It’s back! After than more than a year, the story continues…

Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life is my story about love, faith, and hope. The story begins with my carefree childhood in east San Jose. After high school graduation in 1981, I went to San Jose State University and flunked out before the start of my second year. I lost hope and wandered through life working at dead end jobs and spending what little money I had on alcohol and parties.

Four years later, I met Sandra Peralta and began to focus on on my future. I returned to SJSU and vowed never to fail again. Working tirelessly to redeem myself, I graduated from college, married Sandra, and began a career in business and politics. The demons from my initial failure at college continued to haunt me, so I worked even harder.

On June 7, 2010, I had a massive heart attack. Ten days later, while in the ICU, my heart stopped beating for a few minutes when I went into cardiac arrest. Doctors told me that I was lucky to be alive. Supported by a large circle of family and friends, Sandra and our two daughters prepared for the battle of their lives.

On June 28, 2010, my lungs began to fail. Doctors scrambled to figure out the cause. Excerpt #51, originally published on February 11, 2015, retells the moment when Sandra and I, alone in my ICU room, were waiting for doctors to perform a procedure that would buy them some time to treat my lungs.

****************************

EXCERPT #51 

I turned to Sandra as she sat next to me holding my hand.  Breathlessly, I told her that everything would be fine and that we would get through this crisis, even though I kept the doubts to myself.  She agreed with my assessment citing her absolute faith in God.

If for some reason I were not to survive, I asked her between breaths to please make sure that the girls never stop dreaming about their future.  They should remember that they had the ability to accomplish anything.

I also told her how I wanted to celebrate my funeral: a conjunto norteño serenading family and friends with my favorite songs (especially the upbeat happy tunes), Barbara would give a eulogy about my childhood, George would address my professional life, and Marisa and Erica would share stories about their daddy. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Sandra told me not to think like that.  I held her tighter and assured her that I was sharing my thoughts “just in case.”

Doctors soon arrived to take me to perform the intubation procedure.  The girls came into the ICU to pray with me and wish me luck.  The procedure was standard stuff.  A nurse would give me a small dose of LORazepam to keep me lightly sedated and Vecuronium to relax my muscles so the tube wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.

Once my oxygen stabilized, I would be able to undergo the CT scan. In the meantime, my lungs and body could rest. The doctor said that I would be alert enough to receive visitors, watch TV, and communicate with doctors once the procedure was complete.

In a semi-conscious state in the operating room, I resisted the doctors and struggled to prevent the insertion of the tube. With the pipe securely in place, I continued to twist and turn trying to free my hands to take the tube out. Even with the ventilator sending air to my lungs, oxygen saturation levels dipped every time I moved. Doctors made a critical decision to sedate me heavily and medically paralyze my body to prevent movement. It was clear to the doctors that the ventilator would be useless if I continued to fight the equipment that was keeping me alive.

The higher dose of sedatives put me into a deep sleep. Until the cause of my lung failure could be identified and resolved, I would have to remain in a medically induced coma. The administration of strong muscle-relaxing medication would keep my body still, ensuring that the mechanical ventilator breathing for me could effectively deliver badly needed oxygen to my vital organs.

Both actions came with potential for long-term side effects to my brain and body. Research has demonstrated that patients remaining in a medically induced coma for an extended period of time could suffer a loss of cognitive skills, permanent brain damage, or worse. Every day I remained paralyzed, muscle memory would deteriorate and my ability to physically function would be compromised.

When the lead doctor emerged from the operating room, he explained to Sandra what steps were taken to stabilize my situation. Without emotion and with strength of character that could only be sustained by unconditional faith, Sandra intently listened to the report. My medical condition took another turn toward the unknown, to a place that even the doctors admitted was new territory. Although my heart was in a critically fragile state, it was secondary to the inexplicable virtual shutdown of my lungs.

Despite everything that my body had endured during the past three weeks – heart attack, cardiac arrest, and dangerously low oxygen levels – there would still be more complications and surprises to come. The cardiac team had been relieved of its duties for the time being and the pulmonologists and critical care staff would work around the clock to address the lung issues. The next 72 hours would prove crucial to my survival.

I was back in the ICU resting while connected to the machines that kept me breathing and a myriad of IV tubes that fed, medicated, and monitored me. Numbers across a computer screen provided minute-to-minute updates of my heart rate, temperature, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation.

The beeping and whirring sounds of the machines musically accompanied the sharp green lines and flashing LED lights that danced on monitors in a mesmerizing ballet displaying even more information for the medical team. A nurse was stationed in my room with one eye on me and the other on the devices surrounding my bed. With hospital personnel moving about the room, the scene looked like a war room preparing for the battle of a lifetime.

Just yards away outside of the plain white double doors and inside the single door that led to the white and avocado green ICU waiting room in Department 2300 at Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center, everyone gathered – the extended Peralta family, my sister Barbara and her family, Rudy and Melody, Will and Juanita, and many others – to wait for news from the operating room.

They were once again stunned when the doctor provided an update on the situation. In the eerie quiet that followed, the group instinctively formed a prayer circle, held hands, and silently urged God to intervene.

The entry in my medical record at the end of the day on June 29, 2010, simply read, “Intubated, sedated, and paralyzed.”

****************************

Tomorrow: Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life returns with Excerpt #52. Don’t miss it!

Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life is my story about love, faith, and hope.

It’s an inspiring tale of a boy who grew up in a working-class neighborhood, failed at college and lost hope, met and married the love of his life, returned and finished college, raised a family, and found some success in business and public office.

It’s also the story of a man who vowed never to fail again and worked tirelessly trying to redeem himself, only to find true redemption while in a state of complete helplessness in the ICU.

The prologue was originally published on December 4, 2013.

******************

Prologue

There are those who say life is like a rollercoaster with its ups and downs, and twists and turns.  I’ve loved riding on a rollercoaster as far back as I can remember.  My favorite is the Giant Dipper, a whitewashed wooden 1920s era coaster with bright red tracks that dominates the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk on California’s central coast.  Santa Cruz is about a thirty minute drive from where I grew up in San Jose, California, and I remember the feeling of excitement as a kid to see the high point of the coaster jutting above the squat motels, restaurant buildings, tourist gift shops, and mom and pop stores that lined the streets as my dad drove into town.

The Giant Dipper was an exciting experience from the moment you bought a ticket and got into the long line that wound its way into the building that housed the coaster station.  While in the safe confines of the fast-moving line with friends and relatives, we would laugh and joke, and revel in each other’s company, with an occasional pause to watch and hear the frantic riders above squeal and scream as the chaotic train roared by.  I always began to feel anxious excitement when entering the coaster station as riders took their seats on the train.  Soon, I would be securely seated in the two-person car, and without warning, the train swooshed out of the coaster house and quickly vanished into a tunnel.

Adrenalin shot through my body, and fellow riders hooted and hollered, as the train sped through a dark curvy tunnel to a low point before emerging from the darkness and slowly climbed to the first peak with the classic clicking sound of a rollercoaster train laboring upward.  Once at the top, the train slowly scaled the peak and screamed down the other side of the tracks in a free fall as it rushed toward the earth.  After a scaling a couple smaller hills and valleys, the train rapidly rose into the sky to reach its highest point before it violently curved downward to its left on the way to its deepest drop.   A few more ups and downs and a slow straight-way led the train to its final resting place in the safety of the coaster station.

I think my love for rollercoaster rides came from my dad.  When we went to the boardwalk, usually because relatives from out of town were visiting, my dad would strut straight to the Giant Dipper.  With his mischievous grin, he would egg everyone to join him on the ride, especially those who looked nervous or scared.  My mom never got on the coaster, no matter how much my dad tried to persuade her.  My brother Stevie was also a regular holdout, which was funny because he was the badass of the family.

He had a big heart, but masked it with a perpetual scowl and a look in his eyes that shouted out, “you wanna fight?”  He was tough, uncompromising, and angry, and as his little brother, I was regularly collateral damage when he was mad at the world.  As a teenager and young man, he wore his hair long in the style of a 1970s anti-establishment rebel.  Wearing jeans, a leather vest, steel-toed biker boots, and a buck knife attached to his belt, I’m sure he scared people as he lumbered along his way.  Despite his bad-boy persona, he was scared to death of that tortuous and seemingly unpredictable rollercoaster that overlooked the Pacific Ocean.

When I was about nine years old, I persuaded Stevie to ride with me.  In line, he had the steely eyes of a gunslinger preparing for battle, but once the train disappeared into the tunnel, he began to scream, giggle, and screech like a teenage girl at a boy band concert.  I laughed harder during the next few minutes than I had ever laughed.  With each dip, twist, and turn, this tough guy with the biker boots became ever more vulnerable to the fierce journey of the rollercoaster.

As the train slowly entered the coaster station at the end of the ride, Stevie gathered himself, brushed his long, thick mane away from his face, put that bad look back on, and glowered at passersby as if he was about to kick someone’s ass.  I didn’t know what was funnier, his screeching on the ride or the mask he put on as soon as the danger went away.  Either way; I sure wasn’t going to ask him.  That was one wild ride.

The first forty-six years of my life followed the path of the Giant Dipper.  Growing up in a working-class neighborhood of east San Jose was like waiting in line for the coaster enjoying family and friends, and stopping from time to time to hear and see the chaos that sometimes unfolded around me.  After high school, I ventured away from the neighborhood to attend San Jose State University with the same excitement and apprehensiveness I felt when entering the coaster station as a kid.  I eventually flunked out of college and chose a lifestyle fueled by alcohol, dead-end jobs, and the next party.

The ensuing undisciplined meandering through life was just like the Giant Dipper’s wild ride through the dark tunnel.  Resembling the slow and deliberate ascent of the rollercoaster, I put my life back together, got married, went back to school and graduated from college, started a family, climbed the corporate ladder, and served in public office.   The sudden plunge of the Giant Dipper’s first dip and the following short waves that led to the rollercoaster’s summit mirrored my crushing election loss in 2008 and rapid rise to school board president just two years later.

Midway through my forty-sixth year, my wife Sandra and I were approaching our 20^th wedding anniversary, our two daughters were healthy and happy, and I had achieved some success in business and public service.  I was on top of the world.  Like the Giant Dipper’s next move after reaching its climactic high point, my life would soon make an abrupt and furious downward turn and plummet toward its lowest depths.

********************

Tuesday: Read the last excerpt originally published on February 11, 2015.

That’s it…I give up!

Ever since the day I flunked out of college when I was nineteen years old, I worked relentlessly to conquer my failure demons. My journey wasn’t organized or planned. After returning to college to graduate, I took on every new opportunity and challenge with gusto, striving to reach the highest level my ability would allow.

At the height of my quest to dispose of the failure demons once and for all, a heart attack and lung failure engaged me in a fight for my life. Through prayer and support from family and friends, and amazing work by medical professionals, I miraculously overcame seemingly impossible odds and survived. My long recovery gave me a chance to reflect on a growing relationship with God.

Despite a severely damaged heart that works at ¼ of the efficiency of a healthy heart, I’ve worked my way back to a somewhat normal lifestyle. A no salt and low fat diet, a disciplined medicine regimen, light exercise, and extremely limited energy levels are the new norm. As each year passes, I continue to defy the odds. People who suffer from similar heart damage return to the hospital regularly and more than half die within five years of diagnosis.

I just celebrated my sixth “re-birthday” with no heart related visits to the hospital. This good fortune has strengthened my relationship with God. While faith continues to be the foundation of my miraculous story, the failure demons that got me into this mess continue to nip at the edges of my consciousness. Routine isn’t one of my strengths and my self-perceived lack of productivity empowers the demons.

My need to be in the eye of the storm teases me on a daily basis. I miss being out front whether pacing the sidelines, sitting at the decision-making table, leading an initiative, or guiding a team toward a goal. In an attempt to fill the voids, I write this blog and a quarterly article for a print magazine, coordinate a leadership academy, and work with high school students.

The demons are never satisfied, so my old ways began creeping back into the picture. I added features to my blog, and began marketing myself as a leadership coach and public speaker instead of relying on faith and God to lead the fight. I started working as hard as my limited energy would allow. My regular exercise schedule began to suffer, I found myself rushing through meals, and I was spending more time in front of the computer than I was reflecting on faith and just enjoying the moment.

On Easter Sunday, while playing basketball with my nephews, I reached for the ball, and then everything went dark. When I opened my eyes, I was on my back looking up at paramedics and my nervous compadre. Fearing another heart attack, my family called 911. After spending the night in the hospital for a battery of tests, my cardiologist confirmed that there was no heart attack and no additional heart damage. I was dehydrated and exhausted, causing me to pass out.

The most haunting image of that day was my daughter Marisa blowing a kiss to me as the paramedics closed the ambulance doors. She forced a confident smile, but her eyes revealed vulnerability and worry. On the way to the hospital I thought about her upcoming graduation from college and all the milestones that she and my younger daughter Erica will experience.

For me to share those experiences with them, I know that faith has to overcome the demons. Sadly, a couple of weeks ago, the ongoing battle reached a boiling point and consumed me. I couldn’t keep up the pace needed to fight off the feelings of inadequacy created by the failure demons. I grew distant from Sandra and the girls while planning and plotting my “comeback.” They fought so hard to save my life and I lost my sense of gratitude for them.

Early last week, the solution to my doldrums came to me suddenly. I decided to do something I had never done. I decided to give up: give up on my lifelong battle with demons that don’t even exist; give up on working myself to exhaustion; give up on trying to find the answers to all that has happened. I decided to put my future in God’s hands fully and unconditionally.

This summer, I plan to spend as much time as possible with Sandra and the girls, who are home together for a short time before Erica goes back to school and Marisa embarks on her post-grad journey. I’ll continue to reflect on God’s role in my life and rely on faith to help fight the demons that are sure to come. I’ll also pursue my passion for writing and helping others, not to achieve some goal, but to enjoy the experience.

Starting next Wednesday, I’ll continue sharing my story, Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life. I stopped posting new excerpts (some readers have told me that I left them hanging) more than a year ago to focus my energy on things that no longer seem important. Writing this story and sharing it with others has been one of the major influences in my faith journey.

I’m scheduled to work again with high school students in the fall. This has been a blessing and I’m excited about returning to this work. With regard to my other activities, I’ll spend a little time this summer taking stock of each of them. I’m confident that faith will guide me in the right direction.

Oh, by the way: I plan to replace my business attire for the rest of the summer with shorts, t-shirts, a baseball cap, and flip-flops. That’s it…I gave up!

Today is a special day for me. It’s my sixth birthday. Yeah, you read that correctly. On June 7, 2010, my life nearly came to abrupt end. By the grace of God and the miracle of modern medicine, I’m alive today to tell the story. So, I celebrate every June 7^th. The story of that day and the months that followed may seem a little dramatic, but it’s all true.

For readers who have followed Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life on this blog, you might remember the story (https://esereport.com/summer-in-the-waiting-room/).

Here’s what happened:

On that late spring evening, I had a massive heart attack while in the emergency room at Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center. If I were anywhere else, I would have certainly met my end. My chance for survival that night was 50/50 at best. Thankfully, I lived through the night. Ten days later, while I was in the ICU, my heart stopped. Electronic paddles had to bring me back to life.

The summer didn’t get any better. Due to a rare side effect, my lungs stopped working. A ventilator and a variety of other machines kept me alive throughout the month of July. Doctors put me into a medically-induced coma and paralyzed my muscles so my body could rest while they worked on my lungs. That summer was horrific for my family.

Six weeks later, I emerged from the coma. Three weeks after that, doctors removed the breathing machines. For the first 21 days in September, I went to rehab to learn how to walk, talk, and eat all over again. I went home on September 21, 2010 – 106 days after the heart attack – to resume my life with a badly damaged heart.

My heart took a beating from the June 7^th heart attack. In simple terms, my heart pumps at about 25% of how a normal heart functions. The condition, called Congestive Heart Failure, required that I drastically change my lifestyle. Statistically, my long-term prognosis didn’t look promising.

Half of all patients diagnosed with heart failure die within five years of diagnosis. The chance of succumbing to the disease increases 5-7% each year thereafter.

Today is a special day for me. It’s my sixth birthday.

I’ve done everything the doctors have told me to do. I stay away from processed food high in salt and fat. Fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and unseasoned lean meats are on my menu every day. I exercise by walking 30 minutes a day and spending a few days a week lifting light weights in the gym. I’ve eliminated most stress in my life, primarily by walking away from my high-stress career.

I’m grateful that the entire community has decided to join me in this effort. My family considers no-salt, no fat options for me when preparing for weekend events. The students I work with make sure that pizza days include fruits and vegetables. Local restaurants that we frequent already know the drill before I order a meal. Even if I tried to cheat on my diet, I have nowhere to go.

In an effort to understand why I suffered and survived such a dreadful medical crisis, I’ve turned to my Catholic faith. In addition to Jesus’ words of wisdom, I’ve sought out the spiritual philosophies of Mohammed, Buddha, and Gandhi. Their universal concepts of love, faith, compassion, service to others, and living in the moment are becoming clearer to me as the days, weeks, months, and years go by.

I’m closer than ever to no longer asking why this happened to me. The bigger question is, “What should I do with this gift from God?”

Today, I celebrated another year of life by going to morning mass and making my annual pilgrimage to the Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center ICU, a place I called home for two and a half months that summer six years ago. As I have for the past five years, I sat in the hallway next to the double doors that lead into the unit to reflect and give thanks to the professionals who cared for me that summer.

I always leave feeling grateful and refreshed. Today was especially inspiring. Part of the Dream Team of physical, occupational, and speech therapists that brought me back to life were able to visit with me for a few minutes. This group taught me how to sit up, stand, swallow, and use my hands after nearly two months in a paralytic coma. It was amazing to thank them again in person. That never gets old.

Christine Heywood, one of the therapists, posed a question that’s giving me much to ponder. After I described the peace, serenity, and gratitude I feel when visiting this sacred place, she asked if I felt that way every day. The short answer is “no.” At times, the challenges of everyday life overshadow the miracle that was the summer of 2010.

Christine’s question reminded me that I need to be grateful every day. We all get caught up in the daily challenges of life and forget to take a moment to reflect on the miracle that life is. I can use my second chance at life to teach others about the power of gratitude by telling my story. It’s a story of love, hope, and faith. Maybe that’s what God wants me to do.

Over the past several months, reliving my story has taken a backseat to life’s everyday challenges. The stress of daily life was beginning to seep back into my consciousness. That dark and ugly chapter of my life came back into view today, thankfully.  That was the day that faith, family, friends, and an amazing medical team saved my life.

Today is a special day for me. It’s my sixth birthday.

The Republican presidential primaries have proven that there’s a significant block of GOP voters that yearn for the old days. They want to “make America great again.” Not surprisingly, 90% of Republican voters in those states are white. Exit polls show that these people are angry and frustrated with the direction of our country.

I have to confess that I don’t even know what “make America great again” means, nor do I understand why these folks are so mad. To educate myself, I’ve spent the past month or so listening to conservative talk radio while driving. I’ve had a steady diet of Rush Limbaugh, Michael Savage, and Mark Levin.

Man, these guys are pissed off!

Their language is filled with slurs and put downs. When describing people who don’t follow their way of thinking, I’ve heard them use words like: idiot, swine, liar, stupid, moron, and on and on. And that’s just during a 5-minute drive to the grocery store! No wonder their followers cheer when candidates bellow insults from the stage.

After hours of listening to these angry men and their loyal listeners scream, growl, complain, and scold, I think I know what they’re so upset about. Here are the top five reasons (in order):

President Barack Obama

Hillary Clinton

Latinos (with special venom for Mexicans)

Non-Christians

Outsourced jobs (except a certain brand of suits and ties made in Mexican maquiladores)

I’m not making this stuff up. Tune in and listen for yourself. Their explanation for the election results goes something like this: Voters are angry because the political establishment has allowed unpatriotic forces within our country (i.e. President Obama, Clinton, Mexicans, and non-Christians) to destroy the very fabric of our nation.

So when was the last time America was “great”? Historians agree that President John F. Kennedy’s assassination on November 22, 1963, was a turning point for the United States. Before that fateful day, America thought of itself as a black and white TV show starring well dressed parents and “gee-whiz” freckled-faced kids with wispy blonde hair.

During the next five decades, those who didn’t get a fair shot at the American Dream have fought for and gained equal rights. This sea change in America has ruined our country according to the angry electorate who wants to see us go back to November 21, 1963. These mad voters scoff at every piece of anti-discrimination legislation and each court decision that has leveled the playing field for women, people of color, and the LGBTQ community.

Guess what happened on the way to a more equal nation? The economy changed, we elected a black president, women have risen to the highest levels of government, Latinos have out competed working-class whites in the new economy, and evangelical Christians now have to share the national spiritual stage with believers of other faiths.

Yeah, I said it: Latinos have out competed working-class whites in the new economy.

That may be why rebellious voters are mad. They want to go back to the way it was before JFK’s assassination triggered all of this equal rights stuff. The white working class thrived when America was the global leader in making cars, mining coal, heating steel, and manufacturing in a myriad of blue-collar industries. Over 90% of those workers were white men. Management and unions ensured that it stayed that way.

By the early 70s, American auto manufacturing moguls, getting slaughtered by foreign car makers, realized that machines operated by computers could make a car faster and cheaper. The rest of the manufacturing sector followed suit. Then, Ronald Reagan and his Republican revolution introduced the free trade movement.

The most hated and reviled trade agreement is the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). It passed during the Clinton Administration, but Reagan was NAFTA’s father. Yup…Look it up. American manufacturing as we knew it disappeared, the economy changed, and the white working class anger we see today was born.

Yeah, I said it: Latinos have out competed working-class whites in the new economy.

What have Latinos done since white working class manufacturing jobs disappeared? We adjusted to the new economy. While white Americans have turned their noses up on low-paying service jobs, Latinos have dominated that sector. High paying constructions jobs are mostly filled by Latinos, especially in states with large Latino populations.

A new group of Latinos replaced the Latinos who left the backbreaking agricultural and meat-packing industries  for the new economy. America can thank Ronald Reagan for that too. The Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986 was President Reagan’s baby. It ushered in a new era of immigration. Is the angry crowd mad at their beloved conservative icon? Nope. They’re mad at the group of people who took advantage of his policies.

When not cheering and jeering at political rallies, the angry white working class collects welfare at high rates. According to a Bloomberg News report, 160 of the 227 counties with the highest rate of food stamp usage are in southern Republicans congressional districts. These counties, approximately 90% white, have been devastated by the new economy.

The same report points out that Owsley County Kentucky has the highest rate of food stamp recipients in the nation. Over half of the residents of the area (52%) survive on the program. Owsley County is 98% white. GOP nominee Mitt Romney won 81% of the vote against President Obama in 2012 and 63% of the angry electorate voted for the angriest Republican candidate during the 2016 presidential primary last week.

While displaced workers of the new economy in rural America collect food stamps and complain about immigration and outsourcing, Latinos have worked their way to college campuses. In 2014, the Wall Street Journal reported that the University of California system admitted more Latinos than whites for the first time in its history.

A generation ago, my American-born parents were denied entry at a Phoenix nightclub because they were “Mexican.” Today, my family and Sandra’s family (including our spouses and children) have earned 26 college degrees with more on the way. Working-class Latino families throughout the country have followed this path to compete in today’s workforce.

That’s why angry working-class white welfare recipients are so pissed off. That’s why they want to build the wall (and make Mexico pay for it). That’s why Donald Trump’s nonsense resonates with this self-defeated group of people.

Latinos have come a long way, yet we have a long way to go. The executive suite and the halls of power are still but a distant speck on the horizon for Latinos. The United States of America, our country tis of thee, has provided an opportunity for Latinos to compete. We can’t allow anger to change that.

America is not perfect, but for the past half century, it has been great for Latinos. The ballot box is more important than ever. Let’s go out and vote in record numbers to make America even greater.

Yes! The Golden State Warriors are world champions! I’m still nursing my celebration hangover from Game 6 of the NBA Finals. It was quite a story. There was all the hoopla about the the Splash Brothers vs. “the greatest player in the world.” With the exception of Warrior fans, the rest of the country was sure that King James would carry the day like Michael, Magic, and Larry did in the 1980s and 1990s. But he didn’t.

And the Golden State Warriors are world champions!

This was a topic of conversation when I had lunch with Hall of Fame basketball coach Percy Carr last week. Coach Carr just finished his 40^th season at San Jose City College and has his fair share of championships. He mentioned a tidbit of history that I’m sure not many people know about. The last time the Warriors were world champs, the team’s practice facility was the gym at San Jose City College.

The team practiced at SJCC from the mid-1960s through the end of the next decade. Hall of Famer and 1975 NBA Finals MVP Rick Barry played there, as did Warrior greats Al Attles, Clifford Ray, Jeff Mullins, Jamal Wilkes, Phil Smith, and Charles Johnson. Attles was also the head coach of that 1975 championship squad.

Coach Carr shared stories about the NBA stars playing pick-up hoops with the SJCC players during open gym. He recounted how the NBA players were right at home on his floor. They interacted with students and others who happened to hang around the court. Coach still has one of Clifford Ray’s size 19 high-top sneakers in his office as a souvenir from those days.

I peppered Coach Carr with questions: When did the Warriors start practicing at SJCC? How did it happen? Why did the team choose to workout in San Jose, not Oakland or San Francisco? Since the the Warriors/SJCC relationship started before he arrived in 1976, Coach Carr didn’t have answers to my questions. I could see the light bulb illuminate above his head as he picked up his cell phone and dialed his old friend and “Mr. Warrior,” Al Attles.

After a few minutes of friendly ribbing and chit chat, Coach Carr asked Coach Attles some of my questions before handing the phone to me. It was pretty cool for me to be able talk to the legendary Al Attles just a week after the Golden State Warriors won the NBA championship. Actually, it was VERY cool!

Here’s what I learned: A generation ago, the NBA wasn’t the glitzy showbiz entertainment juggernaut it is today. That had its beginnings in the late 1970s with Dr. J’s acrobatic dunks and the Magic vs. Bird show. Then came Air Jordan, and the rest is history. The NBA evolved from a hard-nosed league of large men who happened to be the best basketball players in the world to today’s multi-billion dollar mega business featuring large men who are the best players on the planet.

In 1962, the Warriors came to San Francisco from Philadelphia in when a group of local businessman pooled their money together to buy the team. When the Warriors arrived in San Francisco, there was only one other NBA team on the west coast, the Los Angeles Lakers came from Minnesota just two years earlier. The group bought the franchise for a whopping $850,000.

Yeah, you read that correctly.

A few years later, San Jose native Franklin Mieuli, who made his fortune in the local radio and television business, eventually bought out his partners and became principal owner of the franchise.

As the NBA was getting a foothold in California during the early years, the Warriors were having a hard time finding a place to practice. The University of San Francisco was the only local college that was willing to give up some gym time for the pro team. That arrangement didn’t last long. The club then moved to the Oakland Mormon Temple where the old ABA Oakland Oaks practiced during its one year in existence. The Oaks failed to pay the rent, so the deal almost fell through because church leaders mistook the NBA for the ABA.

That’s where owner Franklin Mieuli’s San Jose roots came in handy. He reached out to the SJCC administration and secured a long-term commitment to use the gym as the pro team’s official practice facility. Part of the deal included the construction of a professional-style locker room that the SJCC Jaguars still use today. Coach Attles told me that the SJCC community was always warm and welcoming. “We loved our time at San Jose City College,” he said.

Today, the Warriors play regular season games at the Oakland Coliseum and work out in a state-of-the-art practice facility befitting a 21^st century NBA franchise in that city’s downtown. The team is the best basketball club in the world. The best two players have a splashy nickname that resonates with fans in the high-energy entertainment industry the NBA is today. Steph Curry jerseys are the hottest items in the NBA’s retail business.

In simpler times, the NBA champs hung out in a little gym in San Jose. Earlier this spring, I wrote that the SJCC men’s basketball team was the best kept secret in town (click here to read that article: https://esereport.com/2015/02/23/monday-meanderings-san-joses-best-kept-secret/). Now we know that the college has another wonderful secret. It is home to world champions.