Slowly, they trickled into the First Unitarian Church – some with bowed heads, others with tears.
No one said a word as – single file – they made their way inside, where they gazed at photos of well-known, veteran San Jose Mercury News journalist Rich Ramirez.
University of Southern California flags were displayed throughout the church – a tribute to the school the 44-year-old not only attended but spent his adult life supporting.
Those who knew Ramirez, who died June 20 from an apparent self-inflicted wound, couldn't mention his name without following it up with his love for his alma mater and, more important, its football team.
Many who attended the June 28 memorial wore the school's colors – cardinal red and gold – in memory of Ramirez, who was never short of smiles.
Karl Kahler, a longtime friend and fellow Mercury News colleague, recalled a friendship that spawned from their USC connection.
Seventeen years ago, Ramirez searched the newsroom for Kahler simply because he was the new intern from USC, Kahler told the 300 people who attended the memorial.
Ramirez took Kahler under his wing, comparing notes about USC and football, despite the fact that Kahler admittedly doesn't know much about the sport.
"When USC football games were going on, Rich would come out in his Riddell helmet and whenever the USC team scored its first point, he would open a beer with a bottle opener that played the USC fight song," Kahler said, as the church filled with laughter.
Ramirez, who close friends knew as Richie, became a major link between the Mercury News and the community as he moved from reporter to editor to executive assistant to the executive editor.
He also became well-known to schools across the region, mentoring students interested in pursuing careers in journalism. He was also active in the National Association of Hispanic Journalists.
His work transformed him into an important pillar of the community, sparking an outpouring of grief and sorrow across the country from family, friends and colleagues. One of Ramirez's oldest friends, Steve Norvell, who spent so much time at his house as a child his mother considered him one of her own, also spoke.
The two met in the seventh grade, when they looked at each other in class and wondered, "how the girls changed so much from sixth grade."
Ramirez was the chubby-cheeked boy nicknamed "roly-poly" but who would grow into the man with the athletic ability to compete in triathlons.
He was the sweet kid who always thought of others, something friends would say lingered well into his adulthood.
Jerry Ceppos, a former executive editor of the Mercury News, worked closely with Ramirez.
"Much has been shared about how Rich was a quiet professional, but not enough has been said of Rich's quiet warmth," he said. "His capacity to share personal stories despite his innate shyness was amazing."
Ceppos described Ramirez's passion for journalism, especially the day he told him that they had to eliminate a weekly magazine called the Alameda Weekly, and how tears formed in Ramirez's eyes.
Everyone who worked with Ramirez echoed the sentiments, including David Yarnold, a former Mercury News executive editor who worked closely with him.
On Ramirez's job title, he said, "His job title hardly describes what he did. He could've been called a managing editor, an assistant editor, and I don't think assistant covered it."
Yarnold described Ramirez's love of the Mercury News: "He was fiercely ambitious, particularly for the Mercury News. If it had our name attached to it, he wanted it to reflect the high standards of the paper."
Perhaps the most powerful words during the memorial came from a man who was as close to Ramirez as anyone could be - his cousin John Boyle.
Boyle couldn't make it through the first few sentences of his remembrance before tears stopped him.
"When you looked at him, you were drawn to him," he said. "His big dimples, his smile. He could always make us laugh."
The two shared a love for sports, and planned to take in a football game in a couple of months.
Boyle will go to the game, not because he wants to, but to remember the cousin who was more like a brother.
"I'll be there Richie," he said. "I'll be there."
Survivors include his wife, Janet Dalke, of Livermore.