Don Ball and the 50-Yard-Dash at Peary Junior High Schooi

On a fine Spring day in 1969, a hard-to-believe 54 years ago, a gym coach at Peary Junior High School in Gardena had a sudden idea; find out who is the fastest runner at school. And a 50-yard-dash would decide who that was.  There was a lull of activity in the gym area - the track, the handball courts, the baseball fields - so Coach Hines, who once held the American record for indoor pole vault, called everyone together and had the fastest guys in school line up near the chain link fence that borders 162nd Street and where the 50-yard-dash would start.

 I forgot all who were in that line up. I’m sure Guy Askins was there, and Humphrey Dodson, and Ronald Williams. Probably Mike Miller and Cornelius Bailey.  Stevie Maranon was in that line up. And I know that Don Ball was in there, too.

Ball, my closest friend then and for the next 54 years, stood out. I’m trying to think of what he stood out like. Way more than a sore thumb. Don Ball stood out more than just about anything I had ever seen. Here were eight Black guys. Stevie Maranon, who was, I think, Filipino. And Don Ball, the whitest red-haired guy I have ever known.

 I’m was not even sure why Coach Hines let Ball  run.

 Anyway. I am at the finish line with Hines and many others. And it’s a “On your mark”.

 “Get set.”

 “Go.”

After maybe 15, 20 yard I am stunned the Ball is even in the running. He’s close to the lead.  Somewhere, like at about 30 yards, I find feel as if my eyes are playing tricks on me because it is clear Don Ball is in the lead!

 At 40 yards, he is in the lead.

And at the 50 yard finish line,,,,, the winner is…….. DON BALL!!!

 I’m not the only one stunned. Everyone, the runners and their friends, are kinda silent. Finally, Coach Hines makes it official and yells out “The winner is Don Ball.”

Man, Don and I talked about that for the next 54 years. I didn’t see him all that much, a few times a year at best. But we talked maybe once a month or so.  He had moved away to Oregon and recently back to Utah where his family was from. But whenever I did see him – and most of the times I even talked on the phone with Ball – we would eventually talk about the 50 yard dash.  And if I saw him and there was somebody else there, I would tell that story.

 Ball loved that story, as he should. And I loved to tell it.

 Two months ago, I had called Ball two times to tell him I needed some of the Mexican honey he was selling. For more than a year, my girlfriend, a chef, had been using Don’s honey at her restaurant.  I wanted some for a gift. I left two messages and didn’t hear back. I left a third message which was basically “Hey Ball, I’m starting to worry about you. Call me back.”

A few weeks ago, I checked some messages on Instagram, something I rarely do. I had one Don Ball’s ex-wife Mollie and one from his brother David. Both said to call them.  They had bad news about Don.

Damnit. Damnit to hell, as Ball would often say. Don had a heart attack and was found dead at his place in Utah. That is very hard to type.

 I found my 9th grade Peary Jr. High yearbook, Polaris 1969. This is part of what Don Ball wrote.  “I appreciate your mom putting up with me during the time I’ve known you. So I’ll say goodbye saying you’re the best friend in the world”.

 I wish I could see Ball’s yearbook and see what I wrote. I like to think I called him the best friend in the world, too.

Hey, Ball, wherever you are, I know your telling that story about the time at Peary Junior High School in Gardena when you won the 50-yard dash.  

NANCY, DAN RICHER, CHRIS BIANCO & FRANCO PEPE UNITE TO MAKE ONE PIZZA

BY JIMMY DOLAN

With late night talk show hosts from countless galaxies making Earth the butt of their evening jokes, four renowned human chefs held a news conference Monday to announce they will team up to make a special pizza with the proceeds going toward helping this planet get its act together.

The four chefs - Nancy Silverton, Chris Bianco, Dan Richer and Franco Pepe - will each have their own slice of this 4-slice pizza, named the United Slices of Earth.  

“Imagine Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci, Pablo Picasso and Vinny Van Gogh painting on a single canvas,” said Anthony Bourdain from an undisclosed location. “Each of them will have a slice, a corner of this pizza. ”

 The goal of the pizza is to end war, hunger, disease and have the rest of the Universe look up to us, something that hasn’t happened since the recording/video of “We Are The World” was released.

 The family of Edward Hooper filed a formal complaint with the United Nations for not being included in this mythical painting.

 As the Tribune went to press, no pizzaiola had objected to not being included in this real pizza.

NANCY WITH JDAN RICHER OF RAZZA IN JERSEY CITY

Nancy with franco pepe of pepe in grani in Caiazzo

Nancy with Bronz boy Chris bianco of pizzeria bianco in phoenix and los angeles

JOINT SENATE/HOUSE INVESTIGATION OF MISSING SINGLE SOCKS REVEALS STUNNING RESULTS

A joint U.S. Senate and House of Representative three-year investigation concluded Monday with the extraordinary findings that Black Americans and White Americans lose single socks after a washing/drying session at nearly identical rates.

 The joint committee, chaired by Joe Manchin (D-South Virgina,) found out that for every 100 washing and drying episodes, White Americans lost a single sock 34.72% of the time, while Blacks lost a single sock 34.74% of them time.

 “I know many Americans were initially outraged that senators and congressional representatives took three years to get these findings, but with these fascinating results, I am almost pretty sure they will understand the time and millions of dollars spent were well worth it,” said Manchin, a professional bitch.

 Others said the findings were extremely “telling”.

 “Although it was closer than I thought, 34.72% to 34.74%, it is clearly a win for White Americans,” said Marjorie Taylor Greene, a relatively well-known fecal matter. “Maybe the darks should organize their clothes better, or at least look harder in the dryer for a missing sock.  Hey, I just realized that darks probably don’t separate dark and white clothing. That sure says something.”

 When pressed by Bob Woodward what that actually “says”, she refused to answer.

 After releasing the findings both the senate and the house announced they would be on summer vacation and would resume meetings in early October to discuss the Russian invasion of Ukraine and, more importantly to figure out a way to lower the price of gasoline by six cents per gallon without resulting in block-long lines at gas stations across the United States of America. Congressional  analysts has stated a  drop of 6 pennies for a gallon would mean that American drivers could save 96 cents – nearly one dollar - on a single 16 gallon fill-up.

 “To some, that may not seem like a lot,” said fecal matter Taylor-Greene. “But if you fill up 400 million times, that would really add up.”

THE MAGNIFICENT FAREWELL OF BETTY DAY, GODMOTHER OF JORDAN DOWNS, QUEEN OF WATTS

There was the city equivalent of a state funeral here in town over the past weekend as Royalty was memorialized and laid to rest. The local television news didn’t cover it, nor did the Los Angeles Times. To their credit, PBS did try to film the memorial service, but were turned away.

Still, none of the over 1,000 people in attendance – other perhaps than myself - cared the media wasn’t out in force. These folks - from the proudest neighborhood in Los Angeles - are accustomed to being left alone and all they wanted to do was honor their Queen.

That queen was Betty Day, 82, long known as the “Godmother of Jordan Downs”, and more recently promoted by her peers Queen of Watts. The person that announced her Queen title at the memorial says much about the woman who was referred to by men who have spent 12 years at Folsom as “Ms. Day”.  It was announced by no more appropriate authority than activist Big Donny Joubert, from Nickerson Gardens, the once frequent deadly enemy of Jordan Downs. Joubert, like many, talked about Betty’s toughness, compassion and desperate pursuit to bring peace and end to the maddening gang violence in Watts.

I will say here this is an op-ed piece even if much of what follows might be more like an obituary or a news story about a dead person and not an op-ed. But my opinion - and why I am writing this - is everyone in this city and even the entire country should know about Betty Day and honor the Betty Days of the communities still out there.

Betty was born 1940 in Kilgore, Texas but came to Watts not long after. At 15 she met and married Arthur Day and they were together 65 years until his death in 2020. I met Betty, all five feet, 100 pounds of her, in 2005 when she was 65.  After more than a decade of relative peace in the Watts community between the Grape Street Crips of Jordan Downs, the Bounty Hunter Bloods from Nickerson Gardens and the PJ Crips form Imperial Courts, the killings were back.

Betty was instrumental in founding the Watts Gang Task Force, an organization consisting of gang members, community activists and police officers that met at then-15th District Council member Janice Hahn’s office. At the first 2005 meeting, when she became the first and still-only president of the task force, Betty famously yelled “Enough!”

LAPD Deputy Chief Emada Tingirides was at sergeant back then and spoke to the masses of that first Watt Gang Task Force meeting. “I saw her and thought ‘Whose is you?’ and she saw me and thought ‘Whose is you?’  Later, she took me aside and said ‘Oh, girl, you are going to learn from me.’ I did.”

Tingirides spoke fondly of being at a dining function and, at the end of it, Betty scooping up all the packets of ketchup. honey, mustard on the table and putting them into her purse.

Janice Hahn, now a L.A. County Supervisor, spoke next. Hahn didn’t have a prepared speech and spoke from her heart. I’ve seen Hahn speak for close to 20 years, but I have never seen her so relaxed, so smiling as she talked and laughed at the memories. In Hahn’s talk – an Tingirides’ - the wonder of Betty Day came shining through. She was a human whose personality was such that you realized she was special. She was on a mission of great importance, and she wanted you along for the ride, Betty had that lovely quality to make you feel important.  If I didn’t go to the gang task force meeting for a few weeks, when she saw me, she’d call out in her borderline raspy voice, “Krikorian! Where you been?”  By the way, Hahn ended by raving about Betty’s brisket and how it was the best she ever ate, and how Betty would not give up some secret ingredients. “Now I know,” Hahn said smiling. “It was those packets of honey and ketchup she took.”

Other spoke, but it all seemed opening acts for Betty Day’s son Wayne to get up and address the crowd. He did. Anyone familiar with Watts might not know him as Wayne, but everyone knows who “Honcho” is. Honcho was the leader of the Grape Street Crips, the notorious gang that ran Jordan Downs. The federal authorities referred to him as the “Godfather of Watts” and he ended up doing 11 years in federal prison for drug-related offenses. He got out in 2007, went straight and eventually worked for a law firm as a para legal.

“I want to thank everyone who came,” he said. Then he singled out a group. “I especially want to thank the LAPD for showing up.”

In the way back seats where I was, a man next to me mumbled, “Damn, Honch thanked the LAPD.”  If someone had told me 15, 20 years ago Honcho would one day thank the LAPD for showing up anywhere, I woulda laughed. That’s like Al Capone thanking Elliot Ness and the FBI for showing up. But he did. And all because of his mother.

Wayne spoke of his mother’s passing. “I have no regrets about her life and that she’s gone. It wasn’t like she caught a stray. She went in the proper order.”

After the service, I didn’t go to the burial, but instead drove through Jordan Downs. It was empty. I drove by Betty’s home on Grape Street near 107th. Across the street from her house is tiny Grape Street Park. The state legislature announced at her service it would be changed to Betty Day Park.

I wrote an article about Betty in the LA Weekly 2009 “People” issue. I can’t use all the colorful language the Weekly did back then. But the lede was basically this. “Betty Day doesn’t take shit from anyone. She’d tell off Obama if he upset her. Hell, she’d cuss out Putin in a heartbeat while walking the streets of Moscow at midnight. That’s Betty Day, the godmother of the Jordan Downs.”  

That was 13 years ago. Today I say, “Thank you, Queen Betty.”

HOW MUCH YOU WEIGH, SLUGGER? WHEN YOU WEIGHED ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY EIGHT POUNDS, YOU WERE BEAUTIFUL

“How much you weigh, slugger? When you weighed 168 pounds, you were beautiful. You coulda been another Billy Conn. That skunk we got you for a manager, he brought you along too fast.” –

Those are the lead-in lines of Charlie Malloy (played by Rod Steiger) that prompts his younger brother Terry (Marlon Brando) to unleash one of the film world’s most revered soliloquies: the back of the taxi “I coulda been a contender” speech in “On the Waterfront”.

When I went to Kaiser last week to get a blood pressure checkup - after testing kinda high the month before, holding off on a prescription to lower it by vowing to cut down on certain foods - the nurse had me weigh-in by sitting on the examination chair.

“168 pounds”, she said.

I felt elated. My dream weight, my own fighting weight! Finally, after many years I was back in shape. Cutting down on butterscotch Budino, Nancy’s Fancy gelato, lamb shoulder chops and double orders of cacio y pepe had paid off.

Then, my absolute worst nemesis, me, went into sixth gear down the Mulsanne straight at Le Mans. That month before, when I had that highish blood pressure check, I had weighed 179 pounds. Sure, that was pretty good for me, who peaked over 200 a few years back. But to lose 11 pounds in a month?  Jeez, I thought with dread oozing, something’s very wrong with me.  I hated to think it, but to lose that much weight that fast, I might, I could, I, I, I thought of one thing. Cancer. The scourge that killed both of my parents.

How cruel a disease to come at me with “168”. It was almost admirable in its wickedness to use the number that leads to the most famous scene of my all-time favorite movie.

I needed to weigh again.  I told the nurse. She did and it was 167 pounds. Oh no, I’m going fast.

“Let’s put on you the regular scale,” she suggested, sensing my anxiety. I got up – wobbly - and walked at least 13, 14 feet to a stand-on scale. It came out in kilos. 81 of them. I quickly did that math, the 2.2 pounds per kilo.  Hmm? That’s, ugh, 162 plus 16.2. Wait, that’s 178 pounds.

Yes, 178, not 168! Immediate relief. I’m fine. That feeling was quickly followed by me thinking, “Damn. A month of cutting down at Mozza and I only lost one measly pound?”

I keep going over and over in my mind, telling myself how fortunate I am on so many fronts. My health, my family especially my sister, no bombs are falling on me, that I’m still kicking, all the funerals I’ve been to, my incredible girlfriend of 19 years, but that ‘ol nemesis of mine, me, keeps trying to throw big ugly monkey crescent wrenches onto my wonderful life.

I told my friend Caroline Blundell I was my own worst enemy and she just said “Join the club.”

You have next to no idea how many times I’ve almost had a stroke, often when I’m having an outwardly pleasant conversation with a friend or acquaintance.  Or one of those sudden heart attacks that kill you nearly as fast as a bullet to the brain. Oh, I just had a, just right now, a sudden twitch in my right neck, It went away quick, but isn’t that one of those early warning signs that the big one is coming. Or is that a shoulder pain? A neck pain seems a lot worse than a shoulder pain. 

If you don’t feel well, never go and Google a symptom. You probably know that, but it needs to be repeated. (Especially to myself.) Any possible twitch is a symptom of deadly disease.

My own twitch just now has passed, and I feel pretty good.  But, for the heck of it, I’m gonna Google “twitch in the neck”  Hold on. I just did. I shouldn’t have. That’s all I put in “Twitch in the neck” and it looks like I have an underlying spinal problem.

Of all my worries - my heart, my brain, my liver - I always figured my spinal situation was good. Something I didn’t have to be concerned with. Now look. I might have an underlying spinal problem.

But I don’t know. I feel pretty good. Even with this possible spinal issue. In fact, I feel so good that I wonder if something is wrong with me.

Yeah, I worry. I mostly keep it to myself, though.  I mean there are many people out there who know me and actually think I’m cool. They see me as a journalist who covers the street gangs in the projects in Watts.  Who covered the war in 2020 in Artsakh, ,Armenia.  Who has a wonderful famous chef as a girlfriend. Who drives around in (her) 450 horsepower Porsche like he’s Steve McQueen. Who women on the Mozza Corner turn to when they have a flat tire. Zeus forbid they should read this. In a way, I’m hoping my editors Susan or Karen rejects this piece.

I told my sister the opening to this story, the italics of “How much you weigh, slugger?” and her only question was “Who’s Billy Conn?”.  I told her he was a light heavyweight (up to 175 pounds) boxing champion in 1939-1941 who moved up and was beating heavyweight champ Joe Louis until the 13th round when he was knocked out after he got cocky and went toe to toe with the Brown Bomber

Actually, ya know, back in the day, way back, my cousin Alec told me I coulda been a good boxer. Yeah, I thought, I coulda been another Billy Conn.

Charlie - How much do you weigh, slugger When you weighed 168 pounds.....you were beautiful. You could have been another Billy Conn. That skunk we got you for a manager. he brought you along too fast.

Terry - It wasn't him, Charley. It was you. Remember that night in the Garden? You came down to my dressing room and said, "Kid, this ain't your night. We're going for the price on Wilson. You remember that? "This ain't your night." My night! I could have taken Wilson apart! So what happens, he gets the title shot outdoors in the ball park and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palookaville! You was my brother, Charley. You should have looked out for me a little bit. You should've taken care of me a little so I wouldn't have to take dives for short-end money.

Charlie - I had some bets down for you. You saw some money.

Terry - You don't understand, I could have had class! I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody. Instead of a bum...which is what I am. Let's face it. It was you, Charley!

NANCY SILVERTON'S "PANICALE PEASANT ZUPPA" NAMED BEST SOUP OF THE YEAR FOR 2022

Yes, mister and misses know-it-all,. I realize there are over 360 days left in the year 2022 and, as they say, “anything can happen.”

But, the truth is “anything” can’t happen.

Sunday, on the second day of the year, Nancy Silverton made a soup so delicious that many of the world’s greatest restaurant chef and the world’s revered home cooks formally announced they could not make a soup takes that good even if they tried for the next 363 days. As a result, the the ISF, the International Soup Federation based in Geneva. formally proclaimed Silverton’s Panicale Peasant Zuppa as “Soup of The Year, 2022”.

The soup was of humble origins. The base or starting broth aka bouillon de demarrage was he liquid of long cooked beans from a New Year’s Eve meal. (It should be noted that several prominent chefs including Mauro Colagreco, Andreas Caminada, Alain Ducasse and Ruth Reichl lodged formal complaints with the ISF claiming the Panicale Peasant soup could not be named Soup of the Year 2022 because it was started in 2021. The compliant was tossed out with the following admonition “Thinking like that would lead to other complaints such as you could not win the Nobel Peace Prize for one year because you had done some good stuff the previous year,” said Dr. Hans Christian “Pea Soup” Anderson, ISF’s Director of Operations.

So the soup. It was made with cabbage, Rovejo dried pea native to Umbria. unnamed seasonings. a cardboard box of vegetable broth. potatoes and other things. The write Michael Krikorian was the only human to have it for dinner. Later, however, Nancy gave a small container of Panicale Peasant Soup it her sister Gail and brother-in-law Joel. She wanted to give them more, but Krikorian would not allow this to happen, even though he likes Joel and Gail.

. .

NANCY SILVERTON'S "PANICALE FRITTATA" TAKES EARLY LEAD IN BEST DISH OF 2022 COMPETITION

As soon at the gate fell for the start of the Best Dish World Championship 2022, American chef Nancy Silverton stomped on the gas and took a commanding lead with an egg dish that had the few fortunate diners thanking their lucky constellations and the competition wondering how the hell where they going to catch up.

Silverton, cooking in her pajamas, and using two eggs, made her revered Panicale Frittata which, today, had artichokes, ham and swiss cheese.

It was, in its original meaning, delicious.

With Silverton safely in the lead for best dish of the year 2022, others contenders scrambled ( not eggs) to think how they could close the gap. Massimo Bottura said he needed to be alone. Rene Redzepi took a walk in the woods. Thomas Kellar considered retirement. Fredy Girardet considered offers to come out of retirement.

After Michael Krikorian told her how good the dish was and she had just made the best dish of 2022, Silverton shrugged and said “It’s just eggs.” Yeah, and that stuff on the “Mona Lisa” is just paint.

.

F.D.R.- NANCY SILVERTON'S STUNNING LABOR DAY CREATION, FRITOS DIPPED RUDY (BUTTER)

For the last two hours, Nancy Silverton and I have pondered where in carnation we could eat out tonight, Labor day, 2021.

Everywhere we tried was closed. Even Mozza is closed today. You name it, we tried. Connie and Ted’s. Alimento. Carousel. Jitlada. A bunch of other places.

And if you know the refrigerator at the Van Ness home, you know other than some condiments and Captn Eli root beer, it’s barren. I mean there is some Rudy, aka Rodolphe Le Meunier Buerre de Barrate French butter,

And on the counter there are a three-day old bag of Fritos, Original, or course.

So I’m figuring I’ll lose several ounces tonight when I hear Nancy say “Umm. That’s delicious. Try this.”

I go into the kitchen and she’s holding out a single Frito with a gob of Rudy on it. I take and eat.

Do you know the opening lines of “Cheek to Cheek"?

Nancy says “Crunchy, salty and creamy in one bite. What more could you ask for?”

Nancy has created another masterpiece. Today in the Times of London there is an article about Nancy’s Chopped. And today in Krikorian Writes there is this article about Nancy’s brilliant Fritos dipped with Rudy butter, aka F. D. R.

As I go type this, as always, Nancy is trying to improve the dish. “Next time, get Scoops.”

“Heaven, I’m in Heaven. And the cares that come around me though the week, seem to vanish, like a gambler’s lucky streak, when we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek. “

.

"BENEATH THE TOWELS" LONDON STUNNED BY MURDER SPREE, 11 HOMICIDES IN 13 DAYS

It was a quiet night at the mini market in the Kentish Town neighborhood of Northwest London last Tuesday when suddenly the clerk heard a loud clang against the metal shutters on the side of the building. He went outside to investigate and saw a ghastly sight; a teenager slumped against the shutters, moaning in agony, hands tight against his stomach, blood dripping from his wet, shiny fingers.

By chance, a doctor was strolling by just then, a little after 8 p.m.. She dropped to her knees and quickly assessed the gravity of the boy's wounds. The English version of 911 was called. Other people appeared, some of them screamed. Residents of the 6-story apartment complex across the street heard the commotion and looked out their windows

The kid writhed as the doctor called out for towels to hold against the grave injury. Within seconds, the corner of Bartholomew Road and Islip Street was raining towels.  "I threw down four," a neighbor lady said.

The police arrived. They frantically urged on an ambulance as they took over from the doctor, pumping his chest. "They were pumping, pumping, pumping", said a man who works nearby. But, it was too late. The kid was gone. 

A lady arrived. The dead kid was partially covered now with those fallen towels, but what she could see of his jacket looked frighteningly familiar. She told the police to let her through. It could be my son. But, they didn't let her close. 

She called her son's phone. Three, four seconds later, beneath the towels, from the dead kid's jacket, a cell phone rang.

About 90 minutes later, as the heartbroken mother of 17-year old Abdikarim Hassan was failing to be consoled by loved ones, there was another stabbing death. This time Sadiq Adan Mohamed was killed, on Malden Road near Queen's Crescent Market. 

The two killings brought to 11 the number of homicides in London in just a 13-day period, most of them stabbings.  There were about 126 homicides reported in London for all of 2020. Murder by knife outnumbers murder by gun in London about five to one. .

The latest two victims, were David Potter, 50, who was fatally stabbed in his flat in Tooting, south London, and Abraham Badru, 26, shot dead as he exited a car in Dalston, east London.  The two killings made for a two-inch brief on page eight in The Times.   

When I arrived in London on Friday, March 23, the thought I would be out on the streets reporting on a murder didn't remotely enter my mind. Since I had never been to London  - other than 17-hour layover -  I had planned the usual tourist stuff; Museums, a lot of walking, riding "the Tube", Harrod's, and hanging out at the restaurant Nancy Silverton had commandeered for a week near our hotel in a neighborhood called Shoreditch.

But, as I read the locals papers and viewed their websites, I was surprised, even alarmed by the frequent reports of stabbing deaths. The first one that grabbed me was of Benjamin Pieknyi, a 21-year old from Romania who came to the aid of a friend being attacked and was stabbed to death. A 22-year-old from the Ukraine was arrested for that. I wanted to get to his family, to the guy he came to aid, but they lived in Milton Keynes, a 90 minute drive from London.  

Then, the next day, when I heard about these two murders above, I almost felt an obligation, so I hit the streets.

The next day, an 18-year-old male, Isaiah Popoola, was charged with both killings. He will be tried at London's Old Bailey court.  

As for the victims, the few people I talked to all spoke very kindly of them.  Neither were gang members, they worshiped their families, were lightning quick to help others, were constantly smiling and loved to play football. They were both from the capital city of Somalia, brought to London at a young age to be safe from the dangers of Mogadishu.

BENJAMIN PIEKNYI