Drop On By and Do Some Remembering at the Zabys’

One of the greatest challenges of any reporter, especially those of us who work in the outlying Orange County bureaus, is finding a hiding place from the editors.

Because my bosses were reporters in another life, I’m sure they know this and would even admit to it if they weren’t on deadline or carrying a fist full of assignments to farm out.

So it is with great reluctance that I reveal where I’ve been spending some of my mornings on the job in Anaheim: Zaby’s Motor Lodge.

I know what some of you might be thinking. It doesn’t have anything to do with that and, yes, my wife knows. But let me explain, anyway.

Some of the best hiding places are joints with plenty of character, characters and color. And the “board room” at Zaby’s is my kind of joint.

Although it lacks the polish of an Anaheim Hilton or the Marriott across the street, on most mornings (by the way, the best day is Tuesday) you’re likely to find an odd collection of professional athletes active and retired, well-heeled developers or politicians hunched around the pink Formica table behind the check-in counter.

There, coffee is served in clear-glass mugs, and shootin’ the breeze is still an art form kept alive by the Zaby boys: John, Angelo, Carl and Tommy.

“It’s just a bull session,” said Angelo, 71, who quietly presides. “Sports is a big item, we have a little lunch and the boys can get home before dark.”

If this was Mayberry, N.C., the lodge could easily pass as Floyd’s barber shop.

Built in 1967, the motel’s decor is noticeably original. Yellowed photographs of baseball legends Babe Ruth, Willie Mays, Stan Musial, Mickey Mantle and fellow Yankee masher Roger Maris line the wall behind the front desk.

Family members (the boys are just four of 14 brothers and sisters) are pictured with President Ronald Reagan. But the prize is a 1979 frame of Carl and Tommy mugging with Muhammad Ali outside their brother-in-law’s body shop in Bellflower.

A notch below the wall of fame is a shelf full of memorabilia, including a collection of autographed baseballs, one touched with the signature of Mr. Coffee himself, Joe DiMaggio.

But it’s the talk inside the “board room” that draws the visitors. There really is no set time, but it seems most people generally wander in about midmorning, after they’ve had a chance to read the morning papers and scan the box scores. Regulars always use the side door from the parking lot.

Angelo; John, 77, and Tommy, who at 61 is the baby of the family, are always friendly and keep the coffee coming. But it’s tough-talking Carl, the most ornery of the bunch at 69, who can be counted on for his biting opinions on everything from Disney’s development plans across the street to Anaheim politics.

“Try to get that one in the paper, Johnson,” Tommy calls out regularly after Carl has launched into one of his stinging indictments.

“No way he can put that in the paper,” the hefty Carl will shoot back from his seat in the window, a battered telephone extension sitting at his elbow.

And he’s right. No way.

The guests are as interesting as the hosts. And on some days those guests are drawn right from the photographs hanging on the wall.

At 93 years old, John Kerr, a former infielder with the Detroit Tigers, Chicago White Sox and old Washington Senators in 1924-34, comes all the way from Long Beach most Tuesdays to “visit Carl.”

After a past driving accident, these days Kerr has a friend drive him to the motel, where he’ll talk about the days he played with and against Tiger great Ty Cobb and the Babe.

“In 1929, I was with the White Sox and played against Ruth,” Kerr said last Tuesday. “Ruth was hitting about .400 (pretty darn good) in the beginning of the year, and I was over .300. Then I got hurt sliding into home plate and was out for a month. I hit .289 that year. Would’ve done better if I didn’t get hurt.”

Of Cobb’s reputation for aggressive play, Kerr said: “He didn’t have many friends. He was a tough man. He cut everybody down when he was sliding into the bases.”

Kerr said he has been coming to the motel for the past few years because the Zabys are “a good bunch of guys.”

“I get a kick out of them,” Kerr said. “Carl, Angelo . . . I like ‘em all.”

Lest you think this is one of those tired, socially incorrect men’s clubs, Dot has helped run the front desk for going on 21 years and can sling verbal jabs with the best of them. (Her last name? “It doesn’t matter,” she said.)

“When they holler and yell at me,” Dot said, “I yell back. When you have been around here as long as I have, they treat me like a sister.”

And so, editors, if you’ve got an assignment, try not to call me while I’m at Zaby’s. But if you have to, leave a message with Dot and I’ll get back to you.