You might say “Who?” and I wouldn't disagree.
But you probably saw him, a regular part of your life maybe on some Saturdays, or at the very least you looked through him.
He was the guy standing on the concourse monitoring access to the press box elevator, a fixture at the Coliseum since 1967.
He worked hundreds of football and basketball games and saw none of them. His job, as with so many others in the background, was to make sure everyone else saw the game without a problem.
Ordinarily I deal with the people who count in the public eye, the ones who can be quoted in the newspaper like the players scoring touchdowns or the coaches who have all the answers.
But Jack also worked at the Rose Bowl, a shining star as far as I was concerned, because sometimes he was the only friendly face I could count on at a UCLA game.
Loved the guy, one of those friendly people you run into all the time, but darn if I didn't know his name for nearly 20 years.
“Did you know Jack's wife died?” someone said as I entered the Coliseum elevator six years ago, and that's how I came to know his first name.
I learned Jack's last name when we talked about his wife, Mina. She had run the Rose Bowl elevators.
I probably rode with her many times, but I could not place her and felt badly that I couldn't tell him what a sweetheart she had been. He seemed to already know.
I asked how long he had been married.
He replied without hesitation, “58 years, four months and four days.”
Then he gave me one of the best quotes I have ever heard in 40 years of doing this.
“She was the best wife I ever had,” Jack said.
It was the perfect blend of wit, love and Jack. And once I knew his name we became even closer strangers.
Jack always wanted to shake hands like someone who really wanted to say hello. And he liked to tease or toss in a crusty opinion.
If you wished to get a rise out of him, as a columnist might, you just had to say something nice about Ben Howland. And the fight was on.