Let’s Get It On! (3 page)

Given so little in life, my dad accomplished much more than many ever do. Having to fight for everything, he learned to protect himself and to make decisions on his own. Right or wrong, my dad learned early on that fighting was a way to establish himself. He let people know he wasn’t somebody to be messed with, and word traveled fast. Violence was a means to get what he needed or to keep what he had, and I can understand his attraction to it.

One of the most impressive things to me about my dad is that he never complained about his childhood. In fact, he’s told me many times it was good for him. He doesn’t dwell on the past. As I’ve grown into an adult, with a wife and three children of my own, I’ve learned to understand the patience and wisdom it takes to not allow past hardships to seep into your everyday life. Despite the difficult relationships he endured in his childhood, my dad was always affectionate toward his kids, giving hugs and kisses and telling us he loved us.

He’s also always been strict and opinionated. In his mind, there’s right and there’s wrong. If you’re on the right side, no matter what you do, you’re okay in his book. If you’re on the wrong side, though, you’re wrong.

I grew up under this system, and I don’t think it was necessarily bad. In fact, as usually happens in families, many of my dad’s principles became my own. Just ask my wife and kids: I can be set in my ways. I’m as bullheaded as a Minotaur and as stubborn as an ass most of the rest of the time. I have a deep sense of justice, so it’s no wonder I eventually followed in my dad’s footsteps and became a police officer.

I learned early from my dad that if somebody did something to me, I didn’t cry or whine about it; I did something back. When I turned three, my parents bought me a shiny gold bike with training wheels. Wanting to be like all the big kids on my block, I asked my parents to take the training wheels off. My mom spent the day watching me crash, and by sunset I could ride that bike.

When my dad came home from work, he pulled his Volkswagen into the driveway. When he saw I could balance myself on the bike, he was so excited he nearly leapt out of the car while it was still moving.

Things took a turn when Chris, the six-year-old bully on our block, came by. Like any kid, when he saw me pedaling my bike, he wanted to ride it. When no one else was around, he pushed me off and slid onto the vinyl seat, then glided away as if that golden beauty had been his all along.

Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I walked into the garage, where my dad was tidying up the shelves. Between frantic breaths and gulps, I pleaded my case.

Now remember, my dad wasn’t the type to say, “Let’s go talk to his mommy and daddy.” No, he told me plainly, “Go hurt him, and he won’t take the bike again.” Grabbing a yellow Wiffle Ball bat, he led me outside and told me what to do.

Following his instructions, I crouched behind the cool cinder-block wall, bat at the ready in my tiny, shaking hands.

“When he rides by, you hit him with it,” my dad said, then went back to his tinkering in the garage.

Along came Chris, unaware that he was about to reenact a scene from
Tom and Jerry
with me. As the nose of my bike and the kid’s smirking face appeared from behind the wall, I swung with all my might.
Clunk!
The bat made contact and clotheslined Chris right off the back. His head banged on the street, knocking the wind out of him. I’d never heard such wailing.

I picked up my bike, climbed on, and didn’t stop to watch Chris run back to his house.

I’d learned one thing. The bat was my justice.

My dad’s job was no ordinary nine-to-five. Most officers were assigned to a division, or precinct, under the four bureaus—West, South, Central, or Valley. Within those four bureaus, there were eighteen geographic divisions, and each officer was usually assigned to one. My dad was assigned to Metro Division, which worked the entire city and ran the K-9, Equestrian, and SWAT Units, the last of which he played a key role in revitalizing.

My dad’s was a high-risk occupation, and there were days I worried about him. One of those days was May 17, 1974. At eleven years old, I watched the live televised events unfold as my dad’s team converged on the residence at 1466 East 54th Street, where six members of the Symbionese Liberation Army were holed up and firing shots outside. With every angle change, I searched for my dad, but the TV cameras were in the front. He was in the backyard, where most of the bullets were flying. When he came home the next day, he didn’t make a big deal about it at all.

The one day I thought I’d lost my dad came when he told me he’d be up in a helicopter, running training insertions and extractions with the rest of the SWAT team up in Saugus Canyon, about thirty miles north of Los Angeles. That afternoon, the news reported an LAPD helicopter crash in Saugus Canyon and the death of one SWAT member and horrible burn injuries for several more.

My mother, sister, and I anxiously waited in the living room for a phone call or some kind of word from my dad or his department. I was never as relieved at the sight of his unmarked police car as I was that day.

As fate would have it, a high-ranking commander had come up for the training and my dad had given him his seat in the helicopter. The commander was decapitated as the helicopter crashed just over a hill.

My dad raced toward the blaze of twisted metal and saw many of his colleagues on fire. He picked up SWAT member Rick Kelbaugh and placed him in the back of his car to drive him to the nearest hospital.

Rick was in shock. “You gotta cool me off,” he mumbled from the backseat.

My dad stopped to search for a hose. When he trickled water over Rick’s head, his skin started to roll off like crepe paper. Rick would spend many months in the Sherman Oaks Burn Center.

Sometimes my dad was called away for what seemed like days on end, which made the time we did have together more precious than anything.

There was a five-year span when we had season tickets for the Rams football games held at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Every home game, my dad and I could be found in our seats near tunnel twelve, aisle twelve, by the end zone. We’ve kept up our tradition. Today, we still meet and watch the Rose Bowl on New Year’s Day every year.

When I was nine, the day before a deep-sea fishing trip with my dad, I broke my collarbone. Outside the school, my friend had been dragging me on my skateboard behind his dirt bike when I missed a turn and slammed into a wall. I didn’t want anyone to find out about the accident because I’d need my arms to crank on the lines. I’d be damned if I let a little broken bone stop me.

So I sucked it up and hobbled home, trying not to let on to my mom that something wasn’t right. But she noticed I was standing funny, and when she poked and prodded, I couldn’t hold back my wincing and tears.

I was sent to the hospital and was put in a brace, but the next day I was with my dad on the Pacific Ocean, happily balancing my rod on the boat’s rail and catching my fifteen-fish limit.

When my dad could, he’d bring me along on his job too. Yes, his occupation was taxing, but it also afforded me exciting opportunities.

When SWAT simulated hostage recovery scenarios in the Universal Studios back lots, I ran the streets that appear in so many Hollywood movies. As I got older, my dad allowed me to try some of the exercises there after his team had left. I rappelled off rooftops and rode on the helicopter’s skid at 120 miles per hour over the terrain’s hills and dips. I also got to try spy-rigging, latching onto a rope with harnesses and clasps to hang from the bottom of the helicopter in formation with the group. When the helicopter gained enough speed, the rope went horizontal and I’d extend my arms like Superman.

My thrill-seeking tendencies came from my dad, no doubt about it. At forty-eight years old, I’ve tried almost everything like skydiving, bungee jumping, shark diving, quad riding, dirt biking, and sand railing. Any kind of crazy riding or driving is right up my alley.

Of course, not all of my childhood was extraordinary. Most days were of the normal variety, and I had the usual trials of kid life.

When I was five years old, my family moved up the 60 Freeway to Hacienda Heights, about twenty-five minutes west of Los Angeles. There, I attended Wedgeworth Elementary School, which was about 300 yards from my house, one of a dozen or so identical cookie-cutter models on the block.

My monumental event during this time was getting eyeglasses. I hated them. I enjoyed seeing but not being different.

I was one of the bigger kids in my class, but I wasn’t nearly the towering figure people see me as today, which made me a choice candidate for every bully who thought he ruled the school.

Kids can be mean, but they’re also not that creative. “Four Eyes” was the name they came up with for me, and there was a stretch of time—maybe from the age of five to eight—when Four Eyes had to defend his honor on the playground, after school, and even on the street outside his own house.

When it came to facing my antagonists, my dad gave me words I would learn to live by. “What you allow people to do, they’ll do. If you don’t like what’s happening, make a stand.” There was one stipulation, though. I was allowed to take said stands, which usually included punching people square in the mouth, only if they’d done something to me first. If someone called me a name, he was fair game.

Following this advice didn’t always work out. There were older kids who’d clock me and send my glasses flying. Dr. Giordano finally switched me to thick, plastic, horn-rimmed frames. I know, the irony of it all. Luckily, my aim got better fast.

In junior high, I dumped my glasses to make way for sports. On the football field, I would usually tackle any moving blob in the opposite team’s colors.
¹

Sports were another way for me to spend time with my dad. Starting at age six or seven, I shot hoops, ran the football, and played catch with him. He often took me to a field near Dodger Stadium, where he played flag football for his division in the LAPD league. He always wore this stupid brown hat, which he called his helmet, that made him look like he’d just stepped off
Gilligan’s Island.
My dad was a gifted athlete and a lot of fun to watch from the stands. He’d never tell you that, but he was.

My mom, a PE teacher and cheerleading coach at John Glenn High School, was also a stud athlete. She was so good at sports, in fact, it was embarrassing. During one of the parents’ games in my baseball league, she hit four out of the park. I’d hit two home runs the whole season.

Growing up, I was allowed to play anything as long as it involved contact. If it didn’t, my dad didn’t consider it a real sport.

It wasn’t until sixth grade with Mr. Culley that I learned about soccer. He was obsessed with it, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Eventually he got the whole class playing.

Not only did Mr. Culley introduce me to soccer, but he was the greatest teacher I ever had. Not satisfied to merely teach out of a book, he brought out our passion for competition in the classroom with head-to-head spelling bees, geography tests, and math races. Whichever teams earned the most points got two days at the end of the semester to do anything they wanted. They didn’t have to do schoolwork. They could play at recess all day, bring in a TV, or have a party for all he cared. Mr. Culley’s example taught me that if you made learning fun and interesting, people listened, a lesson I would take with me into my careers.

I was a decent student but only because Mr. Culley was a great teacher and my dad was keeping a watchful eye. In our house, if you didn’t get good grades, bad things would happen to you. As and Bs were the only marks allowed. Anything lower and you were in trouble. Your life would be coming home from school and sitting in your room. Needless to say, I managed to keep As and Bs in grade school.

Anything that captured my imagination, I excelled at. I loved history and still read a lot of nonfiction books to this day. Math and English were boring. Science was super easy. And of course, I also had those lapses of stupidity we all go through. One day in grade school, I hid in the classroom closet until everyone left, then opened the locked door from inside for my friends. We rifled through all the papers the teacher had on us, sharing and scrutinizing the comments she’d made. Masters of espionage we were not, and a disheveled paper trail led to a phone call to my mom. My dad told me I was no better than any other burglar on the streets, then spanked the thievery right out of me.

I also had times when I lost my temper. Once I started a fight with another student for hitting the chessboard when I was close to winning a game. Now, by today’s standards, this student would have been popping Ritalin for hyperactivity, but back then ADD was just something you did with numbers.

That day we had a substitute teacher. She couldn’t control me and told the principal, “If he hadn’t stopped fighting when he did, I would have fainted.”

I wasn’t a bully, but I had been raised to not take crap from anyone. To toughen me up, my dad often roughhoused with me, twisting my arm or grabbing my ear or pulling my lips or nose. I grew a thick skin fast. I was confident and sometimes a bit bolder than I knew was good for me.

I couldn’t help myself, even from an early age. When I was five, my mother tried to spank me. I turned around and said, “That didn’t hurt.”

Before I knew it, my dad was in the doorway.