GARGOZO MANUSCRIPT

In the late 1960s, Markland rented a place on Valentine Street which runs along the northern rim of Echo Park, and looks 350 feet down on the Los Angeles River, Glassell Park and Cypress Park.  The view from his place was expansive and unobstructed all the way to the San Gabriel Mountains.  Once or twice a year since he moved in, he would entertain himself and rattle nerves from Atwater Village to Pacoima.  He would have done it more frequently but he damn sure didn't want to get caught.  Most evenings the weather conditions were suitable with an on-shore air flow, light-to-moderate, and moving northwesterly from Dodger Stadium out to the San Fernando Valley.  When the weather and Markland's frame of mind came together, he would pull out three of the large plastic bags from the dry cleaners that he had stashed away.  The bags came with holes in the top.  One for the hanger, and the others I assume were to allow the garment to breathe.  He would tie a knot

I walked along with everyone else out of the plane, down the passageway, and into the waiting area where I was supposed to meet the client.  The inside of most airports are pretty much the same.  This was San Juan, Puerto Rico, and its distinguishing features were the humidity and teenagers in military uniforms with automatic weapons.  9/11 was four years away and air travel was still fairly casual.  I hadn't even bothered to bring a passport.  I had been hired to spend five days showing an injection molding company how to prepare for an upcoming quality audit.    The Owner of the company called Yvonne who handled our sales, and she had closed the deal.  Yvonne closed lots of deals, 35 to 40 a year for me, and who knows how many for others doing similar work.  Of the hundreds of deals she had set up for me, this one had the strangest requests for schedule and accommodations.  The owner wanted to schedule the five days of work with a weekend in the middle. 

In 2009, I was hoodwinked into riding a bicycle from Rosarito to Ensenada.  Michael signed me up for the 50 mile race with him and 10,000 other cyclists.  The event is treated as a race by the cycling clubs; and mostly just fun for the plodders and goofballs that bring up the rear.  The original course left the coast to run inland at the halfway point where it climbed a 1,000 foot mesa called El Tigre.   In the last few years, the race has sometimes bypassed El Tigre and remained along the coast the whole way.     In 2008, Michael had ridden the race and his wife, Maria and I were spectators.  The three of us were at the start of the race from directly in front of the Rosarito Beach Hotel on Highway 1.  We had arrived early and waited for all of the participants to take their position behind the starting line.  The riders were twelve abreast, across the width of the highway, and stretched back toward San Diego further than we could see.  Once the race began, it took

There is a beat up, ugly ball on display at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.  If you take the time to make out the scribbling apart from the smudges and stains, you will see the name Don Grate.  Also, you will see "443 feet 3 ½ inches", which is how far Don Grate threw this particular ball.  I first learned of this while thumbing through the Guinness Book of World Records in 1958.  Prior to reading this, I had considered myself to have a strong throwing arm, second only to Kevin Boyle's mother. Don Grate had several throws that bettered his record but went unmeasured.  He started his professional baseball career with the Chattanooga Lookouts in the minor leagues, where promotional gimmicks were used to attract people to the ball park.  Cow milking contests and skill exhibitions were often held prior to the game.  One day in 1952 before a game at Pelican Park in New Orleans, the manager told Don to join in the throwing exh