His best regards to two guards

His name is Henry. Henry Garcia. How did I not know that?

I have seen him every winter for the last eight years, standing watch at the corner of the court at Staples Center, his back to the Lakers, his smile upon the fans.

My press seat is a few rows above his position. As I walk there before games, I stop to visit, we clasp hands, we hug, we talk about life, the sportswriter and the security guard, friends, strangers.

His name is James. James Mims. He’s been at Dodger Stadium for a quarter of a century, and, no, I didn’t know his name either.

He is the usher guarding the Vin Scully Press Box. I pass by him several dozen times each year, he smiles and bumps my fist and we chat, his appearance as strong and comforting as the Chavez Ravine hills; I know him well, I don’t know him at all.

When thinking about Thanksgiving this year, I thought about Henry and James.

I am thankful for their presence but embarrassed that I have not fully honored that presence.

And I’m wondering I’m if not alone.

As salaries have increased and security has tightened, sports fans have lost all meaningful contact with the athletes. At most events, our connections are not with the ones who play, but with those who serve: the parking lot attendants, the ticket takers, the concession workers, the ushers.

Players move, but the folks in the red coats or blue sweaters remain, and when we enter a stadium or arena, they are often how we know we are home.

Some are grouchy, but many are gold, with a way of making you feel as if you’ve entered not a public place, but a family room, filled with warmth and familiarity, a place of old friends and good memories.

Do you know one of those workers? Maybe the elderly female usher who smiles as if she is truly happy to see you? Maybe the soda vendor who always stops by your row with a wink? Maybe it’s the guy who guards the door to the stairwell to the upper deck, a guy who simply nods to you every game as if sharing a secret.

Do you pass these people every game without slowing down to find out who they are? To thank them for going beyond their low wages to make your experience richer?

When thinking about Thanksgiving this year, I thought about Henry and James.

Henry laughed.

“People ask me why I’m always smiling,” he said. “I tell them, man, I’m just happy to be here.”

James chuckled.

“You want to thank me?” he said. “For what?”

Both men are longtime Angelenos. Both men are family men. How did I guess that?

Henry Garcia, 62, is short, stout, wears glasses and, yes, is always smiling.

Maybe it’s because he survived a couple of years in Vietnam. Maybe it’s because he survived prostate cancer.

“I’m a lucky man,” he said. “I don’t take anything for granted.”

He has worked the Lakers’ court for eight years, his hands clasped behind him, nodding and grinning to everyone, a welcome bit of plain humility amid rows of Hollywood stars.

“People are people, everyone looking to have a good time; it’s my job to make sure that happens,” he said.

When he missed seven months while treating the prostate cancer, some of those people sent him cards. When he returned, they lined up to give him hugs.

“I realized people cared,” he said. “I realized people noticed.”

People do notice, even if they don’t always show it.

James Mims, 73, was standing guard one day when the pitching coach of the Atlanta Braves walked into the press box to say hello.

It was former Dodger Roger McDowell, who played here when James guarded the Dodgers’ clubhouse.

“I had no idea he thought that much of me,” James said. “You know these guys all talk to you, but you never know how much they really know you.”

James is tall, thick, balding, with a firm handshake or fist bump for all who pass through his door.

His feet get sore, so he sometimes stands on a pad, but he never asks for a change in the rule that forbids him to use a stool.

“I’m just fine,” he said. “I’m lucky to be in a position where I can help people do their jobs or enjoy the game. I’ve got all I need.”

Both men are retired from other careers, Henry working in the grocery business, James tending bank vaults. Both men applied for their current positions not because they love sports, but because they love people.

Henry is a security guard for the Lakers, yet never watches the Lakers, his back turned to the court during the action.

“It’s the entertainment business, and I just want everybody to be happy,” he said.

James guards the press box, yet never sits in it, and receives only rare glimpses of games.

“My job is not the field. My job is the people,” he said.

Today, I consider not only my job, but my honor, to formally thank them for always being there.

Said Henry: “My pleasure.”

Said James: “See you soon.”