He Is Estancia’s Biggest Booster

Every school seems to have one. That unflappable fan who sings the alma mater in his sleep. Who has flashbacks over bad calls or missed free throws. Who bleeds blue and gold, or green and grey, or whatever the school colors may be.

At El Dorado, he’s known as “Wild Bill.” At Pacifica, he’s “Peter Pacifica.” At Brea-Olinda, he was the late, great Dyer Bennett, laid to rest last year with a Brea letterman’s jacket at his side.

Jim Scott is one of those fans. For 25 years, the Costa Mesa resident has cheered passionately for Estancia High School and, at 66, he shows no sign of slowing. He’s the Eveready bunny of Eagle sports, the Old Faithful of fandom. He leads cheers, orchestrates applause, offers inspirational slogans to players . . . does whatever he must to move and motivate that Eagle spirit.

First impressions may not be kind. Scott’s no slim Jim; he’s a man of roly-poly proportions. He’s got a booming voice that--thanks to his Texas roots--can twang like a banjo in need of tuning. He’s a staunch supporter of sportsmanship, yet doesn’t see any harm in leading a pack of young fans in a gleeful taunt of “You! You! You!” every time an opposing player commits a foul.

None of this, though, could take away from Scott’s gentle sense of humor, his concern for the community, or his intense dedication to family and friends. His love for Estancia athletics is an extension of his personality, intertwined through his soul like threads in a tapestry. Routinely, he’ll present athletes with his lifelong motto--”Take the Shot,” a sports-styled carpe diem--hoping it’ll inspire them to strive today, not just tomorrow.

Joan (pronounced JoAnne) Scott says her husband of nearly 40 years has always been this way. Always wanted to give to the community, whether it be sports or Scouts. But Jim admits, for him, there may have been a turning point, a moment when helping to support and guide high school athletes became not only his passion but, in a small way, his duty.

It came in the aftermath of tragedy. On June 30, 1977, Tom Scott, the second-oldest of four children, was killed by a car while crossing an intersection. He was 16.

“He was walking to a friend’s house,” Jim says. “Going to use their new Jacuzzi. It was summer. School had just let out . . . “

Tom was a member of Estancia’s track and field team, competing in the pole vault and middle distance events. He played the trombone for the marching band. He was a couple of years away from attaining Eagle Scout status like his father and brother before him. His school photos--from first grade to his sophomore year at Estancia--hang on the walls of the hall in his parents’ home. The huge mural of “Jaws” he painted still adorns the wall of his bedroom.

Jim says time has eased the pain, but only slightly. At Estancia’s game against Newbury Park Friday night, a towheaded youngster of 5 or 6 wandered in front of Jim and Joan. The boy looked a bit like Tom in his first-grade photo. Jim watched him each time he passed.

“Sometimes I feel I’m being driven by it,” Jim says of his super booster ways. “It’s like, ‘Hey Tom, we still love you. If I do something for your buddies down here, I’m doing it for you . . . ‘ “

And he does plenty.

Sure, there’s the financial support. Scott, a manufacturer of aerospace parts, buys ads in Eagle programs, sponsors the annual trophy for the city’s top football squad, and is good for a couple of creative donations a year. When the Eagles made it to the State championships at Oakland last season, Scott plunked down the funds needed to have the game broadcast in Orange County so the folks at home could hear.

Scott isn’t much for reciting ancient statistics. He doesn’t rank the greatest games or players of Estancia history, doesn’t obsess over victories and losses. What matters to him is the collective spirit in the gym, the blending of school and community.

And so he sees his mission.

Last year, Scott was one of the few people over 17 who supported the infamous Estancia dancers, a group of boys who situated themselves on different sides of the gym, and, at a secretly synchronized moment, wowed the crowd with their wild, hip-thrusting dance. While the student body squealed in delight, administrators reeled in fright, slapping one dancer with a suspension from school. (Thanks to quick intervention by Scott and O’Brien, the suspension was suspended).

Then there’s Estancia’s “Rowdy Rooters,” a gang of fervent fans of which Scott says he’s the patriarch. The Rowdies are a bit mischievous--getting on opponents and refs is part of the fun, Scott says--but they have their standards: no four-letter words, no throwing anything on the court, and absolutely no fighting. Outside of that, anything goes.

“Probably some of the hierarchy (at Estancia) wished to high heaven I didn’t say this,” Scott says. “But these kids today have got to vent their vinegar somehow, get out some of that venom. If you channel ‘em right, it can be done graciously.”

There wasn’t much noise coming from the Estancia fans Friday night, as their team barely survived a tenacious effort by underdog Newbury Park. Matt Fuerbringer’s monster slam in the second quarter changed that, though, sending the crowd into a tizzy. In his glee, Scott grabbed what appeared to be a red flag and flung it wildly above his head.

“Not that!” his wife screamed. “That’s my best sweater!”

Jim gave his wife a sheepish look. Joan rolled her eyes. Apparently, after 40 years together, she knows what to expect. The end of the school year, for instance, is hell. “Oh, it’s just awful!” Joan says. “No more sports, nothing for him to do. . . . That’s why we always go on a trip. Otherwise, we’d have to baby-sit him.”

There is a more treacherous moment. It happens each time Jim walks through the door after an Eagle basketball game. Joan stays upstairs and listens. If she hears the signal--an extra-loud slam of the the toilet seat--she knows the Eagles lost, and she’d best stay upstairs and let Jim sulk on the living room sofa.

But if all is quiet. . . .

“It’s ‘OK! Polly’s Pies here we come!’ ” Joan says.

A small slice of victory, but forever sweet.