A Toast to Chico - The Mayor of Bradford Beach

For those of you who have frequented Bradford Beach over the years, you probably recognize a number of the people in this photo. One of them, the man standing in the black shirt, was Chico, and he was a staple at Bradford Beach. He spent many mornings sitting on a folding chair next to his car in the west parking lot and subsequent afternoons at the tiki huts, watching the volleyball and joking with the bartenders. He was warm, quick to laugh, and frequently offered his help to set up the beach, helping to lay the foundation for our community.

Chico passed away in 2023 and the beach has not been the same without him. To honor his memory, we would like to share a toast written by his friend and another iconic Bradford Beach regular, Tim the Rockstar Driscoll.

I’ve been living out here in Virginia Beach since 2018, far away from those long Milwaukee summers where the sand burned your feet, the volleyballs never stopped flying, and a guy named Chico was part of the landscape — as permanent as the lake, the nets, or that van full of beer parked across the street.

A few days ago, I found out that Chico passed away back in 2023. He was 73, which is hard to believe, because Chico always felt timeless — like he existed somewhere between a college kid and a retired philosopher who’d traded books for a beach chair.

If you ever played volleyball at Bradford Beach, you knew him. Everybody did. He was one of the first people I met when I started going down there more than 26 years ago. He didn’t have a cell phone, never needed one. If you wanted to find Chico, you knew exactly where he’d be: parked across from the beach, sitting in his folding chair, reading the newspaper, maybe checking stocks (because the man knew his stocks), and eventually working his way toward the tiki bar, where everyone knew him — bartenders, players, lifeguards, the whole gang.

For years, after long Saturdays of volleyball wars in the sand, we’d hike up that hill, sweaty and sunburned, and there it was — Chico’s van, our unofficial sponsor. The back doors would swing open, and inside sat the best post-tournament tradition in Milwaukee: an ice-cold treasure chest of beer. We’d stand there on the curb, cracking open bottles, telling tall tales, roasting each other, and laughing until the sun went down. Chico always had a story, always had a joke, and somehow always managed to make everyone feel like the punchline was part of the fun — not the joke.

But Chico wasn’t just the guy with the beer or the one-liners. He was the quiet glue that held the beach together. When we were building up the Bradford Beach volleyball program — hauling nets, pounding stakes, setting up 40 courts in the hot sand — Chico was there every single morning, helping without being asked, never taking a dime. He didn’t need the money. The man had already done well for himself in the stock market, but he never acted like it. He was there because he loved it — the beach, the people, the community.

When Bradford hit full stride in 2010 — 400 teams, tournaments every weekend, pro events, banners flapping in the wind — Chico was still there, right alongside Ringo and the rest of us, setting up cabanas and tents like it was his mission in life. Always smiling, always cracking jokes, always helping.

He loved volleyball, but more than that, he loved volleyball people. He went to UCLA back in the day and would talk about the Bruins’ legendary teams like a proud alumnus reliving the glory days. During the 90s, you could spot him in the crowd at every AVP event in Milwaukee, heckling with precision timing that made players and fans laugh mid-match. He knew every player, every stat, every story. And he made sure everyone within earshot knew it too.

When I last saw him in 2022, he was right where you’d expect — at Bradford Beach. Same spot. Same chair. Same smile. Same Chico.

He’s gone now, but the stories live on. The laughter, the routines, the simple wisdom of a man who didn’t need a phone because he had presence. Chico was proof that being rich isn’t about money — it’s about showing up, helping out, and finding joy in a beach full of friends and sand full of memories.

I don’t know exactly how he passed, but I hope it was peaceful. I like to think that somewhere up there, he’s parked near a celestial beach, reading his paper, keeping an eye on his stocks, and saving a cold one for the rest of us.

Rest easy, my friend. Bradford won’t be the same without you. But every time a volleyball hits the sand and a beer cap pops off at sunset, we’ll know — Chico’s still around.

Thank you Tim for sharing your story and helping all of us to remember the people who have helped build our community. Rest in peace, Chico.