NOTE: I grew up in the 60s. I often fell asleep with a 6-transistor radio under my pillow. I listened to Chick Hearn call the Lakers games, and Vin Scully fill in the gaps during the Dodgers games. Both broadcasters were great storytellers. I saw almost every game before nodding off.
I drive my Forester up to the window of the ranger station marking the entrance to the national park. I turn off the engine. I have been waiting 23 minutes to pay the entrance fee in one-dollar bills and coins.
The ranger and I exchange a choreographed greeting designed to keep traffic moving. But when it's time to hand over the goods — my money for a map — I fumble the pass, and something falls to the ground making a clinking noise.
I peer over the SUV's window to see what it was. But there's nothing. The ranger shrugs, "I didn't see it either." He pulls the map away from my grasp.
I push open the car door. There's barely enough room to get out. "It's okay, it's under here somewhere," I say while pointing my arthritic middle finger to the car's undercarriage.
Where’s mama?
The driver in the SUV behind me grimaces while his kids batter each other in the back seat. Music pump, pump, pumps from the car’s speakers. A woman in the passenger seat is looking at her phone.
I brace myself before dropping to the oil-stained asphalt so that I can take a look.
On my hands and knees, I notice that the oil stain looks a lot like the Lakers' Jerry West, the basketball player — Zeke from Cabin Creek. But the ball he was dribbling wasn't a ball at all.
Funny.
I look around for his teammate Mr. Inside, Elgin Baylor. Or was his nickname Gramps? I can't remember. Maybe it was both.
A car honks signaling the end of the period. The echo resonates through the forest, waking me from my thoughts.
Why was I here? Oh, yea.
I steal the ball from Jerry and steady myself before making the slow-mo alley-oop back to my feet.
I turn to my audience in the SUV with a grin on my face that suggests I just drained the game-winning three-pointer. I hold the quarter over my head like a trophy. But the driver has turned his attention to the fisticuffs in the back seat. The woman is still looking down. The music continues to pump, pump, pump.
I imagine the ovation.
The ranger looks up from his phone while I squeeze back into my seat. I hand him the oily quarter. He gives me a map and says, "Thanks. Have a nice day!"
I ask him, "Do you know Elgin Baylor?"
He shakes his head while eye-balling the circus behind me.
"You should look him up," I say. He shrugs.
I wipe my hands on my pants, start the Sube, adjust the rear-view mirror, and get that feeling one gets when something is missing. I turn back to the ranger.
"Baylor. Lakers. Minnesota and L.A."
"What?" I ask. "You're not making any sense."
"I Googled him."
"What? Who?"
"I Googled Elgin Baylor."
"Oh, right. Good on you. But, that's not it."
I notice the woman is now behind the wheel and that the music has stopped. She is looking up, her hand poised over the horn. The man is in the back seat wrestling what looks like a sword away from one of the kids.
"Where's my hat?"
The ranger winces.
There's another honk from the SUV behind me.
I push open the car door. There's barely enough room to get out. "It's okay, it's under here somewhere," I say.
Once again I brace myself before dropping to the oil-stained asphalt to take a look.
"Baylor, guarded by Lucas, looks left, dribbles right. Stops. Pump fakes. Lucas falls into the popcorn machine! Baylor shoots! Scores!"
The buzzer sounds.
I hope I see some bears later.
Photos by Gary Funk