Scribbled notes on a cocktail napkin, Part VI
Baghdad by the Bay… shameless plugs … the coach who worked for $1 … and various forms of influencers …
"Scribbled notes on a cocktail napkin" is my weekly Sunday feature that's a tribute to the sports columnists I grew up reading who penned Herb Caen-inspired three dot columns. It's an excuse to shamelessly plug my other side projects, post my favorite Immaculate Grid from the week with a story about one of the players, link to stories I found interesting, and string together loose topics on my mind.
I’m back in San Francisco this weekend, broadcasting some college baseball games, flooded with memories of my life visiting the City as an adolescent, and living in the City as a young adult.
This is the sixth installment of “Scribbled Notes on a cocktail napkin” – which depending on your perspective, is either a tribute, or a cheap knockoff – to the sportswriters I read who compiled three-dot columns on weekends, all of us inspired and stealing from Herb Caen’s format.
The first edition of Caen’s famous “Baghdad by the Bay” book was published in 1949. The City has changed a lot, but the themes have not: affordable housing is a problem, the views in the City are spectacular, charming neighborhood bars are everywhere to celebrate or sulk or reminisce, and characters abound on every turn.
I ate dinner Friday night with Shae and Tom, two of my old roommates from the Funston House, a fabulous collection of characters who met on Craigslist, before that was creepy, and shared a five-bedroom house because it was the only way we could afford to live in the City.
The randomness of how it all started makes it better. The guy who is currently the President of the Baseball Hall of Fame, Josh Rawitch, introduced me to his childhood friend Jon one night over drinks. I told Jon that I was thinking of moving from the suburbs to the City, but couldn’t afford it. He told me he was organizing a group of people to share the costs and they might have a room for another.
What started as two people looking for an apartment became three people, then four looking for a house, then I was the fifth roommate when a house was procured in the Sunset District. When the search was still ongoing, Tom was traveling through Europe, went to an internet café to check his email about the group’s latest options, discovered a house was secured, and read that Josh was the fifth person.
Tom thought, “who is Josh??”
I moved my belongings into a room, left the next day for spring training, and finally met Tom six weeks later when spring training ended.
My first room in SF had enough space for a bed, a dresser with a TV on top, and a closet. That was it. The carpet was old and smelly and I found bee bees buried in the carpet from the previous tenants. The room was cold and damp. But it had a small window that looked out to the Pacific Ocean, visible maybe half the time when the fog wasn’t too thick. I felt like I’d made it.
The Funston House was like the Real World without the cameras. People came and went. As the newspaper reporter, I was in charge of writing the witty Craigslist add that would attract the right new mix of personalities. I had 10 roommates over five years.
I’d never do that now.
I’ll always be grateful I did it back then.
They were some of the best years of my life, strangers bonded over pooling our resources to live in a magnificent city who became lifelong friends. I recall so many times when Shae would say, “you guys, look at that view, we live here!”
Tom has visited me in Sacramento, when the Isotopes are in town, and sits next to me in the broadcast booth. I refer to him on the radio as my Editorial Consulting Coordinator.
The baseball coach who was paid $1
I’m doing play-by-play for the Nevada Wolf Pack this weekend, in town to play the University of San Francisco. The full official name for the Dons baseball field is Max Ulrich Field and Dante Benedetti Diamond.
Max Ulrich was a San Francisco resident who donated $358,000 to the university in his will. The field was initially named after just him.
Dante Benedetti was the USF baseball coach 1962-80. He came from a family that owned the New Pisa restaurant in San Francisco (which, psst, might have gained popularit
y for serving patrons wine during Prohibition.) Benedetti learned the family business, and after serving in World War II, took it over with his siblings.
A profitable New Pisa restaurant allowed Benedetti to sponsor and coach eight youth baseball teams at a time. If a boy on another team couldn’t afford equipment, he’d give money from his own pocket. Then he was hired to coach the St. Ignatius High baseball team. Benedetti opened the restaurant in the morning. His sister oversaw it while he taught Spanish, Italian and coached baseball through the day. Dante returned to the restaurant at night for closing.
Then USF hired him to coach baseball. After 13 years, the university was going to fold the baseball program due to financial reasons. Benedetti offered to coach for free. By law, he needed a contract, so he was paid $1 a year to coach the Dons baseball team for his final 16 years. From his USF Hall of Fame bio:
“He was a man from another time,” said San Francisco firefighter Don Russo, who played baseball for him at USF, and who worked for him at the New Pisa. “He gave everybody a chance, a chance to play, and a chance to work. And sometimes third and fourth chances. Everybody who played for him is one of Dante’s boys. We loved him.”
This week’s not-so random Immaculate Grid story: Joe DiMaggio
Joe DiMaggio’s nickname was “The Yankee Clipper.” He never played for another team in the majors except the Yankees, but was a proud San Franciscan to his core. Born in Martinez, DiMaggio’s family moved to San Francisco as a young child. He played baseball on Bay Street in the Marin Del horse lot against the likes of, yes, Dante Benedetti.
DiMaggio played for the San Francisco Seals in the old Pacific Coast League, which many considered a “third major leagues” for awhile. At age 18, DeMaggio (as the papers spelled his name back then) fashioned a 62-game hitting streak in 1933 that newspapermen reported with breathless drama. The streak’s attention is what influenced the Yankees to sign him.
MLB was still over 20 years from coming to California, so DiMaggio’s exploits across the country were a source of pride for San Francisco.
After his playing career ended, DiMaggio lived in the Marina District of San Francisco. When USF’s baseball field was renamed in 1980 to include Benedetti, DiMaggio was on hand to celebrate his childhood friend.
DiMaggio was at Candlestick Park for Game 3 of the 1989 World Series. The ground shook at 5:04 pm for 15 terrifying seconds, a massive 6.9 earthquake that those of us who lived through it will never forget. When the cable TVs went out, temporarily, all we had was radios to get information, hear incorrect rumors like the Bay Bridge collapsed, then confirm that a portion from the upper deck of the bridge fell to the lower deck.
The Marina district, a few blocks from where I’m staying this weekend, was hit hardest. DiMaggio’s house was among those damaged. DiMaggio waited patiently in line, just like everyone else, before getting word from the Red Cross if he was allowed back inside his home to assess damage or if his house needed to be demolished. People recognized him, offered for him to cut in line. DiMaggio politely rejected the invitation, waiting in line like everyone else.
When I think about a massive earthquake hitting now, or any natural disaster, my mind usually goes immediately to what would happen if the internet went out. How many people have actual radios to obtain information? How many radio stations have available reporters to disseminate accurate information?
This week’s “Where Ya At?” podcast guest: Cami Buckman
I host a podcast for San Diego State’s School of Journalism and Media Studies titled “Where Ya At?” Each week, I interview an alum to learn about their experience at SDSU, transitioning from student to professional, and their current job. You can listen on all podcast platforms, including Apple Music.
This week’s guest is Cami Buckman, a freelance producer who specializes in working on documentaries, including the current Discover Channel series “Hustlers Gamblers Crooks.” I enjoy asking people who and what inspired them to become a Journalist.
For me, it was listening to Bill King, Lon Simmons and Hank Greenwald on the radio describing live sporting events, and reading the words of scribes like Bill Soliday, Dave Newhouse, Monte Poole and John Hickey.
For Cami, it was watching “The Oprah Show” after school and watching journalist Lisa Ling’s investigative segments.
Cami and I discussed the enjoyment of deep dives, going down informational rabbit holes in pursuit of a story that we find interesting. One day, when she was working on explainer videos for Johnny Harris’ very popular YouTube channel, Johnny asked her, “why did I drink so much milk as a kid?
“I don’t know,” Cami told him, “but I’ll find out.”
And she did.
She’s the story producer for this explainer video.
Don’t call it Frisco
I can’t remember the first time I was told, “Don’t call it Frisco.” There had to be a first time. I just don’t recall it. I’ve never not known a time in my life when I thought it was acceptable to refer to San Francisco as Frisco, or even San Fran. I still take this very seriously and sternly correct people.
It wasn’t until I was much older, like, in my 30s, as a resident of The City, that I realized one of Herb Caen’s books was literally titled, “Don’t Call it Frisco.”
Herb Caen was basically the first influencer. He didn’t make videos for TikTok. He wrote popular newspaper columns about life in San Francisco, and his words served as instructional manuals for newcomers to The City about what it meant to live in The City.
I think about how much Caen loved San Francisco — he thought the best pronunciation was “SanfrnSISco,” all one word minus a syllable — and how much San Francisco culture and vocabulary is still based on his columns from decades ago, even if we don’t know it.
Friendly reminder this Newsletter is free for all. I might put a paywall behind it at some point. For the price of a fancy cup of coffee once a month, you can buy a subscription now. Your investment inspires to think of clever things to write.
Great column today. How much better could a paid account be?