Almost Famous
My life's path crossed those of three baseball immortals, two acclaimed actresses and one very cool '60s pop star
I’ve never been famous.
Never been rich, for that matter. However, in the past life — and serendipity — brought me close-up-and-personal with very famous people. Especially athletes. That happens when a considerable portion of your working life is spent in the glossy world of Major League Baseball.
But I lived in the shadows, the opaque background, well clear of the spotlight and cameras. Which was cool by me. I was much better at writing about famous people than being one. I don’t sing or dance. I can’t hit a 90 mph fastball. And I’m not particularly photogenic — my smile is often mistaken as a sign of constipation.
Let me preface this by saying I’m not a serial name-dropper. I find the practice pretentious and irritating. Besides, I spent the last 14 years of my career eating a lunch of Cup-o-Noodles while sitting alone at a classroom desk. So my close encounters with the rich and famous happened in a previous life. I only talk about it when asked.
Well, recently a former colleague asked.
So this is for posterity, not glamor. And it’s way too late for fame.
First Exposure
My first exposures to celebrity were happenstance. Incidental really … that is, I brushed across two girls in high school who would later become very famous actors.
The one year I attended Hazelwood High School in Florissant, MO – my sophomore year (1971-72) – I rode the bus with a senior girl named Katherine Nail. She lived on my street. Didn’t know her, barely remember her. Many years later I learned Katherine went to Hollywood, became an actress, used the screen name Kate Capshaw, starred in an Indiana Jones movie and married Steven Spielberg. Katherine became famous.
Two years later, my parents moved me (grudgingly) to San Diego and Patrick Henry High. There I befriended Brad Bening, an amiable chap with long flowing blonde hair, a keen intellect, and an affinity for smoking really big joints (remember, this is 1973).
Sometimes we’d engage in deep-subject conversations in his room, like Watergate. In the next bedroom Brad’s sister Annette, a sophomore, would practice her drama lines. Brad eventually became a lawyer while ‘lil sis Annette Bening made her way to La La Land, stardom on the Silver Screen, then to the alter with Warren Beatty. Annette became famous.
Newspaper and intro into professional sports
In 1973, the day I turned 18, I was hired as a “Copy Boy” by the San Diego Union. That label is an anachronism. If the title accurately fit the job description it would have been the non-binary “Gopher.”
Still, it was a great start as I was still in high school with the intention of majoring in Journalism. I did, though it took 5 ½ years to qualify for the degree.
Today the title of “Journalist” is an anachronism. (And infamous)
It didn’t take long for me to migrate to the Sports Desk. After all, I was a bit of a jock (another anachronism). Back then, sports beat writers “faxed” their stories to the newsroom from various venues. And by “fax” I mean those old phone-connected, spinning drum contraptions that transmitted individual pages 4 minutes at a time. But the writers were on deadline and didn’t do it themselves. That was my job.
So instead of going to the Union’s office, I’d report to San Diego Stadium or the San Diego Sports Arena and sit beside sportswriters during games in the press box. Over the course of the evening, I sprung into action 4 minutes at a time when their copy was ready.
Mostly, I did my college homework. And got paid for it.
But it introduced my elbows to those of famous people in the wide world of sports.
Major League Baseball
When I was hired by the San Diego Padres in June 1982 as a Public Relations Assistant, I became part of the Alpha dog, testosterone-driven world of the professional athlete.
Mostly, the players became friends. They were real people. The majority were unaffected, agreeable men despite the hyper-competitive machismo of their profession. Stars and journeymen, they were all good dudes. But it was through my association with Tony Gwynn that I saw true fame unfold.
Tony arrived in San Diego about a month after my hire, and it was clear he would become something special. We were the new guys, and quickly became friends. Our association was sealed when I co-wrote Gwynn’s first of four books, TONY!, in 1986. Gwynn played for 20 years, became the greatest hitter of his generation, and was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2007.
Tony’s stardom never betrayed his affable nature, the toothy smile, and his distinct, infectious laughter. In the years of our friendship, we never had a cross word.
Ted Williams
As I said, life events often occur by happenstance. Right place, right time.
February 1986. It was an ordinary off-season workday as I sat in Andy Strasberg’s office. Andy was the Padres’ Director of Marketing and was very highly regarded in the industry. He received a call from stadium security. At the other end was Boston Red Sox legend Ted Williams, a San Diego native, who had arrived for some kind of promotion
I accompanied Andy to the field, which was being sodded for the upcoming season. There stood Williams in an ill-fitted brown corduroy jacket with that chiseled, now-aged hawkish face.
Ted Williams. This wasn’t just any baseball star. He was a God. A legend. Especially in Boston. The Kid. The Splendid Splinter. In the insular world of baseball, he was known as Ted “Fucking” Williams, the greatest hitter of all time. The last player to hit .400 (1941).
He was a big man, bigger than I had imagined. Big voice. Big gestures. Bigger than life. I was in awe.
In the insular world of baseball, he was known as Ted “Fucking” Williams, the greatest hitter of all time.
While we chatted, Padres players Terry Kennedy and Dave Dravecky joined us. Williams quickly eased into an animated conversation with Kennedy, a catcher, about hitting. After all, no one on the planet — before or since — had greater expertise on the topic. But Williams didn’t want anything to do with Dravecky.
“He’s a pitcher. He don’t know nothin.”
Typical Ted “Fucking” Williams.
Joe DiMaggio
In July 1994, I had just completed a month-long freelance job for Fleishman-Hillard at the World Cup Soccer tournament in Los Angeles when I received a call from Upper Deck.
Upper Deck is a trading card and collectibles company in Carlsbad, CA, just north of San Diego. The trading card business had blossomed into a multi-billion dollar industry in the 1990s, and Upper Deck was king of the hill, marketing premium visually-stunning collectibles across multiple sports.
The company was piloting a traveling “Old Timers” baseball game to promote its brand, and wanted to launch the prototype in San Diego. Upper Deck had pioneered the transformation of sports imagery into fine art, but they didn’t know diddly about managing a real sports event.
Upper Deck pioneered the transformation of sports imagery into fine art, but they didn’t know diddly about managing a real sports event.
That’s where I came in. I had worked a thousand games at San Diego Stadium. I knew the details of staging an event: the vendors to hire … the legal requirements … where the light switches were. So they hired me as Executive Producer.
Upper Deck actively promoted the event by advertising an appearance by its crowned jewel spokesman, Joe DiMaggio.
Like Ted Williams, DiMaggio was a baseball God .. even bigger as a 20th-century cultural icon. Paul Simon lamented about him in “Mrs. Robinson” …
“Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.”
I was tickled about meeting him.
Game Day: “Mr. DiMaggio … wants to know where to go.”
The game was scheduled for 7 p.m. About 20,000 tickets had been sold. But in the early afternoon on game day, I was in the press box when I received a call on my transceiver: “Mr. DiMaggio is at the press gate and wants to know where to go.”
He was scheduled to arrive at 5:30. It was 1:30. The game was at 7. It was August, and the thermometer edged toward 90 degrees. Other than the grounds crew and a smattering of others, nobody was in the Stadium.
Panic set in. Where am I going to put him for the next 5 hours?
I hurried down to the press gate. As if out of a movie — here was a grey-haired gentleman, distinguished-looking in an immaculate suit and perfectly-knotted red tie.
My lonely eyes had found Joe DiMaggio.
Fortunately, the umpire’s room attendant arrived at the gate at the same time. The umpires’ dressing room. Perfect. It was roomy and comfortable, with a full refrigerator, TV, and most importantly, air conditioning. So I ushered DiMaggio to the umps’ room and went back to work.
I checked in periodically and attempted to strike up a conversation. DiMaggio had a reputation as a prickly sort, which I found to be accurate. It wasn’t until I brought up our announcer, Jerry Coleman, that DiMaggio opened up. They had been teammates with the Yankees in their glory years.
All the while I caught myself staring blankly at him. This was Joltin’ Joe. The Yankee Clipper. Mr. Coffee. He had married Marilyn Monroe, for Chrissakes!
For the most part, however, he was detached and aloof, more or less a caricature of a legend. Joe DiMaggio’s job now was to be Joe DiMaggio.
Eventually, I led him around to his promotional duties … a brief speech to 200 kids in the bleachers, glad-handing with city officials and Upper Deck corporate types, and throwing out the first pitch to a warm ovation.
Directly afterward, I led him back to the press gate. He slipped into a limo and was gone.
My lament: I never took a picture with him, never got an autograph. It’s one of the regrets of my life.
Gary (“Mutha”) Witham
January, 2004. At age 48 I changed careers. I wanted to become a Lit teacher. So I took an accelerated curriculum through National University’s Education program to earn my Master’s Degree and teaching credential.
The final requirement was to work for a semester as a student teacher. National University placed me at Eastlake High School in Chula Vista, CA, located seven miles north of the U.S.-Mexico border.
There I met my “Master Teacher,” Gary Witham. Gary was a large, friendly fellow, about eight or nine years my senior with glasses and a shock of blonde hair. I’m sure this was a bit of a surprise: Gary was accustomed to mentoring 20-somethings, not a middle-aged father of three teenagers.
I was to teach his Health class. I noted Gary was also Eastlake’s Music Director. An odd combination, I thought. One day I asked him about it. He explained …
“Do you like rock and roll?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. I was a child of the 60s and 70s, and grew up with Classic Rock as my soundtrack.
“Do you remember the group Gary Puckett and the Union Gap?”
Sure I did. They dressed in Civil War uniforms and were chart-toppers in the late 60s. I rattled off a list of their hits: “Young Girl” … “Woman Woman” … “Lady Willpower.” Frontman Gary Puckett had a beautiful voice.
“I was their keyboardist.”
My jaw dropped. This was Gary “Mutha” Witham, rock star. My Master Teacher had appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show and had six Gold Records hanging in his living room. “Young Girl” was No. 1 on the pop charts the week of April 13, 1968. “Woman Woman” ended up selling 15 million singles.
Gary told great stories, and I couldn’t get enough. He’d often sit in with another San Diego band, Iron Butterfly. (Yes, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida”) He even briefly replaced the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson at gigs during Wilson’s periodic bouts with depression.
Gary eventually tired of the rock and roll lifestyle, briefly wrote music in Los Angeles before retiring and becoming a teacher.
We’re both fully retired now and are still friends.
And I remain almost famous.
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Jim Geschke was inducted into the prestigious Marquis Who’s Who Registry in 2021.
So cool! You've met a lot of "famous" people, and must have some great memories. It was a fun read.