Paul Wellman

REPEAT: Coach Curt Pickering (far right) and his Breakers celebrate their second consecutive West Coast Professional Basketball League championship.

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After long stretches of watching and listening to games, I got into a game last weekend—myself and 100 others, on a team that might be called the Santa Barbara Trail Blazers.

First, let me tell you about the radio experience. It happened during a visit to San Diego, a day after I had seen the Padres come from behind to defeat the Arizona Diamondbacks at Petco Park, a gem of a stadium. The next afternoon, Arizona led 6-1 going into the bottom of the ninth—I was watching this game on TV—and the Padres rallied again to tie the score on an improbable pinch-hit home run by little David Eckstein, one of my favorite players.

The rest of the family wanted to get out of the house for a pool outing, and I went along but stayed in the SUV (an acceptable vehicle when needed to transport a pair of grandparents, mom, dad, and three boys) to follow the extra innings on the radio. One of my youth’s greatest pleasures had been listening to Vin Scully describe ballgames on the radio, and even though the San Diego announcers were no match for the Dodgers’ maestro of the mike, I enjoyed this throwback experience. I was lost in it for two hours, as the game remained tied until the 18th inning, when the Padres had to put a shortstop on the mound and the D’Backs took advantage for a 9-6 win.

The pool party ended about that time, and everybody piled into the car. Dad turned the key to the ignition, and there was a feeble “rrr” sound followed by a “thud.” The battery had run out of juice—maybe because granddad had left the door open for ventilation while he listened to the radio. Fortunately, there was a pinch-hitter in the parking lot with jumper cables, and I didn’t have to push us home.

The Lakers had to be rescued twice during the NBA Finals: when Orlando’s Courtney Lee lost his touch on a layup that would have decided Game 2, and when Dwight Howard’s inability to make free throws and Derek Fisher’s ability to make clutch shots turned around Game 4—L.A. winning in overtime on both occasions. The Lakers deservedly won the title, but the 4-1 series outcome is deceiving. There very well could have been a Game 7 tonight.

A half-hour before the Lakers tipped off their clincher Sunday, the Santa Barbara Breakers celebrated their second straight West Coast Pro Basketball League championship. They defeated the Newport Beach Surf 127-118 in a one-and-done final at San Marcos High. Mark Dawson, a 6’8” forward from New Jersey via Long Beach State, led the champs with 33 points. Santa Barbara’s own Santiago Aguirre broke open a see-saw game in the second half with some big shots, rebounds, and steals, and then he enjoyed signing autographs for a few admiring young fans. It’s a good thing these guys weren’t NBA players; the city will not have to cough up a million dollars for a parade.

There was a Game 7 in the Stanley Cup Finals, a thriller that came down to the last save as the Penguins held off the Red Wings 2-1, and it was a revelation to watch the nonstop action on the ice. The flow of whistle-stop basketball suffers by comparison.

My life as a couch or car-seat potato took a dramatic turn for the better on Saturday. I got up early, put on some old clothes, gathered up my hiking boots, gloves, and bicycle helmet, and drove up to Skofield Park. That was the staging ground for volunteers who wanted to help restore the front country trails that had been buried by debris from the Jesusita Fire. People care deeply about the mountain promenades overlooking the city. Sixty volunteers were expected, but trail master Ray Ford counted 101.

I was on a crew that hiked up Rattlesnake Canyon, carrying a serious tool, a combination rake and hoe called a McLeod, provided by the city’s Parks Department. I was surrounded by dozens of similarly armed folks—adults of all ages and young men from Boy Scout Troop 2. High up in the canyon, we clawed away at loose rocks, soil, and ash. The landscape, thick with brush before the fire, was shockingly barren. But amid the burned skeletons of chaparral, some hardy yuccas rose gloriously in full bloom.

We hiked back down to the park, tired and sore but somehow refreshed from a day well spent. The trails might be in better shape now, but I think it would be best to stay off them and let the scorched slopes continue to heal, let the fragile new growth take root, and, one can only hope, hold back the soil when winter rains come.

This summer would be a good time for beach walks.

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