SAN DIEGO — On June 6, 1963, an estimated 200,000-plus flooded San Diego streets to catch a glimpse of President John F. Kennedy making his way to a commencement address at San Diego State.
As the motorcade moved east along El Cajon Boulevard, Kennedy tapped his convertible driver on the shoulder to slow and wave at the kids from Blessed Sacrament Elementary School. Billy Walton, cinnamon mop ablaze, waved back.
When a classroom door opened on Nov. 22, 170 days after Kennedy’s unforgettable visit, the words from the man standing there continue to echo as unforgettably throughout Walton’s remarkable life.
“I remember it so vividly to this day,” said Walton, who had just turned 11. “We were studying. He walked right in and said, ‘I have an announcement to make. President Kennedy has been shot and killed.’ He pivoted and went door to door, to every classroom.”
Who was the calming, controlled presence who commanded such respect at the school? A principal? A veteran teacher?
No, Frank Graciano was a volunteer sports coach and neighborhood firefighter.
Graciano, known by absolutely everyone as “Rocky,” became far more than a casual presence in the lives he fostered and enriched. He was a community anchor. The everybody-is-welcome guy. The always-there guy. The always-cares guy.
The lucky few who grow up with someone like Rocky understand what selfless support looks like, sounds like, feels like. The profound presence who became the first coach for Walton, the college basketball and NBA icon, treated kid after kid like a future Hall of Famer.
Walton and others in the community will gather Saturday at Colina Del Sol Park to dedicate a plaque honoring Graciano, who died six years ago at 87. The celebration is part of the re-opening ceremony for two basketball courts at the place where Rocky mentored children … and their children … and some of their children after that.
“Rocky was the one who taught us all about sports,” Walton said of Rocky’s nearly six decades of community commitment. “We didn’t have a TV. My parents weren’t into it. So, my path traces back to him. But I’m only one of countless people.”
One day in 1960, Walton became curious when his older brother, Bruce, headed the opposite direction of the bus that normally returned them to their La Mesa home. They walked a few blocks to Colina.
The basketball star-in-waiting was 8 when he first met someone who influenced him then and forever.
“My life was never the same again,” Walton said. “He was as important a person in my life as there’s ever been. He made it so much fun. We could not wait to get there.”
The fire captain at Station 10 made his way to that park again and again.
“He would just tell the fire department, I’ll be down at Colina,” Walton said. “He coached everybody, every level, every sport, all year long. He knew everybody’s parents. He was there when we got to the park. He was there when we left the park. He made sure everyone found their way home.
“Rocky was there for everybody. He built the community and made it what it became. He was so inspirational.”
A seminal conversation still resonates.
“We played flag football, basketball, baseball and ran track and field,” Walton said. “Early on he told me, ‘Basketball’s for you. These other sports are fine, but basketball’s for you.’ ”
Height aside, truer words hardly spoken.
For so many in the City Heights neighborhood and beyond, Rocky provided their first exposure to sports — and the bigger, broader lessons that sprout from them.
“In flag football, he was Vince Lombardi,” Walton said. “In basketball, he was our John Wooden and Red Auerbach. In baseball, he was our Walter Alston or Dick Williams. In track, he was UCLA legend Jim Bush.
“He was a person who selflessly gave up his life so other people could chase and fulfill their dreams. It was never about him. He wasn’t about credit, acknowledgment or awards.”
Rocky’s kindness and compassion rejected bounds.
“One day we were playing football against a team at St. Augustine,” Walton recalled. “The other team had a star player. He was running back the second-half kickoff and made a real hard cut. The leg went ‘snap’ and the bone went through the skin.
“Rocky was right there and knew exactly what to do. That was him.”
Walton, who calls himself “deathly allergic to bee stings,” has met plenty of firemen up and close and personally at his home bordering Balboa Park.
“They come to my house and they all know Rocky,” he said. “I tell them thank you and say, ‘Rocky was my coach.’ ”
Some of that coaching began along sad and solemn hallways of Blessed Sacrament in November 1963.
“We had to find a way forward and Rocky helped us find a way,” Walton said.
Because, well … that’s what Rocky did.
