Northside

I got off the 101 Freeway at Julian Street this evening and it was as if I were 9 years old again, sitting next to my dad in his big red truck. For some reason, this neighborhood always does this to me. I don't get around there much anymore, but it always kind of takes me back. Winding around the off-ramp I would like at the large warehouse with the sign on top that said SAN JOSE STEEL CO. and know that we were just about there. Now, the sign says Monarch Trucking, but the building still looks the same. My dad would turn onto Julian and cross the railroad tracks at 28th Street. As I crossed the tracks, I glanced at the somewhat run down apartments off to the right and thought about how Conrad Gonzales used to live over there. He was the point guard on the basketball team that my dad coached at San Jose High School. He along with many others that played for my dad were my idols. I adored those guys. My dad would frequently pick-up or drop-off guys after games or practice and I probably remember where all of them lived.

We would pull up to the light at 24th Street and wait to turn left. There, on this block, was the greatest school in the world. At least it was to me, as a 9 year old kid that served as ball boy, statistician, water boy and halftime show for home games. Sometimes I would go into the locker room and listen to the pep talks. I had the run of the place. Nobody else could go in and out of the coaches offices, locker room, equipment room, weight room. To me it was like my dad was the bass player for Earth, Wind, and Fire, and I had permanent backstage passes. It was great.

My dad would eventually leave to teach and coach at another school when I was about 13, but I still loved this neighborhood. The neighborhood where we lived in the much more suburban side of town was much nicer, but that didn't matter. I loved that we'd go to Orange Julius and get a hot dog and whatever they called that whipped orange thing they served as a drink. We'd go get tacos on Santa Clara street or dip into the El Chapparal Supermercado on occasion to grab something to drink. We might have to go to the Roosevelt Community Center on 21st street for whatever reason and my dad knew everybody. I was "Lil' J.O." to everybody. During the summer, he'd open the gym and I might lift weights on the Universal Machine. I would bet him that I could lift a certain amount of weight and when I won the bet, we'd go over to Der Wienerschnitzel (the didn't drop the "Der" until the late '80s) where he'd have to pay up and watch me make four chili-cheese dogs quickly disappear. Sometimes, I'd make him take me to Foster's Freeze on Fourth and Taylor for a Pineapple Shake.

On some days, we'd head on over to Guadalajara Market No. 2 and have the best burritos in the world. Yes, I do mean the WORLD! (One time in college, I was home for the weekend from UCLA and before heading back, I grabbed a burrito from here and set it on the seat for the five hour drive back to Los Angeles. Instead of going home, I went straight to campus where I knew my friends would be studying. I used to study with a group of guys from East L.A. that swore up and down that King Taco on 3rd Street in East L.A. was the gold standard for all things burrito and taco. We even drove all the way out there, about 40 minutes from campus, to check it out one time. I wasn't impressed. So I marched into the Minority Engineering Center and dropped this 5-hour-old burrito into the middle of the table and told them they were about to taste the best burrito ever. After nuking it for 30 seconds or so, I cut it up and let them try. Their looks of satisfaction said it all. There was never any further argument on this subject.) Dad and I might eat ours in the truck, or maybe take some home for everybody else. Of course, the burritos had been prepared by some of his students. It was like rollin' with Don Corleone around there. Everybody knew the Red Truck.

I love North San Jose. Some people see blight, but I see memories; fond memories of a happy childhood spent pal-ing around with my dad in his Big Red Truck, dreaming of one day donning a red, white, and grey S.J. Bulldog uniform and jumping center as my dad looked on from the bench.