This guy was one of the toughest competitors
I'd ever known. I met Madrigal playing tetherball in the 4th grade at
Royal Oaks Elementary School in Duarte. On the playground, I was
considered the guy to beat in tetherball. Al had gotten wind of it, so he
asked to play me. I remember it vividly, two 9-year-olds facing off in an
epic battle on the asphalt circle, pole at the center with a soccer ball
tethered by a cord to the ring at the top of the pole. I started. I
rang the ball around the pole a few times before Al caught it, where he
promptly pounded the ball over my head, making it wrap around that pole like it
had been shot out of a canon. The game was pitched. It went back
and forth for a few minutes before Al, who was stronger than me at that age,
rang the ball high up on the pole and out of reach. As I watched it wrap
tightly, I stood stunned. The guy was an athlete. I was the
champion tether-ball player and Madrigal deposed me. In good
sportsmanship, we each complimented the other, saying good game. But the
impression was lasting. He appreciated the challenge, and he liked the
way I handled defeat. I admired him too. Each of us understood that
the other was a fierce competitor, and we liked that.
The next
time that I met Al was at Northview Junior High School. There he was part
of the Cardinal football team, basketball team, and baseball team. The
guy loved sports. Wasn't a great fan of golf though. I didn't
really know him that well at Northview because I was into my studies and was
hanging out with friends from Fish Canyon, like Mike Carpenter, Phil Weitzman,
Ronnie Krall, and John Shandley. Jimmy Flores lived on Mt. Olive, at the
foot of Mt. Olive just inside the limits of Bradbury.
I had many good
memories of Al. During high school, I met him occasionally and only
incidentally at the Christian Breakfast Club out at Lake Avenue Congregational
Church in Pasadena at 5:30 in the morning. He was out of my league
athletically. He played Varsity Basketball since the 9th or the 10th
grade. Outside of Lake Avenue's CBC, I used to have lunch with him
occasionally at Chuck Burger with Ernie, Bart, and Bill. I think that
Bart would drive his Rambler over to the restaurant most times. It is
funny how you appreciate certain moments in your life that at the time you took
for granted. Actually, going out to eat was one of my favorite
activities, and having lunch with friends was the best. In retrospect,
thinking about Ray Johnston's organizing efforts and how he would plan Friday
and Saturday night basketball games at Lake Avenue's basement gym or at Steve
Schibsted's backyard court were some of the most pleasurable moments of my high
school days. I remember being at Steve's house with Jim Flores, with Al
Madrigal, with Steve Schibsted and thinking how lucky I was, that I certainly
didn't do anything to deserve it. It's just that Steve, who was good
friends with Ray, was himself a very generous, good guy. I lucked out.
After high
school, we really drifted in other directions. He went to Cal State LA
and studied Communications and Mexican-American studies. I went to work,
first at Steamboat Fried Chicken, then to Colamco in San Dimas, before getting
on at UPS in Baldwin Park in 1979. My days at UPS were a love-hate
relationship. I loved being outdoors; I didn't like running
frantically. It was run, run, run. Nor did I like large guard dogs
barking and springing high enough so that I could see them but them being
unaware that they could leap the fence. I remember one Doberman Pinscher
that did just that as I pulled my UPS truck to the curb of one house in the
mesa of the City of Industry. I got the package. Stood at the steps
inside my truck and gauged it. I bolted from the steps and to the front
door. Dropped the package and ran back. Thank you, Lord, for not
letting my leg get munched!
I met up
with Al around 1980 at Bob's Big Boy restaurant in Monrovia. We got to
talking, and he told me that he'd earned his degree from Cal State LA and was
taking some time off. I had just gotten laid off from UPS because it was
the end of the Christmas rush. UPS said they would call me back to
work. They didn't, at least not in a stretch of time that proved that
they had lived up to their word. So I called them. And called
them. And called them. Nothing. No return call. I
called again. I called every other day for three months. No
reply. No return call. Three months later in March, I got a
call. They offered me a job to work nights. "How many hours?"
I asked. Their answer, "One to one and a half per night."
Would I take it? I had no job. I knew about the job lists and how
if I wanted to make any decent money I had to be on it. In order to get
on it, I had to work nights so I accepted. Within a week I was working up
to 7 hours a night. Except for having to work nights and destroying my
health with broken sleep, I had it pretty good. I was bringing home
nearly $300 a week working part-time.
Al was
coaching middle-aged kids at Immaculate Conception in Monrovia. He asked
if I wouldn't mind refereeing. I agreed. It turned out to be
fun. I think that that is what I admired about Al. He enjoyed his
life, his time in everything he did. He knew his limits. He knew
what he could do and wouldn't do. Me, on the other hand, I'd go after
anything regardless of how it destroyed me.
Wilbert Jackson, #20, stands to the left of Coach Newman. On Newman's left is #23,
Shane Kelley. On Kelley's left is #25, Al Madrigal, one of the toughest
competitors in many areas of life. Sitting on the bench in the middle is
#4, Jeff Sadowski. Sitting on the far left, whose number is obscured,
could be Steve Schibsted. #21, sitting on the bench at the far right is
Flannery.
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