Mike Lazar has been called “Mr. La Jolla.” He’s been called a “second father,” a “legend” and the “silent mayor” of La Jolla. He’s been called a lot of things that can’t be printed as well, but that’s par for the course on the basketball courts of the La Jolla Recreation Center. Lazar has been a fixture on the courts for 24 years, and you’d be hard pressed to find a regular player there who doesn’t have something to say about him. At 72, Lazar has energy to be envied by any twenty-something. He almost never stops talking and is constantly offering advice about relationships, business or a tricky jump shot. He doesn’t censor himself for his audience’s benefit and he won’t hesitate to tell a dirty joke or rattle off a few expletives, an oddly refreshing quality. Lazar sat down with me recently to talk about his years mentoring — or, “mentoring and tormenting,” as he said — scores of young people in La Jolla. Known as “Old Mike,” “Mikey” or “Riles” (due to his striking resemblance to Miami Heat coach Pat Riley), Lazar has no shortage of stories in his repertoire — and no shortage of fans willing to share how he touched their lives. “When I was about 10 years old, I’d go down [to the rec center] and he’d always be there. He was always real nice to all the kids,” said La Jolla attorney Zach Dostart, 29. “He’s always looking out for everybody. He’s like an institution here.” Hart Woolery, who has lived in La Jolla for 12 years and started playing regularly on the courts about eight years ago, said the game is never boring when Lazar is around. “We’re always guaranteed some entertainment when he plays,” he said. “He’s got some strong opinions and he’s honest. He’s so passionate, and he’s such a character, on and off the court.” Lazar certainly exudes passion, and not just for basketball. We sat on the patio of Bistro Pazzo on Ivanhoe Avenue while Lazar enthusiastically recounted his life story. Born in Yugoslavia, he came to the U.S. when he was 12 and started working immediately to help support his mother and sister. He didn’t know a word of English, he said, but he was able to find work on farms and in slaughterhouses in New York and New Jersey. The lion’s share of grief he’s seen in his life doesn’t show through his bubbly personality, and he prefers not to talk about his past much. In the 1960s and 1970s, Lazar made a name for himself in the music industry as a bassist and traveled the country playing with various groups. He made his living on the stages of lounges and nightclubs in an era where “if you thought you had a talent, you just went and did it, and you could be successful.” As he told the story of his past, we were constantly interrupted by passersby who greeted him, often with chiding remarks or a sharp-tongued joke. At one point, Lazar stopped mid-sentence to ask a middle-aged man passing by why he hadn’t been out on the basketball courts lately. When the man said he had a knee injury, Lazar let him off the hook. As soon as the man was gone, Lazar turned back to me. “Yeah, when I get older I’ll quit, too,” he said with a wink. Lazar is aware of his age only in terms of an arbitrary number. He had a massive heart attack a year and a half ago, but he insists his heart is “stronger than before,” and it certainly doesn’t stop him from doing anything he wants to do. “I told my mind to shut up a long time ago,” he said. “In my mind, I’m 48 or something.” A few days after our conversation, I joined Lazar at the recreation center courts to watch him face off against a group of guys half his age — and younger. Everyday around 4 p.m., Lazar said they “choose up sides and go to war.” On this day, the battle lines are drawn by age: the young guys versus the old guys (the oldest of whom, aside from Lazar, is in his early fifties). The trash talking starts within five minutes. When one of the younger players disagrees with a foul call, he turns his frustration on Lazar, telling him, “You look like you need oxygen.” Lazar takes it in stride, but tells the kid to “lose the ghetto [stuff].” The old guys won 15 to 7, and after the victory, Lazar trotted over to the sidelines. He said he doesn’t let the audacity of the younger players ruffle him; he’s seen it a million times. “They’ll talk trash for a while, but when they start getting spanked out there, they figure they don’t need to take the game over with talk,” he said. Dostart had warned me about these young players in an earlier conversation. “It wouldn’t be fair to say that everyone on the court loves him, because sometimes there are young guys who come from other areas of the city and they don’t know him,” he said. “They think he’s just some old guy who shouldn’t be out there. But no one takes it easy on him. He’ll take hits just like any guy and then after the game, he’ll buy Gatorades for everyone. At heart, he’s just a sweet guy.” Part-time La Jollan Eric Musselman, a former NBA coach and current coach of the Venezuela national basketball team, played on the courts with Lazar for more than 20 years. If anyone ever questioned Lazar’s ability on the court as a septuagenarian, Musselman sets the record straight. “The thing I always remember from being out there at a young age is that Mike plays to win,” Musselman said. “There might be guys there who are younger and faster, but he’s a guy I always want on my team. He’s been a legend out there for a lot of years.” Lazar took a break for the second game, letting someone play in his place. He continued to yell at the teams, however, calling out directives and words of encouragement. “Obviously he’s got a lot of personality,” said 33-year-old Adrian Browner, who has played at the rec center with Lazar for about eight years. “He can dish it out, but he can take it, too. In the end, he’s a genuinely caring guy. He’s a cornerstone of this place.” Those who grew up under the tutelage of Lazar see him as a sort of father figure, or maybe an uncle — the guy who would show them the ropes on and off the court, but who couldn’t ground them. Lazar said he feels like he has a duty to impart his hard-earned knowledge, and hopes above all that the wisdom he passes along won’t fall on deaf ears. “How can I not share what I’ve learned in my life?” he said. “Where do they think I learned all of it? Some old guy got in my face, too.” Jon Schroeder, 24, has played at the rec center for a couple of years. He has seen the effects of Lazar’s guidance on some of the kids who play there. “This is a wonderful place to learn about life,” he said. “Through the game, you can learn about how to have a passion for anything, not just basketball. Mikey brings us all together and tries to teach the young kids how to be an adult.” In honor of Lazar, Dostart is in the process of raising funds to install a dedication bench at the rec center. He has created a Facebook page for the courts, as well as the cause, and it can be found under the name “La Jolla Rec Center Basketball.” Lazar said he has seen several generations come through the La Jolla Rec Center, where he has both taught and learned a lot. “All of these kids have turned out to be wonderful people,” he said. More important than what he’s taught, Lazar said, is what his pupils have given him in return. He has been “blown away” by the way the players have embraced him as an equal. “Playing basketball is one thing, but our friendships don’t end off the court,” he said. “They’ve embraced me socially, treating me like one of their own. It’s been a beautiful experience for me, and I want to thank them for that.”