A Passion or Just a Hobby? It’s a Tossup

Jonathan the Wonder Dog--soon to be a juggling dog--is here with 12-year-old Matthew Mendoza, who’s practicing his “Juggling for Jesus” routine.

Christina Garner, 42, a high school Spanish teacher who lives a Walter Mitty life as “The Gypsy Juggler,” is balancing on a rolling board while tossing and catching three clubs. Jeffrey Daymont, 28, just back from a paid juggling gig in Japan, flips a trio of cigar boxes into the air, catching them end-on-end, a maneuver he’s been striving to perfect for 14 years.

Striving for perfection--a perfection never attainable--is part of the joy of juggling. “No matter how good you are, you’re never there,” explains Frank Nielsen, an engineer from Corona, whose T-shirt identifies him as “Almost a Juggler” after more than 15 years at it.

At the Oasis Senior Center in Corona del Mar, the Orange Jugglers have gathered, as they do each Friday night, to hone their skills in the company of other devotees. The wonder dog, a 1-year-old Jack Russell terrier, watches a young man circling the room aboard a tall unicycle.

“Jonathan’s going to be making his debut soon,” explains Matthew’s mom, Trish, “and, hopefully, he’s going to dance and, hopefully, he’s going to jump through a hoop.”

The scene: organized chaos. “It’s pretty free-form,” says Steve Gerdes, a construction worker from Long Beach, here with wife Michelle. They met through juggling, after she was advised by her eye doctor to give it a try. “He thought it would help with my peripheral vision--and it has.”

Louise Carole and Karen Batesole from the South Coast Children’s Society, a Newport Beach home for troubled boys, have brought seven boys, as they often do. “They need a sense of accomplishment. They really need to succeed at something,” Batesole says. Balancing balls and clubs is a start.

It’s all about rhythm. And stance (one must not lean forward). Novices often start with nylon scarves, which float slowly and are easy to catch. People have juggled tennis rackets, plates and knives. Juggling launched the show-biz careers of W.C. Fields and comedian Fred Allen.

In “Juggling--Its History and Greatest Performers” (1984), juggler Francisco Alvarez recalls some turn-of-the-century greats. There was Paul Cinquevalli, who would toss a turnip up, pierce it with a fork, then catch the falling turnip on the point of a knife held in his hand. He could also kick a coin with his toe, plopping it, monocle-like, into one eye.

Then there was the great Salerno, who would do a headstand atop a table while clasping a wine bottle between his feet, shake out the cork and pour the wine into a glass in his mouth. Not classic juggling, perhaps, but then the definition of juggling is constantly evolving.

“There used to be an unspoken concept that juggling meant more objects than hands,” says Richard Dingman, secretary-treasurer of the Massachusetts-based International Jugglers Assn., “but that’s no longer true.” One popular variation is contact juggling, wherein the juggler may work with a single object, such as a crystal ball, rolling it artfully around the body.

He adds: “Jugglers are pretty eclectic and don’t like rules, but we do have competitions” in which contestants vie to juggle the most objects. With a few months’ diligent practice, most can master five balls or clubs. Six is a giant leap, Dingman says, and “There are very few seven-ball or -club jugglers in the world.”

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No one’s certain where juggling was born, but carvings of jugglers have been found in ruins of ancient civilizations. Alexander the Great, it’s said, celebrated great victories being entertained by jugglers.

Leave it to the French to give the art its name--from jongleur, a 6th century jester.

The ‘60s TV variety shows and the decade of the ‘70s, with its street theater, gave the art a boost. The IJA boasts 4,000 members in 39 countries, most of them in the United States and about two-thirds of them male. Some are pros, but for most it’s a hobby.

Typically, they might start as Matthew Mendoza did, juggling oranges in the family’s driveway--”I really made a lot of orange juice.” Next came a mail-order juggling kit with bean bags.

His parents, Paul and Trish, are co-directors of an evangelical ministry in Orange County, and Matthew, who wants to be an evangelist, brings joy to children, the sick and the homeless by “Juggling for Jesus.”

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Jugglers are a fraternity. When the Gerdeses travel, they carry the IJA’s international directory, which tells them where and when jugglers are meeting. Says Michelle: “We meet people from all over the world [who come to L.A.]. They come over and spend the night on our floor.”

Special events, such as the annual festival staged by the UC Santa Barbara Club Juggling in Isla Vista, can be tracked on the Juggling Information Service site on the World Wide Web. There are clubs from Ventura to Riverside, with names such as Safety in Numbers and the Battery Operated Juggling Club.

In July, jugglers will flock to Rapid City, S.D., for the annual IJA Festival. And each January there’s a smaller event in Las Vegas, which happens to be home to Anthony Gatto, a young pro juggler some consider the best in the world.

Orange Jugglers’ Nielsen, 42, took up juggling because “one day basketball hurt too much. God kept telling me to quit.” For him, there’s a meditation aspect. Each noon, he goes to a little park near his office and “I stop and throw things to myself.”

He has observed that “a lot of jugglers are technical people--engineers, scientists, mathematicians” who are intrigued by the dynamics. The IJA’s brochure invites one and all to “be part of the boundless quest to creatively harness gravity.”

This night at the Oasis Senior Center, the youngest juggler is 7, just old enough to be properly coordinated. One of the most enthusiastic is Stefan Long, 13, of Irvine, who taught himself using baseballs and “breaking everything in the house.” Juggling intrigues him because “most people can’t do it” and it’s “no big old competition thing.”

Indeed, the challenge is to best one’s personal best. One more ball, one more club. So you’re juggling five balls? How about adding a pirouette?

Then there are torches, dismissed by some as too circus-like. Matthew’s mom says, “Everything he does now, he wants to set it on fire first. Now he wants the dog to jump through a flaming hoop.”

It’s dark and the fire enthusiasts are on the patio of the senior center. Deftly twirling the flaming torches, Stefan confides, “It looks bad, but it’s not.” If one hits you, it won’t linger long enough to burn.

Trish Mendoza surveys the lawn, with its charred patches where errant torches have landed, and says: “The seniors will come tomorrow and think there’s been some cult doing its rituals.”

* This weekly column chronicles the people and small moments that define life in Southern California. Reader suggestions are welcome.