, if the two team's differing trajectories wasn't enough to get locals all worked up, the plot thickened.
Based on the hoopla leading up to the contest, somehow, an extra element of danger and menace had emerged; for some, it seemed the prospect of Lakewood facing Compton at their place had metastasized into something else. That kind of hoopla was prevalent those days. Sometimes, it's difficult to discern between what's real and what isn't with all the assorted chatter; especially, if you happened to be a black kid being bused to a predominately white school.
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| Lakewood Football (1979) I was visiting Pennsylvania when this photo was taken |
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| Lakewood (white) versus Long Beach Wilson (1979) Veterans Memorial Stadium - Long Beach, CA |
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Lakewood Football (1980)
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Not to be outdone, the two school's bands could have also been considered combatants. In the red corner was Lakewood's band. The Lancer band was good; the brass section was their forte and when they rocked the drums one's hair stood up. In the blue corner was Compton's band; though, Lakewood's band was no slouch the Tar babe band could make a dead man grin. Known for their booming drumline and accompanied by a platoon of gyrating cheerleaders, the Tar babe band was a force of nature; on this issue the naysayers are nonexistent.
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On game night, on the ride to Compton's Stadium, our bus was escorted by an armada of police; I'd never seen so much law enforcement manpower deployed for a traveling football team. It was as if a sitting President was in our bus; we had CHP motorcycle escorts front and rear, flanked by a squadron of patrol cars, lights a twirling, and at least one police helicopter high above with it's searchlight searching for yet to be determined boogeymen and every intersection between the highway exit and Compton's campus was cordoned off so we could be whisked through. Before exiting the highway we were told to put on our helmets for the rest of the trip. Game day tension for away games had always been high but never like this; although, as a 15-year old, I thought it was all quite exciting.
On game night, on the ride to Compton's Stadium, our bus was escorted by an armada of police; I'd never seen so much law enforcement manpower deployed for a traveling football team. It was as if a sitting President was in our bus; we had CHP motorcycle escorts front and rear, flanked by a squadron of patrol cars, lights a twirling, and at least one police helicopter high above with it's searchlight searching for yet to be determined boogeymen and every intersection between the highway exit and Compton's campus was cordoned off so we could be whisked through. Before exiting the highway we were told to put on our helmets for the rest of the trip. Game day tension for away games had always been high but never like this; although, as a 15-year old, I thought it was all quite exciting.
As we approached Compton's campus we saw a huge crowd standing in and around the stadium and nary a white face among them. Aside from the growl of the diesel engine, inside our bus was silent; all eyes were on the windows. As we got closer the parking area the large crowd milling about caused our motorcade some difficulty; which, further stoked the tension inside the bus. It was apparent the powers that be had gone to great lengths to segregate us from the crowd. I noted the irony in that my few black teammates and I had long been bused to white schools and that, presently, my mostly white teammates were being bused to a black school.
The atmosphere inside the bus was awkward. Some of the handful of brothers on our squad had lived in Compton at some point; I'd lived there a couple years in elementary school myself. We'd traveled to Compton to play football but the cross town escort and the heavy police presence suggested there had to be something more sinister to contend with. As one of the younger players on the team I felt conflicted; it was apparent the looming battle would be one pitting us against them but them was me. Perhaps, our coaches picked-up on this little undercurrent and addressed it later.
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I was curious what my teammates thought as they gazed out at the crowd. I already knew what the black guys were thinking; it was the white guys I wondered about. The silence in the bus was heavy; although, any dialogue at all in that situation was impossible because nobody ever spoke about race, unless, exclusively among one's own. Though still seated in the bus, we all could feel Compton's drumline thundering in the distance; it was then, I realized drums could be used as a weapon.
As my teammates and I disembarked the bus, Compton's drumline turned up the funk, and the effect was immediate. Right away, a few of the brothers on our squad added a little something extra to their strut. Then, to my right, I noticed one of our old field generals, mid-50ish, lily white, Coach Gillies groove walking to the beat and, judging by his swag, he was legit feeling it. I remember thinking, it was the coolest thing I ever saw a white man do. Just like us young brothers; the old coach just couldn't help himself.
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| A recent match-up between the Lancers (red) and Tar babes (blue) . . .
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As was customary, we were offered the use of a gymnasium to tape and dress for the game. As my
teammates and I went about our pregame routines, that drumline,
that wicked, nasty, drumline just continued to work on us; the booming bass was merciless
and seemed to be coming from all directions. Nobody was talking but the coaches; the coaches, and those drums. There was an eerie dichotomy; our coaches motivated us to go out and conquer, while the drums told us everything was hopeless.
As a card carrying man of color, I remember thinking our situation mirrored that of the heavily outnumbered British military one hundred years ago when they awaited their fate at the Battle of Isandlwana; they too, waited as a distant drumline pounded its way into their psyche.
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"Pre-game" - Isandlwana, South Africa (1879)
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Eventually, my teammates and I emerged from the gym and took the field; the crowd went nuts. The whistle blew, the hype was forgotten, and both teams went toe to toe. Compton's band deployed their furiously booming drums while my, red and white clad, teammates and I valiantly shrugged them off. The partisan crowd encircling the field gave us Lakewood players the impression that if we went out of bounds we may never be heard from again.
The game was a slug-fest and the fervor was such that everyone present knew it was going to go down to the wire. After a see saw battle, during which both sides deployed nukes, the defending CIF Champion Compton Tar babes escaped with a close victory; which, according to some, probably, ensured our own escape.
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Lakewood sophomore team (1978)Head Coach Gene Melvin (left)
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...One fall evening in Compton, California.
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