I read somewhere that a life is sometimes measured not by the number of people you knew, but by the number of people you touched. I never met Steve Crosno, but I related to him -- and he related to me -- in ways that only a young Hispanic kid growing up in the barrios of West San Antonio in the 1960s and 1970s could understand.

My passion for broadcasting was forged during a time when radio was a closed fraternity; an exclusive club for DJs with names like Jhani Kaye on KELP-AM in El Paso and Lee "Baby" Simms on KONO-AM in San Antonio.

In my bedroom late at night, I listened with amazement on my tiny transistor radio as a faint signal from El Paso played songs totally familiar to me.

Among the kids at Kennedy High School in San Antonio and Bowie High School in El Paso, "Chicano Soul" was all the rage.

"Talk to Me" by Sunny & The Sunliners, "Lo Mucho Que Te Quiero" by Rene and Rene and "We Go Together" by the Royal Jesters were all songs I heard while attending quinceañeras and weddings in my neighborhood.

Somehow, Steve Crosno knew what appealed to kids like me. Not only was he playing music that was familiar to us, he was speaking our language. His funny skits were often sprinkled with phrases and inflections common in the barrio.

"Que pués chavo, how you been?" "Todo dar, ese. Whadda ya say, let's go to el chancleo tonight, compa." "Orale."

Steve Crosno was a unique radio personality during a time when the radio industry was only beginning to recognize the marketing potential of Hispanic audiences all over the Southwest.

By the time radio executives latched on, Steve was way ahead of the game. His radio shows were drawing huge audiences, mostly Hispanic. His weekly dances and appearances were attended by thousands.

My own entry into broadcasting at the age of 16 in 1969 came when radio managers realized more Hispanics were needed in the broadcasting industry. Government affirmative action programs were introduced to convince a stubborn industry to open the air waves to minorities.

Clearly, Steve did his part in fostering an awareness of a cultural identity that was fast becoming a major economic force in this country. Steve Crosno may or may not have realized it, but his influence reached well beyond El Paso.

In reality, many Hispanic media professionals in the Southwest owe their own careers at least in small part to the goofy vato in the ridiculous black wig.

Steve Crosno died Saturday of cancer at the age of 66.

ÊRoy Ortega is multimedia editor for the El Paso Times. He may be reached at rortega@elpasotimes.com; (915) 546-6262.