Great Hands, Bob! by Bob Kaufman

Google "great hands" and you'll quickly find a list of web links and an array of images depicting a variety of seemingly unrelated topics: physical massage, tattoos, potter's wheels, football, baseball and basketball players doing their thing, and even a hockey player picking his nose.  If "ball" is anywhere in the name of a sport, the successful players must have good hands. The superstars have great hands.

T-38 Flight Line, Williams AFB, Arizona, 1971

T-38 In the Overhead Traffic Pattern,
Williams AFB, Arizona, 1971

During my days in the cockpit, the best pilots were sometimes called "good sticks" referring to the stick we held in our right hand to control every movement of the aircraft. With throttles in our left hand and the stick in our right hand, it was also said of those who were the best pilots, usually with some envy, "he has great hands".  I was first in my class of 70 or so student pilots for most of our year in training. When our follow-on assignments came near the end of training, I had earned first choice. I graduated 4th in my class...but that's another story.

I had pretty good hands.

Capt. Bob Kaufman, Boomer Flight IP,
Williams AFB, Arizona 1974

On the other hand, there was "ham hands".  Walking through the hallway of the T-38 squadron building one day I observed a small crowd of student pilots listening to one of their comrades telling a "war" story about his heroics during the mission he had just completed. While performing a routine entry to the overhead traffic pattern - a maneuver that required a simple, level 60-degree bank turn to line up with the runway at an altitude of 1500 feet AGL (above ground level) at a comfortable 280 knots airspeed - this magnificent young airman somehow rolled his flying machine inverted (upside down), crossed through the final approach corridors of two active, parallel runways and almost "bought the farm" in a cotton field a few miles southeast of the runway.  Miraculously, ham hands recovered from his very unusual attitude, crossed back through the other traffic on his return to the prescribed pattern, and eventually landed safely and lived to recount his heroics to his fellow students in the snack bar. During his heroic narrative he used the phrase "great hands" in reference to his safe recovery.  Its a wonder how he didn't break his arm patting himself on the back. I was not his IP (instructor pilot) so I bit my tongue and walked away.  Discounting possible mechanical failure, only the worst of pilots could ever get such an unusual attitude in a perfectly good airplane. Nah, that’s too nice. I can’t imagine how even the worst stick could do it. This guy was awfully @#^$%* lucky! (Colorful military metaphor censored!)

So, there I was, in right field, Spring 1965, my junior year in high school playing for the PHS Tigers baseball team.  That was a few years after they had completed the new football field which is now called Coach Bob Wise Memorial Stadium.  The old football field would later become the baseball field, but at that time we did not have a suitable baseball field anywhere in town.  Instead, for home games we rode the bus to Graeagle and played on the gravel field surrounded by Tomahawk Trail, just up the hill from highway 89 in the middle of town. (Later I mention the "dugouts" at that field, but they were no more than telephone poles, laid horizontally on some footings, which we seldom used because, frankly, they hurt our butts!)

Portola Tigers High School Baseball Team, Spring 1965
Graeagle Baseball Field
1965 Pineneedle

Bunky Brown played center field.  He had the strongest arm of anyone in the county and his skill at the plate was everything you would want in a strong center fielder.  On the other hand, my ninety-eight pound weakling arm had improved just a little…very little, from Little League…but I had quick feet, good judgement, and quick responses so I was able to cover a lot of ground and run down some tough fly balls. I wanted to play center field but nobody was going to replace Bunky until he graduated. (I did make to center field in 1966!)

Mr. Cimaglia's Coach's Message in the 1965 Pineneedle said:  "The outfield was manned by Brown, Grant and Fisher".  They were all seniors.  But I must have done something right because coach also said: "The 1965 baseball season can be summarized in the score:  Portola 2, Lassen 0.  The Tigers beat Lassen in the last game of the year to knock the Grizzlies out of first place.  Stalwart pitcher Ed Cavaille performed masterfully on the mound.  Portola scored on consecutive hits by Nally, Kaufman, Hull, and Ed Cavaille."
(Mr. Cimaglia always called me "Coffee" or maybe it was "Kaufee". However you spell it, I really liked that.)

Coach Armando "Mando" Cimaglia's Message
1965 Pineneedle

Make a note of that.  It is in print for all to see.  I actually contributed to the most important game of
that year...but this story is about the Greenville game.  We were scalped by the Indians 14 - 7.

In one of the late innings, Greenville had two out and I think a couple of men on base.  Their batter hit a routine fly ball to shallow right field...and it would have been a routine catch not worthy of being mentioned ever again except that, belying my previous statement about good judgement, at first, I started moving to my left and back.  Then I realized the ball was going to drop well in front of me. Quickly I dug in with my left foot, changed course, and scrambled forward.  At the last instant, with both arms outstretched, I dove head-first onto the gravel, landing on my forearms, kicking up a cloud of dust like an Arizona monsoon.  I closed my glove a split second early and the ball landed on the crease between my thumb and fingers.  Because I was engulfed in that cloud of dust, absolutely no one at the field but me knows for sure what happened. However, the umpire, showing somewhat uncharacteristic good judgement, (something umpires seldom do when you're losing), ruled it was an out.

I trotted toward our "dugout" on the third base side, passing the first base dugout where the Indians were on the warpath, whooping and hollering and complaining they had been cheated out of a few more runs...as if 14 to 7 wasn’t enough of a massacre. You would have thought the game was on the line by their reaction.  All the Tigers had to say was "Great hands, Bob!" (A few might have said “great catch”, but that wouldn’t fit the story, so I’ll pretend I’m right.)

Truthfully, it was a catch.  The ball never hit the ground.  Instant replay would not have overturned that call. Just like that ball stuck in the crease of my glove, that mental image of the ball resting there has stuck in my memory for more than fifty years!

The next day in Mr. Rowden's math class, I sat with my elbows on the desk and both hands in the air, like a doctor waiting for his assistant to put on his surgical gloves, to keep my scarred and scabbed forearms off the desk.  Oblivious to my heroic play the previous day he said something totally in character like: "What happened?  Did you trip going down the stairs?"  Didn't he know he was in the presence of a superstar with great hands?

I don’t know if I had a girlfriend at the time.  I hardly did, ever, so probably not.  But if I did, she would have been impressed even if Mr. Rowden wasn’t.  And she would not have known that I was a hero, basking in my fifteen seconds of fame, only because I misjudged a routine fly ball...and I certainly wasn’t about to admit it!

I'm From Portola. Period! by Bob Kaufman

On June 2, 2010 at Comerica Park in Detroit, Michigan, Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga became the 21st pitcher in Major League history to throw a perfect game...almost.   Galarraga retired the first 26 Cleveland Indians batters he faced and needed only one more out to achieve perfection. The Indians’ 27th batter was Jason Donald. With the count at 1-1, Donald hit a routine ground ball to second base. It looked like an easy out. Galarraga circled toward first base to take the throw, but his bid for baseball immortality failed when first base umpire Jim Joyce, arms flying out to each side as if he had just attacked two invisible assailants with sideways karate chops, signaled that Donald was safe at first base.  I was watching the game live on TV and could see clearly that Donald was out by half a stride.  Everybody in the world knew it.  I wasn't a Tigers fan but who wouldn't cheer for someone who had just thrown a perfect game?  I started to cheer and stopped midway when Joyce signaled "safe", almost straining some critical muscles in the aborted effort.  Galarraga did everything necessary to earn the glory but instead finished with a one-hit shutout in a 3–0 victory.  He faced 28 batters and threw just 88 pitches, 67 strikes and 21 balls, striking out three batters.  That game is sometimes referred to as the "Imperfect Game."

Amando Galarraga's Imperfect Game
The Imperfect Game - Longer Version

Rather than achieving every pitcher's dream, Gallaraga's otherwise perfect achievement is just a footnote in baseball history.  If ever he tells his grandchildren about it, he can't just say "I pitched a perfect game." He is forever consigned to adding a footnote to explain what really happened.  Invariably that will open a lengthy conversation that will interest absolutely nobody.

I HATE FOONOTES!

The intersection of Gulling Street and Highway 40A, 1952.
Photo by Alice Olinghouse (Walker), PHS Class of 1967

When I left home in September 1966 to begin my first year of college, I quickly learned that "Portola, California" as an answer to "where are you from" is an incomplete statement without a footnote.  Sometimes I wished I had grown up in San Francisco, or better yet, Los Angeles.  I envied those who could simply answer: "L.A." It is so compact, efficient and complete! You don't have to say another word after that.  On the other hand, "I'm from Portola" must always be followed by "It's about 50 miles northwest of Reno.” … "No.  You're thinking of Portola Valley.  That's in the Bay Area on the peninsula near San Francisco where there's fog, smog, congestion and lots of weird people.  My hometown is in the mountains on the east side of the state where the air and water are clean and pure, everybody knows everybody else and we don't even have a stop light in town.  In fact we could leave home, forget to lock the doors and return to find everything just as we left it...except if we left the water running on the lawn, a neighbor surely would have turned it off before it started running down the street."

But who would be interested in that?

Portola's Traffic Light
Portola Reporter Photo, 2004

Somebody did “borrow” my sister’s car one night when she left it running in front of the Portola Theater for a minute or two, and went in to help Jolene, who was taken ill.  When Carol went back out of the theater, her car was nowhere in sight. An hour or so later, it mysteriously showed up half a block down the street from our house, with a little less gas than when it disappeared.  Even car thieves in my hometown could be trusted not to do any real harm!

Beyond that one-car-theft incident, any attempt to compare Portola with a big city is complete balderdash at best, and at worst, an insult to the proud country folk who lived and grew up there.

In 2004, thirty-eight years after I left home for the city, they ruined everything and finally put a stop light at the intersection of Gulling Street and the highway, right smack dab in the middle of the north side of town…but that’s another story.

A few years ago, I learned that my grandfather - dad's natural father who I never met, who last contacted the family in the mid 40's some twenty or so years after he first disappeared - died near Los Angeles in 1953 when I was barely five years old.  If life had turned out differently, I might have lived near him and could have realized my dream of being able to say, "I'm from L.A." Period!

With my luck, the next question would have been "Which part?"

Face by Bob Kaufman

Face was a southpaw, but he wasn't an athlete, so we'll just say he was left handed.

He was a pretty good-looking guy with strong facial features and thick, dark, wavy hair.  I can't imagine he liked that nickname and I have no idea why Willie Ghidossi pinned it on him, except maybe because of those strong features.  But getting a less-than-flattering nickname comes with the territory when you're a new kid in town and you're not a sports superstar. Willie was always doing things like that, when he wasn't throwing me into the sticker bush by the front steps to the high school.

The only credit listed with Face's senior picture in the 1965 Pineneedle, our school yearbook was "PHS-2,3,4, transfer from McGregor, Texas", meaning that he attended PHS for his sophomore, junior and senior years and didn't do much else to stand out from the crowd.  Contrast that list of accomplishments with any of his classmates – Dan Fisher for example: “PHS-1,2,3,4; Block P-1,2,3,4; Football-1,3,4; Basketball-1,2,4; Baseball-1,3,4; Track-1,2,3,4; Student Council-1,4; Chico Student Leaders Conference-4; Class President-2; School Play-4;” and you can see why he was an easy target for some high school antics.  But as I remember, Face was a good-natured, gentle, and kind sort of a guy. It was difficult not to like him. I cannot recall ever hearing him say an unkind word about anyone.

For three years we walked the same hallways and even had a class or two together. Surely, we must have bumped shoulders in a crowded hallway once or twice between classes, although I remember none of it.  But then one day, in 5th period PE class, we spent a few minutes separated by little more than the length of his lanky left arm, which might have been an inch or so longer than mine. That day when we shared almost the same space and time was most likely his fifteen minutes of athletic fame in those three years, maybe even in all of his life.

The Old Gym at Portola High School
I believe this is a Bertha Miller photo
Courtesy of Carrie Neely

Boxing was one sport we experienced in PE, like it or not.  I didn’t care much for it.  During those long winter months when we played indoors, the most fun I ever had was playing pin baseball or dodge ball in the old gym...but that's another story.  Coach made certain we had a wide range of activities in our physical education and that meant we spent a week or two pounding on each other's bodies and faces if we wanted a passing grade.  And, of course, to NOT pass PE would be a disgrace worse than … well I can't think of anything that ranks in the same universe as failing PE, so we boxed a little. Strange how I feared taking a punch in the face more than using any part of my body to stop a 90 mile an hour volleyball thrown at close range by Willie, Dan, or Bunky Brown in a dodge ball game...but I did.

Taken at a home a block east of ours on
Plumas Street. I don't know the kid on the right.

Face and I were paired up for a boxing match in our 5th period PE class in the old gym. I was sort of an athlete, so I guess Coach figured it was fair for me to face an upperclassman that wasn't. He was older, taller, gentle, and nice.  I was macho and mean (right!).  I competed in football, basketball, baseball and track so I guess it was an even match.  At least I had had some experience with physical contact in a less-than-friendly environment.  I finally had outgrown my ninety-eight-pound weakling stereotype.  I must have been a whopping 120 pounds by then.  In short, I think Face was the underdog in this bout, or at least he was the emotional favorite.

We both had to wear the leather boxer’s headgear to prevent any serious injury.  In hindsight, that probably presented a greater danger to our health.  If you could sequence the DNA that had been sweated into those head protectors and boxing gloves over the years, you’d get an interesting list of who’s who from PHS in the 50’s and 60’s.  The smell of the gloves was unforgettable, and remarkably pleasant.

My first time being knocked down.
I think the chicken tripped me.

Face and I went a round or two without doing much harm to one another. But then, in the third round, Face poked at me with a right jab  and I leaned back to avoid contact.

Now, remember he was left handed and I was right handed. He danced like a butterfly with his right foot forward and jabbed with his right hand, saving his powerful left hand for the knockout punch.

I, on the other hand, stung like a bee leading with my left hand and my left foot forward. That's easy to understand. Right?

Face threw a right jab, I ducked back. I don't remember feeling any contact with my face.  If his glove touched me at all, it was completely in character with his gentle nature. Without the benefit of instant replay, I’m sure all the guys watching the match would swear he landed a punch squarely on my only-slightly-experienced-if-not-completely-unexercised-kisser.

As I tried to step back, he stepped on my left foot with his right foot.  Instantly I stumbled backward out of control.  I think it had something to do with the concept of center of gravity that Mr. Popish had taught us in 4th period Physics class just before our lunch break earlier that day.

Philip Cook
1965 Pineneedle

I stumbled backward several steps trying to regain my balance. Unable to get my feet back under me I finally went down flat on my back on the hardwood floor and just missed hitting my head on the padded wall under the basketball backboard. My feet flew over my head and I almost could have done a backward handstand against the wall. But, regaining control, I did a kip up to get back on my feet, just as Coach had taught us in gymnastics. Everybody cheered for Face and I was the unfortunate goat!  That “knock down” was a real crowd pleaser!

I have been “knocked down” only twice in my life that I can remember.  This was the second time.  Immediately I jumped to my feet and tried to explain what really happened, but nobody would have any part of it. The most unlikely athlete had just scored a knock down and that was a better story.  I don't think it made the next edition of “el Tigre”, the school newspaper, but I'm pretty sure the news echoed around the halls for a few days.  “Philip, ‘The Face’ Cook scores TKO against Bobby ‘Bad Boy’ Kaufman in 5th period PE!”  (Nobody ever called me ‘Bad Boy’.  I just made that up. After all, this is a boxing story.)

Philip Cook and his twin sister, Lai Launi were two pretty fine people from the class of 1965. I don't know when or if Willie ever stopped calling him Face, but if he did, I’m pretty sure it was right after he scored that knockdown in 5th period PE class.

Bugs by Bob Kaufman

My good friend, Bugs.

Stan Ghidossi (pronounced “Gid – oh – see with emphasis on the “oh”) is one of a handful of my classmates that attended Portola schools all 13 years from Kindergarten to High School Graduation.  He isn’t in my Kindergarten class picture, but I know he was there that year.  I will never forget the day he raised his hand to get permission to go to the little boy’s room.  I don’t remember if he raised one finger or two, but I know we all laughed when he went through the wrong door and entered the girl’s restroom.  We laughed even harder when he came out. What kindergartner wouldn’t get a laugh out of that?  The restroom doors were in plain view next to the classroom, so we could see everyone coming…and going…so to speak.

I don’t remember how he got the nickname “Bugs”, but I envied him a little for it.  It was a perfect nickname, especially for a kid growing up in a small mountain town.  I mean, if guy yells “Hey, Bugs”, everybody knows immediately who he’s talking to.  Say “Hey, Bob”, and fifteen guys turn around and say “huh?”  Maybe he got the name because he was a little smaller than the rest of us or it might have been a reference to Bugs Bunny.  Whatever the reason, he was Stan to most people, but he will always be Bugs to me.

Bugs’ older brother, Willie, was a year ahead of us in school.  Whatever Bugs gave up in size, Willie made up, and then some.  He made 7th grade a nightmare for me.  From the very first day I tried to enter the front doors of the old high school at the end of California street, I became intimately acquainted with the sticker bush at the bottom of the stairs at the main entrance, courtesy of Bugs’ big brother.  I suppose it would be called bullying today, but back then, it was just part of Junior High School initiation.  I wouldn't call Willie a bully. He was just a big guy who liked to have fun...but he scared me for a long time.

The Old Dam Caddy Corner from Bugs' and Willie's House.
Photo Credit: Unknown

Bugs and Willie lived in the yellow house at the corner of Riverside and North Beckwith streets, caddy-corner to the old bridge and the dam that blocked the Feather River, creating the best ice skating rink in the world…but that’s another story.  How lucky was that?  He could go ice skating anytime he wanted – in the winter anyway – just by crossing the street!

Bugs' Jump Shot
1966 Pineneedle

Bugs was one of the best guards Portola basketball teams ever had, at least during the few years that I played.  I know we had fun on the bus traveling to and from the away games at Greenville, Chester, Herlong, and other such exotic destinations, all schools in the Feather River League. But my best memories of our times together were those we spent in the band room.

Bugs played a baritone horn in the Concert Band and I played clarinet.  Together with Bob Hurd, Pete Thill, and Glenn Hull on trombone, and Rory Luce on the Tuba we had a pretty good ensemble, especially in 7th and 8th grade band. OK.  I’m stretching the truth again.  On the days we spent time in the practice rooms adjacent to the main band room, I’m sure we were girl watching more than we were practicing our music.  You see, some of the practice rooms had windows facing the outdoor entrance to the girls’ locker room, and when the boys had band and shop class, the girls had P.E.   Get the picture?

Bugs was good on the baritone, but he was best known for his skills on the piano.  He was the pianist for the Dance Band for four years from 1963-1966. That first year I was not a performing member of the Dance Band. Mr. Thompson asked me to play the Baritone Sax in evening rehearsals, but I did not play at any gigs.  I didn't mind though. I would jump at any chance I had to play the bari sax. Sometimes the vibration in the mouthpiece from the lower notes would tickle my lips and nose, but it created a cool sound. The next three years I was a performing member playing the tenor and alto sax.

Bugs playing the Baritone.
1966 Pineneedle

We rehearsed either on Tuesday or Thursday nights from 7 to 9 PM.  That made for some long days when we had football or basketball practice after school.  Before we turned 16 and got our drivers licenses, Bugs and I had the best time walking home after rehearsals.  We both loved those good old Neil Sedaka songs from the sixties. You haven’t lived if you’ve never walked down Nevada street at 9 o’clock at night singing at a fortississimo "Do-do-do down doobie-do-down-down, com-a com-a down doobie-do-down-down.  Breaking up is hard to-oo-oo do."?  We had the lungs to do it, and the fog from our warm breath hitting the crisp night air turned into snow that blanketed the town the next morning! OK. I suppose we weren't filled with that much hot air, but once or twice during those years, we must have annoyed the Olsen’s, Rees’s, Ayoob’s, and a few others in the neighborhood with our late night crooning!

Dance Band.
1966 Pineneedle

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do by Neil Sedaka

As good as Bugs was as a singer, his forte was the piano.  He could tickle the ivories better than anyone I knew. No, wait. I forgot about Norma Peterson, but she was a grown up, so that doesn't count – and oh, what a story that is! I remember many occasions when Bugs would play the piano before and after concert band and dance band rehearsals, and he had quite a repertoire of pieces he could play from memory.  When Bugs played these impromptu recitals, many of us would stand around the piano firing requests at him before he could release the foot pedal to muffle the string vibrations from the previous piece.  One of the favorites was Ludwig Von Beethoven's “Bagatelle No. 25 in A Minor for Solo Piano”.  It was many years after the echo of Bugs' renditions had faded from the music room of the old high school before I came to know its more familiar title: "Für Elise". (Heck, I had never heard of a Bagatelle until I Googled it the other day.)

Greg VonTour was in Willie’s class. He was a bit of a character, one who was more likely to help Willie throw me into the sticker bush than to play an instrument in the band. I think it’s safe to say he probably was not given to studying classical music. In fact, I don't recall why he ever would have darkened the door of the band room, except maybe to peak out the practice room windows. But one day in particular, he was with a group of us around the piano. I doubt German was Greg's second language.  They only offered Spanish in those days. So “Für Elise” most likely was not in his vocabulary. This much I do know, it wasn’t in MY vocabulary. And forget about the Bagatelle…. I wonder if even Bugs knew that one. But it was Greg who is immortalized in my mind as the guy who shouted out the one request that I will never forget. I wonder if Beethoven rolled over in his grave when Greg shouted:

The Complete Dance Band

"Play Tinga Linga Linga Too"!


Call it what you will, it matters not. But oh, how I wish I could go back to that music room and hear Bugs play it again, just one more time!

Fur Elise

Update: Had this conversation with Bugs on Facebook today, Aug 2, 2019 (So know you know the rest of the story):