As a holiday treat, Lynne and I took a one-day siesta and decamped to a casino two hours north of home. We didn't have a lot of money to spend but the price was right ($40 for a one night stay) and the drive was wonderful. After a couple of hours of unsuccessful pokering at machines, we took a break and decided to play Bingo.
Little did we know what we were getting into. The Bingo Hall was about the size of a grade school gymnasium. Arriving a half hour before the scheduled start, we discovered nearly chair had been taken up because many folks were engaged in a pre-game game. Those who weren't playing the pre-game game were busy prepping for the Big Show.
We had stepped into the world of Championship Bingo.
It is a world where you no longer buy a card or two for a couple of bucks. Instead, there were packages at a variety of rates from $10 to $75 for an evening's entertainment. Some of these deals included "extra" games, battles that takes place between the regular affairs. You need to use dobbers for the cards. At a buck each, this proved to be the best deal of the night.
Being novices, Lynne and I decided to go somewhere in-between and bought a $10 and a $20 package to share. We scoured around for a few minutes before we discovered two unoccupied seats near the front.
The adventure was just beginning. It turns out we had started the evening by breaking an unwritten rule. Bingo cards are packaged into several sheets. On those sheets, there are often more than one game that will be played. Each player is supposed to be responsible for the sheets you buy. So, when we tore apart part of the $20 package (which had more sheets than the $10 package), we had broken a rule. You're not supposed to buy than you can personally handle. A woman bustling around the place informed us of that but took pity on us and said it was an allowable rookie mistake.
She then asked us what we wanted to buy. As noted above, there are "extra" games that take place as breaks from the regular games. Those games cost a buck or two each to play. We ponied up for most of those games, too. Thus, our $30 bingo adventure had morphed into a figure past the $40 mark before the first ball had been called.
Championship Bingo is no longer just played on cards. No, there are these contraptions available where one puts in a code. The code comes a package you buy. When a number is called, it goes on a big screen and is automatically entered into the system. (It also flashes up on a very glitzy board that looks something like the board at the New York Stock Exchange.) This way, you can buy as many cards as you want and you don't have to keep track.
Championship Bingo had hit the tekkie age.
A woman to our right had one of those toys. She was very nice, telling us which games were coming up in which order, smiling at our naivete as we laid out sheets in front of us. Turned out she is a bingo pro. A while back, she had her daughter had won $50,000 in a bingo coverall. "But we had to share it with two other people," she said with a sigh. "So, we really only won $16,666. After taxes, it was about $14,000. That was a nice win but you have to remember we paid $350 to play."
(A quick math computation revealed 16,666 times 3 is 49,998. The bingo hall keeps the other two bucks. Hey, it a business.)
The pre-game games ended and it was time for the show to begin. The woman calling out the numbers did so in a bored, soft tone. She sounded like a recorded telephone operator. In Championship Bingo, the number that will be called pops up in a camera first. This gives you a head start before it is called.
As we shall shortly discover, this turns out to be an important thing to note.
We were busy dobbing up a storm while our new friend on our right just watched her machine tabulate matters. After a while, I heard a sound from the machine.
"What's that?" I asked.
"The machine is telling me I am one number away," she replied.
Lynne and I were so busy dobbing up the 15 cards in front of us that it took a couple of games before we figured out a system that would allow us time to see if we were close to winning.
As noted earlier, if you watched the monitors, you had a short head start on numbers. This is key because, when you get your winning combination, you must quickly get your hand in the air so the caller knows something is up. As it turns out, the rest of the crowd knows, too because an audible (often disgusted) groan always emanated when a winner emerged.
In my church youth, when a Bingo winner presented him (or her) self, they read off the numbers and verified the success.
Not here. Instead, they read off the computer number on your sheet. The caller pressed a few buttons and -- voila -- the winner's card is shown for everybody to see.
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The caller pauses long enough to catch her breath and ask if there are any other winners. If not, the game is closed and seconds later, we are into the next game.
As it develops, there are all sorts of versions in Championship Bingo. We played the standard game but also added a four corners version. There is the postage stamp (four in one of the corners of the card), a Z version (five across the top and bottom as well as a second G and second B.), an L version (you can go backwards here) and a nine pack version. Near the end of the night, there is the usual coverall battle with a bonus tossed in if you win it in less than 50 numbers called. (One friend who is a regular Bingoer draws a line on her card indicating where the winning diagram needs to go. Championship Bingo requires planning.)
(It didn't happen on this night but we did see this occur at another casino a while back. The winner was a man who appeared to be in his late 50s. He won $25,000. When he raised his hand, he was sitting by himself. Before he put his hand down, he seemed to have acquired several new female admirers. Who needs match.com anyway?)
We didn't win anything (although I came close twice. One game, I was one number away from riches beyond my wildest dreams. Okay, I think I would have won $300. Didn't know for sure because I didn't know what level I was playing at. There are levels in Championship Bingo. But that's another story for another day.) but we had a good time for a 2 1/2 hours. In the end, we probably spent less money than if we had been playing video poker.
A woman named Cindy sitting to our left won two games. Afterwards, she was approached by a person who congratulated her on her haul and then asked "Are you ahead for the week?"
Cindy grunted, "Slightly", and then lit another cigarette. (Championship Bingo players seem to be big smokers.)
Our new friend to our right went home winless but seemed more cheerful about things. "I am picking my daughter up from the airport in the Twin Cities tomorrow," she said. "We're going to Mystic Lake before we come home."
Championship Bingo requires road trips, too.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
A Christmas Story
(Editor's Note: I know. I wrote this tale in 2008. But it deserves repeating this year.)
Once upon a time, there was a 12-year old boy who lived in Detroit and was a big hockey fan. It was the days of the six-team National Hockey League. Although it was a competitive league, the Montreal Canadiens were the gold standard. They won five Stanley Cups in a row from 1956-60 and seriously contended just about every year they didn't win.
The hometown Red Wings? They made the playoffs just about every season but couldn't get over the hump, even losing in the Stanley Cup Finals two years in a row.
The boy knew all this and a lot more. That’s because he listened to just about every game -- the only way for a youngster to follow the team. At the time, there was no local television of Detroit games. On Saturday nights, when he could convince his mother to switch away from Lawrence Welk (which aired at the same time), he would get to watch “Hockey Night In Canada.” But Detroit games were blacked out. Olympia Stadium, their home rink, was usually sold out. Even if you could find a ticket, the rink was located in a "bad" area of town, a place his mother wouldn't dream of letting her young son visit by himself.
The only time the lad could ever see his favorite team play came when Detroit played a nationally televised Sunday game from Chicago, New York or Boston. That might occur 2-3 times a year.
Christmas 1965 came with the usual trimmings. As per family tradition, the lad and his brothers were allowed to open one gift when the family came home from Midnight Mass. He scouted the horizon in advance for possibilities. There was the usual thin box from Aunt Marcie – handkerchiefs. There were big boxes (toys, he hoped). There were square boxes that he knew from experience were clothes.
Then he spotted something unusual. In the corner of the pile of gifts was an envelope with his name on it. Since it wasn't stamped or addressed, his mind began to race. What kind of gift could be in an envelope?
For some reason, he reached for it as a first choice. His mother stopped him, saying "Save that for Christmas Day.” When you tell a kid that, you drive the interest level up astronomically. Fearing he might miss out on another gift, the boy reluctantly obeyed.
A restless night was spent wondering what could kind of gift could be in an envelope? More importantly, why couldn’t he open that one first?
Morning finally came. When the feast of gifts was nearly complete, the boy was left with the envelope. Go ahead, said his mother. Now you can open it. The boy opened it and stared in disbelief. It was two tickets to see the Red Wings play, Montreal at the Olympia the next night. His older brother Johnny was going to take him to see the players he knew so well but had rarely seen.
His joy was such that the boy never noticed the location of the seats. Later, he saw the tickets were stamped "Standing Room” – a concept he knew nothing about. "Oh, it will be fine," his brother assured him.
For once, Christmas dragged as the boy eagerly waited the next night. The Olympia was a wonderful mystery. The boy knew the building was red on the outside but that was it. Walking in the door, he was struck immediately by the large scoreboard hanging over the center ice. It was an old clock with smaller clocks for the penalties. (Chicago Stadium and Boston Garden had the same type of clocks well into the 1970s. The clock changed colors to signify the final minute of the period. No digital stuff here.)
"Where are we sitting?" he asked his brother.
"We're not," he said. "We have standing room."
"Where's that?"
"Wherever we can find a place. Quit asking questions.”
The two walked around the building for a long time, looking for a place to stand. As game time neared, they still hadn't found a place where they could see the ice very well. The pair wandered into the balcony. At that point, an angel appeared in the form of an usher.
"Where's your seats, boys?" he asked gruffly.
We showed him our tickets. "Can't stand up here," he said. "Standing room is downstairs."
The boy began to cry. "This is my first game ever and I can't see anything," he said.
The usher stopped waving people to their seats. "First game, eh?" he said. "There is one place you can stand but you can't tell anybody I told you about this."
He took the two boys to a corner of the upper deck. There was a small platform with a spotlight – the kind you used to see when the circus came to town. "Stand here," he said. "Nobody will bother you. It's kinda high but you'll see everything from there. I like watching the game from here myself."
The usher was right. The players looked like ants in the far corner of the ice but you really could see everything.
The Red Wings and Canadiens didn't disappoint. It was a terrific hockey game. Detroit attacked Montreal goalie Gump Worsley constantly but couldn't get a goal. Montreal did the same to Detroit's Roger Crozier but couldn't score themselves.
The game was still scoreless when the clock changed colors for the final time. There was no overtime rules, either.
This wasn't possible. How you could you go to your first NHL game and not see a goal?
Then it happened. A shot came from the point that Worsley could only knock down. Alex Delvecchio, a husky center, swooped in and batted the loose puck into the net.
The boy jumped so high he nearly fell out of the alcove. He had no idea how much time was left but it was clear it was the final minute of the game. The Wings ran out the clock and claimed the 1-0 win.
Since that time, the boy has probably seen 1500 hockey games. But he remembers that one as if it happened last night.
Since then, the boy has received many envelopes as gifts. They have contained cash or gift certificates – very good things, indeed. But he still remembers that first envelope. It wasn’t until four decades later he learned the official value of it was four dollars – two dollars per ticket.
To the boy’s way of thinking, however, it was, indeed, priceless.
A final note: 20 years after that game, the boy, now covering the North Stars for UPI, found himself sitting next to Worsley in the press box at Met Center. He said to Worsley, "I know you have probably heard this from a lot of people but you played goal in the first NHL game I ever saw."
Worsley politely nodded. "Really? Where was it?," he replied.
"Night after Christmas at the Olympia. Detroit against Montreal."
Worsley sighed. "Was that the night that (bleep) Delvecchio scored in the final minute? I can still see that one."
The boy guessed it was not such a good memory for the old goalie.
Once upon a time, there was a 12-year old boy who lived in Detroit and was a big hockey fan. It was the days of the six-team National Hockey League. Although it was a competitive league, the Montreal Canadiens were the gold standard. They won five Stanley Cups in a row from 1956-60 and seriously contended just about every year they didn't win.
The hometown Red Wings? They made the playoffs just about every season but couldn't get over the hump, even losing in the Stanley Cup Finals two years in a row.
The boy knew all this and a lot more. That’s because he listened to just about every game -- the only way for a youngster to follow the team. At the time, there was no local television of Detroit games. On Saturday nights, when he could convince his mother to switch away from Lawrence Welk (which aired at the same time), he would get to watch “Hockey Night In Canada.” But Detroit games were blacked out. Olympia Stadium, their home rink, was usually sold out. Even if you could find a ticket, the rink was located in a "bad" area of town, a place his mother wouldn't dream of letting her young son visit by himself.
The only time the lad could ever see his favorite team play came when Detroit played a nationally televised Sunday game from Chicago, New York or Boston. That might occur 2-3 times a year.
Christmas 1965 came with the usual trimmings. As per family tradition, the lad and his brothers were allowed to open one gift when the family came home from Midnight Mass. He scouted the horizon in advance for possibilities. There was the usual thin box from Aunt Marcie – handkerchiefs. There were big boxes (toys, he hoped). There were square boxes that he knew from experience were clothes.
Then he spotted something unusual. In the corner of the pile of gifts was an envelope with his name on it. Since it wasn't stamped or addressed, his mind began to race. What kind of gift could be in an envelope?
For some reason, he reached for it as a first choice. His mother stopped him, saying "Save that for Christmas Day.” When you tell a kid that, you drive the interest level up astronomically. Fearing he might miss out on another gift, the boy reluctantly obeyed.
A restless night was spent wondering what could kind of gift could be in an envelope? More importantly, why couldn’t he open that one first?
Morning finally came. When the feast of gifts was nearly complete, the boy was left with the envelope. Go ahead, said his mother. Now you can open it. The boy opened it and stared in disbelief. It was two tickets to see the Red Wings play, Montreal at the Olympia the next night. His older brother Johnny was going to take him to see the players he knew so well but had rarely seen.
His joy was such that the boy never noticed the location of the seats. Later, he saw the tickets were stamped "Standing Room” – a concept he knew nothing about. "Oh, it will be fine," his brother assured him.
For once, Christmas dragged as the boy eagerly waited the next night. The Olympia was a wonderful mystery. The boy knew the building was red on the outside but that was it. Walking in the door, he was struck immediately by the large scoreboard hanging over the center ice. It was an old clock with smaller clocks for the penalties. (Chicago Stadium and Boston Garden had the same type of clocks well into the 1970s. The clock changed colors to signify the final minute of the period. No digital stuff here.)
"Where are we sitting?" he asked his brother.
"We're not," he said. "We have standing room."
"Where's that?"
"Wherever we can find a place. Quit asking questions.”
The two walked around the building for a long time, looking for a place to stand. As game time neared, they still hadn't found a place where they could see the ice very well. The pair wandered into the balcony. At that point, an angel appeared in the form of an usher.
"Where's your seats, boys?" he asked gruffly.
We showed him our tickets. "Can't stand up here," he said. "Standing room is downstairs."
The boy began to cry. "This is my first game ever and I can't see anything," he said.
The usher stopped waving people to their seats. "First game, eh?" he said. "There is one place you can stand but you can't tell anybody I told you about this."
He took the two boys to a corner of the upper deck. There was a small platform with a spotlight – the kind you used to see when the circus came to town. "Stand here," he said. "Nobody will bother you. It's kinda high but you'll see everything from there. I like watching the game from here myself."
The usher was right. The players looked like ants in the far corner of the ice but you really could see everything.
The Red Wings and Canadiens didn't disappoint. It was a terrific hockey game. Detroit attacked Montreal goalie Gump Worsley constantly but couldn't get a goal. Montreal did the same to Detroit's Roger Crozier but couldn't score themselves.
The game was still scoreless when the clock changed colors for the final time. There was no overtime rules, either.
This wasn't possible. How you could you go to your first NHL game and not see a goal?
Then it happened. A shot came from the point that Worsley could only knock down. Alex Delvecchio, a husky center, swooped in and batted the loose puck into the net.
The boy jumped so high he nearly fell out of the alcove. He had no idea how much time was left but it was clear it was the final minute of the game. The Wings ran out the clock and claimed the 1-0 win.
Since that time, the boy has probably seen 1500 hockey games. But he remembers that one as if it happened last night.
Since then, the boy has received many envelopes as gifts. They have contained cash or gift certificates – very good things, indeed. But he still remembers that first envelope. It wasn’t until four decades later he learned the official value of it was four dollars – two dollars per ticket.
To the boy’s way of thinking, however, it was, indeed, priceless.
A final note: 20 years after that game, the boy, now covering the North Stars for UPI, found himself sitting next to Worsley in the press box at Met Center. He said to Worsley, "I know you have probably heard this from a lot of people but you played goal in the first NHL game I ever saw."
Worsley politely nodded. "Really? Where was it?," he replied.
"Night after Christmas at the Olympia. Detroit against Montreal."
Worsley sighed. "Was that the night that (bleep) Delvecchio scored in the final minute? I can still see that one."
The boy guessed it was not such a good memory for the old goalie.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
A new gig is exciting, challenging ... and worrisome, too
In essence, today starts a new adventure for me. Since August 1, I have been filling for my friend Steph Harris as the Sports Information Director at Hamline. It was kind of like when Johnny Carson used to go on vacation and he would have guest hosts. You kept things going until the incumbent returned.
Steph took a three-month family leave to be with her father in Florida, who was battling cancer. Sadly, her dad passed away in late October. Steph has now decided to stay in Florida and help her mm sort through everything that needs to be done. She'll look for work there. In the meantime, the athletic season is in full blast at Hamline and somebody needed to step into the SID role. The Athletic Director, Bob Beeman, a very good man, offered me the job on a full time, interim basis through the end of June (when contracts for nearly everybody expire). I accepted and here I am.
As a fill-in for Steph, I tried to be very careful and not change much of what she had done. After all, if she had decided to return, that would not have been fair to her or the right thing to do.. Besides, she did a terrific job and, truth be told, there was very little reason to change much.
Now that I have the gig (at least until the end of June), I may tweak a few things here and there to suit my comfort zone (just as Steph did when she first got the job). That's the exciting part. The challenging part is figuring out is a proposed change can actually occur. The worrisome part is making sure any change made really is for the betterment of the school and the job.
I have been a SID before but the job has changed considerably since my last shot at it (at Concordia from 1999-2002). There is a lot of internet work to do. Much of the recruiting done by coaches is now via the web. I am not a tekkie but have learned a lot about cyberspace over the years. I need to learn a lot more in a hurry to make our website look snazzy. That's exciting, challenging AND worrisome.
I know the league well so working with the players in it isn't going to be the issue.
No, the problem will be Steph was a lot better at cyberpsace than I can ever hope to be. Being younger (and, sigh, a lot more hipper than me), she has spent more time on computers and, thus, can pick up concepts quicker. If I want to know a trend in that area, I have to ask someone.
But I like dealing with reporters, coaches and officials. I enjoy the stat work. I like our game day personnel. They're not working for the money. They want to and enjoy being at games. I love the MIAC. It stands for what can be very good in college athletics. There may be a Jerry Sandusky somewhere in our Division III midsts. But I doubt it. A fellow like that would stand out and (forgive the term) be exposed a lot earlier than happened at Penn State.
I signed my contract the other day. The gig is now mine and that means the responsibility for everything is now officially on my head. I am no longer the fill-in just keeping a chair warm. Let's hope I know what the hell I am doing. There is one advantage that many others in a similar spot wont have. Steph and I can contact each other easily. She has been wonderfully patient with my many (at times, repetitive) questions. Thanks, girl.
Starting a new adventure at age 58 is not something I expected to do. But such is life.
We have a home mens bb game against UW-Whitewater. A bb game Wednesday. Hockey games Friday and Saturday. Games next week as well. There is a lot to do and it is now incumbent on me to handle it all with no excuses and nobody to saddle with blame if something goes wrong.
Exciting, challenging and worrisome.
But isn't that what life is supposed to be?
Steph took a three-month family leave to be with her father in Florida, who was battling cancer. Sadly, her dad passed away in late October. Steph has now decided to stay in Florida and help her mm sort through everything that needs to be done. She'll look for work there. In the meantime, the athletic season is in full blast at Hamline and somebody needed to step into the SID role. The Athletic Director, Bob Beeman, a very good man, offered me the job on a full time, interim basis through the end of June (when contracts for nearly everybody expire). I accepted and here I am.
As a fill-in for Steph, I tried to be very careful and not change much of what she had done. After all, if she had decided to return, that would not have been fair to her or the right thing to do.. Besides, she did a terrific job and, truth be told, there was very little reason to change much.
Now that I have the gig (at least until the end of June), I may tweak a few things here and there to suit my comfort zone (just as Steph did when she first got the job). That's the exciting part. The challenging part is figuring out is a proposed change can actually occur. The worrisome part is making sure any change made really is for the betterment of the school and the job.
I have been a SID before but the job has changed considerably since my last shot at it (at Concordia from 1999-2002). There is a lot of internet work to do. Much of the recruiting done by coaches is now via the web. I am not a tekkie but have learned a lot about cyberspace over the years. I need to learn a lot more in a hurry to make our website look snazzy. That's exciting, challenging AND worrisome.
I know the league well so working with the players in it isn't going to be the issue.
No, the problem will be Steph was a lot better at cyberpsace than I can ever hope to be. Being younger (and, sigh, a lot more hipper than me), she has spent more time on computers and, thus, can pick up concepts quicker. If I want to know a trend in that area, I have to ask someone.
But I like dealing with reporters, coaches and officials. I enjoy the stat work. I like our game day personnel. They're not working for the money. They want to and enjoy being at games. I love the MIAC. It stands for what can be very good in college athletics. There may be a Jerry Sandusky somewhere in our Division III midsts. But I doubt it. A fellow like that would stand out and (forgive the term) be exposed a lot earlier than happened at Penn State.
I signed my contract the other day. The gig is now mine and that means the responsibility for everything is now officially on my head. I am no longer the fill-in just keeping a chair warm. Let's hope I know what the hell I am doing. There is one advantage that many others in a similar spot wont have. Steph and I can contact each other easily. She has been wonderfully patient with my many (at times, repetitive) questions. Thanks, girl.
Starting a new adventure at age 58 is not something I expected to do. But such is life.
We have a home mens bb game against UW-Whitewater. A bb game Wednesday. Hockey games Friday and Saturday. Games next week as well. There is a lot to do and it is now incumbent on me to handle it all with no excuses and nobody to saddle with blame if something goes wrong.
Exciting, challenging and worrisome.
But isn't that what life is supposed to be?
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thankful for many things
It's been a helluva run of death lately. My dear friend Steph Harris' dad passed away after a noble fight with cancer. My friend and former colleague Gordy Lee died suddenly. My sister-in-law recently lost her father this week. A longtime family friend lost hers last week. Another good friend's beloved dog died the other day.
I understand death is a part of life. I feel for all my friends and their families. I try to find the words to comfort them. But the reality is you really can't comfort them much. They hurt like hell for their loss. All you can really do is hug them, tell how much you care and let them recover at their pace.
But you also feel very badly for them. You feel as if you aren't really helping their burden. In turn, that depresses you a bit, too.
When that happens, you need something to pep you up. This week, I found it in an unusual way.
I know this young couple slightly. She is the niece of a good friend. He is a pr guy and a strategist for the Dems. They are fun, neat people who are a joy to be around.
This week, they had an addition to their fold-- a baby boy named Emmett. A baby. A new life. Somebody who starts fresh with no baggage and can explore the world in their own way. A fresh face to consider after seeing all the tired old ones around us (I mean the politicians and entertainers, not my friends.)
On top of it all, he has a great old name. I had an Uncle Emmett. He was a feisty character who was tough as a whip. He sired six boys with my dad's only sister. What I remember the most about him was his bushy eyebrows and his gruff demeanor. Like most guys with that kind of demeanor, he had a very soft side, too. He always held doors for women and, while he was tough with his kids, he was always gracious and kind with Aunt Helen, his wife and the other women he ran across. Uncle Emmett may have been a hard-nosed fellow but he was a gentleman in every way. Just thinking of him makes me smile.
So, this Thanksgiving, I am being thankful for a new baby to a couple who I am sure will be great parents. I am grateful for the return of a great old name and hope the youngster lives up to the fine character of previous Emmetts. I am thankful that, although I have several friends and families who have recently suffered personal losses, all of them are surrounded by family and friends who love them and will be there for them whenever they need it.
I am thankful for a loving wife and family and a dog that has a few issues but still brings joy into our lives. I am thankful to be working.
Most of all, I am thankful that I can still find things to make me smile. I hope you, good reader, can do the same.
I understand death is a part of life. I feel for all my friends and their families. I try to find the words to comfort them. But the reality is you really can't comfort them much. They hurt like hell for their loss. All you can really do is hug them, tell how much you care and let them recover at their pace.
But you also feel very badly for them. You feel as if you aren't really helping their burden. In turn, that depresses you a bit, too.
When that happens, you need something to pep you up. This week, I found it in an unusual way.
I know this young couple slightly. She is the niece of a good friend. He is a pr guy and a strategist for the Dems. They are fun, neat people who are a joy to be around.
This week, they had an addition to their fold-- a baby boy named Emmett. A baby. A new life. Somebody who starts fresh with no baggage and can explore the world in their own way. A fresh face to consider after seeing all the tired old ones around us (I mean the politicians and entertainers, not my friends.)
On top of it all, he has a great old name. I had an Uncle Emmett. He was a feisty character who was tough as a whip. He sired six boys with my dad's only sister. What I remember the most about him was his bushy eyebrows and his gruff demeanor. Like most guys with that kind of demeanor, he had a very soft side, too. He always held doors for women and, while he was tough with his kids, he was always gracious and kind with Aunt Helen, his wife and the other women he ran across. Uncle Emmett may have been a hard-nosed fellow but he was a gentleman in every way. Just thinking of him makes me smile.
So, this Thanksgiving, I am being thankful for a new baby to a couple who I am sure will be great parents. I am grateful for the return of a great old name and hope the youngster lives up to the fine character of previous Emmetts. I am thankful that, although I have several friends and families who have recently suffered personal losses, all of them are surrounded by family and friends who love them and will be there for them whenever they need it.
I am thankful for a loving wife and family and a dog that has a few issues but still brings joy into our lives. I am thankful to be working.
Most of all, I am thankful that I can still find things to make me smile. I hope you, good reader, can do the same.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Remembering a spirited lady fondly
It's funny how a person you meet only once can sometimes grab your attention and never let go. Eleanor Mondale, who died the other day way too young, was one of those folks.
I met her at, of all places, Midway Stadium. She came to a Saints' game with Neal Karlen, who wrote a book about the Saints. They were friends. I suspect Ms. Mondale knew as much about baseball as I do about pottery. But she came with Neal, who was publicizing his book. Being a good sport, she agreed to pose for a picture wearing a Saints' warmup jacket and with a big. goody grin on her face.
This was a woman whose picture was everywhere at the time. She hung with rock stars. She worked for CBS. Yet she was unnoticed as she walked around Midway Stadium -- a fact that seemed to amuse her to no end. She sat with Neal in the stands, drank some beer and seemed to genuinely enjoy herself ... even she probably had no clue at all what the hell was going on. When Neal introduced her to me, she asked, "How do you remember all that stuff about ballplayers? I can't remember what I had for breakfast." And then she laughed at herself.
She had what the French would like to call "spirit de joivre." Loosely translated, it means she was full of life.
Years later, I would hear her on the radio and instantly see that blond head with the devilish smile. And I would wonder how it was such a person could be the offspring of Walter Mondale, a great man but a fellow with a personality that would make Ben Stern seem like George Gobel.
The gene poll took an unusual turn there.
Many people thought she was a natural for TV. But she was much better on the radio where her personality and her insatiable curiosity could flourish. Try at it might to pretend otherwise, TV news is generally about as imaginative as Latin. There is simply too much money involved. The picture must be perfect at all times.
I suspect perfect was not a word Ms. Mondale used very often. Good choice, too. Even Mary Poppins referred to herself as "practically perfect."
When the word got out she had cancer, I imagined her battling it with considerable strength. People of spirit are, after all, great fighters. I imagined that, while she knew what eventually would happen (cancer has an impressive winning streak), she was damned and determined to go down swinging.
I only had the one brief encounter with her. But it is to Ms. Mondale's credit that she had such personality that I can hear her voice and see her face right now ... even though this meeting happened roughly 15 years ago.
One hopes she has moved on to a place where she can have lively conversation with interesting people. She certainly deserved that for an afterlife because that is what she gave us when she was here.
I met her at, of all places, Midway Stadium. She came to a Saints' game with Neal Karlen, who wrote a book about the Saints. They were friends. I suspect Ms. Mondale knew as much about baseball as I do about pottery. But she came with Neal, who was publicizing his book. Being a good sport, she agreed to pose for a picture wearing a Saints' warmup jacket and with a big. goody grin on her face.
This was a woman whose picture was everywhere at the time. She hung with rock stars. She worked for CBS. Yet she was unnoticed as she walked around Midway Stadium -- a fact that seemed to amuse her to no end. She sat with Neal in the stands, drank some beer and seemed to genuinely enjoy herself ... even she probably had no clue at all what the hell was going on. When Neal introduced her to me, she asked, "How do you remember all that stuff about ballplayers? I can't remember what I had for breakfast." And then she laughed at herself.
She had what the French would like to call "spirit de joivre." Loosely translated, it means she was full of life.
Years later, I would hear her on the radio and instantly see that blond head with the devilish smile. And I would wonder how it was such a person could be the offspring of Walter Mondale, a great man but a fellow with a personality that would make Ben Stern seem like George Gobel.
The gene poll took an unusual turn there.
Many people thought she was a natural for TV. But she was much better on the radio where her personality and her insatiable curiosity could flourish. Try at it might to pretend otherwise, TV news is generally about as imaginative as Latin. There is simply too much money involved. The picture must be perfect at all times.
I suspect perfect was not a word Ms. Mondale used very often. Good choice, too. Even Mary Poppins referred to herself as "practically perfect."
When the word got out she had cancer, I imagined her battling it with considerable strength. People of spirit are, after all, great fighters. I imagined that, while she knew what eventually would happen (cancer has an impressive winning streak), she was damned and determined to go down swinging.
I only had the one brief encounter with her. But it is to Ms. Mondale's credit that she had such personality that I can hear her voice and see her face right now ... even though this meeting happened roughly 15 years ago.
One hopes she has moved on to a place where she can have lively conversation with interesting people. She certainly deserved that for an afterlife because that is what she gave us when she was here.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
The 9/11 legacy I would like to see
There are millions of words being written about this day, the 10th anniversary of one of the darkest days in our country's history. Many of them are heartfelt and sincere. Allow to add these to the list.
The lessons of that day are too complex for any one person to solve. The simple fact is we were attacked by bad guys. But there have always been bad guys -- people bent on destruction and mayhem. They try all the time to wreak havoc. They have been trying this ever since the Declaration Of Independence was signed.
This time, unfortunately, they succeeded.
The sad fact is that, someday, they might again.
But it is important to understand that the current administration is hellbent on making sure this did not happen ... just as all previous administrations were. It wasn't George Bush's fault that 9/11 happened. But it occurred on his watch. So he did what presidents before him have done -- he counseled us the best he could. He went to his advisors and said, in essence, "You get paid a lot of money to handle problems like this. Now get to it and get back to me ASAP with some ideas for the next move."
In the talkie/blogger world, there is constant wish and yearning for rapid response and to assign blame. In the real world, however, it doesn't work that way. It's complicated.
President Bush seemed to understand this concept very well. He understood we needed some kind of symbol that we could get back to our lives while the government worked to find out who was responsible. When he walked to the mound at Yankee Stadium to throw out a ceremonial first pitch, he was walking for all of us in the country.
Only a leftwing zealot could think otherwise.
And that's is what worries me more than anything else. God forbid, but if there is a similar attack of any type this year, I fear the right wing talkies/bloggers will seize on it as a sign this administration is weak and needs to be tossed out. But it wasn't true 10 years ago and it wouldn't be true now. Even worse, such an attitude would be exactly what the enemies of our country want.
You win a war by exploiting weakness.
The legacy I want to see from what happened 10 years ago today is that we remember what those who went before us did. They were fearless yet fearful. They plowed forward with their lives but kept an eye out for potential trouble.
That's not easy to do in a world where it seems everything, ranging from fiscal policy to the BCS selections in college football, is turned into a political statement.
From what I have read about those who died on that day, most of them were able to departmentalize their political views and leave them in a proper place. It didn't affect their work and it didn't affect their play. Shame on all those who try to say otherwise.
We can get to the political machinations later.
The legacy I want to see from that awful day 10 years ago is for us to do what those who died on that day were doing -- going about their lives as best they could.
The lessons of that day are too complex for any one person to solve. The simple fact is we were attacked by bad guys. But there have always been bad guys -- people bent on destruction and mayhem. They try all the time to wreak havoc. They have been trying this ever since the Declaration Of Independence was signed.
This time, unfortunately, they succeeded.
The sad fact is that, someday, they might again.
But it is important to understand that the current administration is hellbent on making sure this did not happen ... just as all previous administrations were. It wasn't George Bush's fault that 9/11 happened. But it occurred on his watch. So he did what presidents before him have done -- he counseled us the best he could. He went to his advisors and said, in essence, "You get paid a lot of money to handle problems like this. Now get to it and get back to me ASAP with some ideas for the next move."
In the talkie/blogger world, there is constant wish and yearning for rapid response and to assign blame. In the real world, however, it doesn't work that way. It's complicated.
President Bush seemed to understand this concept very well. He understood we needed some kind of symbol that we could get back to our lives while the government worked to find out who was responsible. When he walked to the mound at Yankee Stadium to throw out a ceremonial first pitch, he was walking for all of us in the country.
Only a leftwing zealot could think otherwise.
And that's is what worries me more than anything else. God forbid, but if there is a similar attack of any type this year, I fear the right wing talkies/bloggers will seize on it as a sign this administration is weak and needs to be tossed out. But it wasn't true 10 years ago and it wouldn't be true now. Even worse, such an attitude would be exactly what the enemies of our country want.
You win a war by exploiting weakness.
The legacy I want to see from what happened 10 years ago today is that we remember what those who went before us did. They were fearless yet fearful. They plowed forward with their lives but kept an eye out for potential trouble.
That's not easy to do in a world where it seems everything, ranging from fiscal policy to the BCS selections in college football, is turned into a political statement.
From what I have read about those who died on that day, most of them were able to departmentalize their political views and leave them in a proper place. It didn't affect their work and it didn't affect their play. Shame on all those who try to say otherwise.
We can get to the political machinations later.
The legacy I want to see from that awful day 10 years ago is for us to do what those who died on that day were doing -- going about their lives as best they could.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Baseball in September is fun ... even more so when your team is in the race
I have always been a big fan of September baseball. In many years, it was our chance to go to the ballpark and sit damn near anywhere we wanted. Both in Detroit (when I was young) and especially here in Minnesota, there were always plenty of seats available at the ballpark for games.
You could usually find a deal to get tickets from someone for less than full price and sit where you normally would not be allowed to -- in the box seats.
In addition, it was a chance to look at and evaluate some new faces as well as reflect on the end of the career of some old favorites. The games tend to move along quicker. It was also a reminder that summer was drawing down and we needed to enjoy the last nice nights we had.
As much fun as that is, September baseball is even better when your team is in a pennant race. The games suddenly take on more importance. The decisions are suddenly sharper. The fans and players are tenser. The relaxed mentality noted above is not around. Instead, there is an anxiousness in the air that is hard to describe but exceedingly real.
Either way, September baseball has always been fun for me.
This year, my hometown Tigers are having a good run. They have a solid lead in the AL Central, and unless they totally fall apart in the next couple of weeks, should make the playoffs for the first time in five years.
Once you are in the playoffs, anything goes. They'll enter with perhaps baseball's best pitcher (Justin Verlander), a goofy but (so far at least) reliable closer in Jose Valverde and a remainder of a pitching staff that is fairly decent. They have some pretty good sticks in the middle of the lineup, a very good catcher, a center fielder who can go get 'em all over the park and, overall, a fairly good fielding team.
In short, they have a nice club -- one that could be a lot of trouble for whoever sees them in the playoffs.
On paper, they would appear to be the weakest of the likely AL playoff teams and, as one national writer sees it, the weakest overall team in the postseason.
No matter. As we have seen in recent years, when your team gets in the postseason, everything really does start over. The old memories don't matter. Reputations are just that ... they have little bearing on what happens between the lines. The team that would appear to have the most talent doesn't always win. (In recent years, that seems even more true.) It's the team that plays the best that triumphs. And when it is your team involved for the first time in a while, you feel an extra bounce in your step as the games unfold.
I don't get to be a fan every often. It's the nature of my jobs that, although I like the teams I work for and want them to do well, I still need to be professional at all times. So, you check your emotions at the door and you do your job.
But this October apparently will be different. For the first time in a while, it appears I will have a team that I can cheer for. It is a team with a fair amount of skill. Although they will likely be underdogs to whoever they face, they will not be in over their heads against any team. It will be fun to watch.
Twins' fans around here are muttering over their team's poor season. Fair enough. In recent years, they always seemed to find a way to get into the playoffs. So, they seemed to assume it was a birthright of sorts and never seemed to enjoy the divisional titles very much.
Probably, this is because, in recent years, Minnesota's playoff time has been brief -- a lot of sweeps and a lot of losses to the Yankees.
However, if they pay attention this year, Twins' fans may find out just how good they have really had it. Watch the unfettered enthusiasm that will come out of the cities that haven't been to the playoffs very often -- Detroit, Milwaukee, Arizona and even Texas.
Those fans have been appreciating September baseball for a different reason for a long time.
Next Year is now for them. It's their turn to enjoy.
You could usually find a deal to get tickets from someone for less than full price and sit where you normally would not be allowed to -- in the box seats.
In addition, it was a chance to look at and evaluate some new faces as well as reflect on the end of the career of some old favorites. The games tend to move along quicker. It was also a reminder that summer was drawing down and we needed to enjoy the last nice nights we had.
As much fun as that is, September baseball is even better when your team is in a pennant race. The games suddenly take on more importance. The decisions are suddenly sharper. The fans and players are tenser. The relaxed mentality noted above is not around. Instead, there is an anxiousness in the air that is hard to describe but exceedingly real.
Either way, September baseball has always been fun for me.
This year, my hometown Tigers are having a good run. They have a solid lead in the AL Central, and unless they totally fall apart in the next couple of weeks, should make the playoffs for the first time in five years.
Once you are in the playoffs, anything goes. They'll enter with perhaps baseball's best pitcher (Justin Verlander), a goofy but (so far at least) reliable closer in Jose Valverde and a remainder of a pitching staff that is fairly decent. They have some pretty good sticks in the middle of the lineup, a very good catcher, a center fielder who can go get 'em all over the park and, overall, a fairly good fielding team.
In short, they have a nice club -- one that could be a lot of trouble for whoever sees them in the playoffs.
On paper, they would appear to be the weakest of the likely AL playoff teams and, as one national writer sees it, the weakest overall team in the postseason.
No matter. As we have seen in recent years, when your team gets in the postseason, everything really does start over. The old memories don't matter. Reputations are just that ... they have little bearing on what happens between the lines. The team that would appear to have the most talent doesn't always win. (In recent years, that seems even more true.) It's the team that plays the best that triumphs. And when it is your team involved for the first time in a while, you feel an extra bounce in your step as the games unfold.
I don't get to be a fan every often. It's the nature of my jobs that, although I like the teams I work for and want them to do well, I still need to be professional at all times. So, you check your emotions at the door and you do your job.
But this October apparently will be different. For the first time in a while, it appears I will have a team that I can cheer for. It is a team with a fair amount of skill. Although they will likely be underdogs to whoever they face, they will not be in over their heads against any team. It will be fun to watch.
Twins' fans around here are muttering over their team's poor season. Fair enough. In recent years, they always seemed to find a way to get into the playoffs. So, they seemed to assume it was a birthright of sorts and never seemed to enjoy the divisional titles very much.
Probably, this is because, in recent years, Minnesota's playoff time has been brief -- a lot of sweeps and a lot of losses to the Yankees.
However, if they pay attention this year, Twins' fans may find out just how good they have really had it. Watch the unfettered enthusiasm that will come out of the cities that haven't been to the playoffs very often -- Detroit, Milwaukee, Arizona and even Texas.
Those fans have been appreciating September baseball for a different reason for a long time.
Next Year is now for them. It's their turn to enjoy.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
I'm back (sort of)
So I thought I would check in to see if anybody had made any comment sto my most recent posting -- a small item about the pleasures of walking the dog.
Much to my surprise, I discovered that ... and the other 189 tomes that had been offered since coming into existence, had disappeared into cyberspace. I put it down to a computer malfunction and decided to check back later.
Before I could do so, my good friend Steph Harris (god bless a reader) sent me a note asking where the hell my blog had disappeared to?
Time to move to action.
After some detective work that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud.that Google, the parent organization that, in a way, oversees, these enterprises, had detected some nefarious activity and had temporarily put me out of business. To restore myself, I needed to upgrade my computer with various anti-hacking devices and get a new password.
For the technologically challenged, this takes a little while ... and a lot of patience.
However, I have had years of practice at being patient. After all, I am a loyal watcher of Detroit Lions football games. So, I did what I was asked to do and -- voila!! -- we're back in business.
If I was really gutsy, I would ask if anybody (besides, of course, Steph) missed me.
But, as one also learns when watching Lions' games, being patient is one thing. Being gutsy is something else altogether.
So, I will settle for happily being back in business.
Until we meet again ...
Much to my surprise, I discovered that ... and the other 189 tomes that had been offered since coming into existence, had disappeared into cyberspace. I put it down to a computer malfunction and decided to check back later.
Before I could do so, my good friend Steph Harris (god bless a reader) sent me a note asking where the hell my blog had disappeared to?
Time to move to action.
After some detective work that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud.that Google, the parent organization that, in a way, oversees, these enterprises, had detected some nefarious activity and had temporarily put me out of business. To restore myself, I needed to upgrade my computer with various anti-hacking devices and get a new password.
For the technologically challenged, this takes a little while ... and a lot of patience.
However, I have had years of practice at being patient. After all, I am a loyal watcher of Detroit Lions football games. So, I did what I was asked to do and -- voila!! -- we're back in business.
If I was really gutsy, I would ask if anybody (besides, of course, Steph) missed me.
But, as one also learns when watching Lions' games, being patient is one thing. Being gutsy is something else altogether.
So, I will settle for happily being back in business.
Until we meet again ...
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Walking the dog can be an adventure for all concerned
Normally, Lynne walks The Happy Dog in the morning and I take the night shift. On weekends, however, I usually take at least one morning and Lynne takes the other. So it was that we did our usual jaunt on a fine summer morn. I have always been fascinated in watching Pete on these adventures.
He seems to carefully pick the places he does business. He will walk up to a plant, sniff it and decide it unworthy of his ... er ... attention. He seems to have personal favorite stooping places. There is no rhyme or reason for this I can tell.
We will be going along at a nice clip when he suddenly stop and sniff up a storm at a plant or a tree. I am told they recognize smells of other critters. Whatever the reason, this behavior is often without warning. In the winter, it has sent me flying a few times.
It just makes you wonder what is going on in that head. Dogs are fascinating creatures to me. They seem to be more predictable than cats but, every now and then, they take off without warning. Rex Harrison was lucky he could talk to them.
He seems to carefully pick the places he does business. He will walk up to a plant, sniff it and decide it unworthy of his ... er ... attention. He seems to have personal favorite stooping places. There is no rhyme or reason for this I can tell.
We will be going along at a nice clip when he suddenly stop and sniff up a storm at a plant or a tree. I am told they recognize smells of other critters. Whatever the reason, this behavior is often without warning. In the winter, it has sent me flying a few times.
It just makes you wonder what is going on in that head. Dogs are fascinating creatures to me. They seem to be more predictable than cats but, every now and then, they take off without warning. Rex Harrison was lucky he could talk to them.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
43 years later, the memory is still strong
My long-suffering wife said to me one day, "Why is it you can remember old batting averages but forget to take out the garbage?" My response (allegedly) was, "Because I don't have a passion for the trash."
Anniversaries like today are why.
43 years old today, I spent an amazing 9 1/2 hours inside Tiger Stadium. I arrived at 11:30 a.m. and left at about 9:05 p.m. During that time frame, I saw the Tigers sweep the Red Sox in a frantic, frenetic doubleheader before a full house. The first game went 14 innings. Both games ended with Gates Brown, a cult hero of sorts in Detroit, driving in the winning run. In the first game, it was a home run in the 14th inning. In the second game, it was part of a four-run ninth inning rally.
It was a helluva day of baseball.
I remember it all. We got there for batting practice. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Earl Wilson, the Detroit starter, didn't get out of the first inning of Game 1. Boston scored four runs. But the Tigers kept pecking away. Wayne Comer homered at one point (I think it was his only homer of the year). Don Wert tripled to right center to tie the game in the 8th inning. Mickey Lolich pitched five innings of terrific relief. Brown pinch-hit for him and lined a ball that barely got over the right field fence. I remember Ken Harrelson looking in disbelief as the ball barely went in the lower deck in right.
The second game offered more tension. As I recall, Reggie Smith (or maybe George Scott) hit a two-run homer off John Hiller. Norm Cash bombed a two-run shot to tie the game. Boston went ahead with three in the ninth (I think Smith ... or Scott ... homered again). But I can still see the Detroit rally. Five hits in a row ... each one inching a little farther than the previous one. Suddenly, the game was tied and Brown grounded one that somehow snuck through the middle of the infield to win the game.
Bedlam.
In 9 1/2 hours, I think I only left to go to the bathroom or to get a coke between games. I remember taking the Grand River bus home. My mother thought I had been out screwing around and ready to ream me out until my brother Frank came to my rescue by telling her he had listened to the end of the second game and, indeed, it had gone past 9:00 p.m.
I think back to that day now and marvel. 9 1/2 hours at a ballpark? I would have a hard time doing it. But when you are 15 and your club is in the middle of a pennant race, it seemed easy to do. Besides, the Tigers won both games. Is there a better way a 15-year old baseball fan could spend a day?
This all happened 43 years ago today. Yet I can remember it like it was last week. As for taking out the garbage ... you will have to ask my wife if that happened on time.
Anniversaries like today are why.
43 years old today, I spent an amazing 9 1/2 hours inside Tiger Stadium. I arrived at 11:30 a.m. and left at about 9:05 p.m. During that time frame, I saw the Tigers sweep the Red Sox in a frantic, frenetic doubleheader before a full house. The first game went 14 innings. Both games ended with Gates Brown, a cult hero of sorts in Detroit, driving in the winning run. In the first game, it was a home run in the 14th inning. In the second game, it was part of a four-run ninth inning rally.
It was a helluva day of baseball.
I remember it all. We got there for batting practice. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Earl Wilson, the Detroit starter, didn't get out of the first inning of Game 1. Boston scored four runs. But the Tigers kept pecking away. Wayne Comer homered at one point (I think it was his only homer of the year). Don Wert tripled to right center to tie the game in the 8th inning. Mickey Lolich pitched five innings of terrific relief. Brown pinch-hit for him and lined a ball that barely got over the right field fence. I remember Ken Harrelson looking in disbelief as the ball barely went in the lower deck in right.
The second game offered more tension. As I recall, Reggie Smith (or maybe George Scott) hit a two-run homer off John Hiller. Norm Cash bombed a two-run shot to tie the game. Boston went ahead with three in the ninth (I think Smith ... or Scott ... homered again). But I can still see the Detroit rally. Five hits in a row ... each one inching a little farther than the previous one. Suddenly, the game was tied and Brown grounded one that somehow snuck through the middle of the infield to win the game.
Bedlam.
In 9 1/2 hours, I think I only left to go to the bathroom or to get a coke between games. I remember taking the Grand River bus home. My mother thought I had been out screwing around and ready to ream me out until my brother Frank came to my rescue by telling her he had listened to the end of the second game and, indeed, it had gone past 9:00 p.m.
I think back to that day now and marvel. 9 1/2 hours at a ballpark? I would have a hard time doing it. But when you are 15 and your club is in the middle of a pennant race, it seemed easy to do. Besides, the Tigers won both games. Is there a better way a 15-year old baseball fan could spend a day?
This all happened 43 years ago today. Yet I can remember it like it was last week. As for taking out the garbage ... you will have to ask my wife if that happened on time.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The joys of West Coast baseball
When I was a kid growing up in Detroit, the Tigers showed roughly 40 games a year on TV. The Saturday afternoon home games were shown as was a select group of 25-30 away games. There would be midweek night games from eastern and midwest time zones. Occasionally, you might get a whole series from, say, Yankee Stadium.
When the team went to the west coast, however, the only games ever aired were the occasional Sunday afternoon game. Night games were never considered.
That meant we listened to Ernie Harwell describe the action from Oakland, Anaheim and Seattle. Often times, I listened to those games through a tiny transistor radio. It was great fun.
What made it fun was the feeling you were being let in on a secret. By the time the games started, you knew how everybody else had done. You knew if the Tigers needed a win to keep pace or gain ground on their foes. You rarely saw Anaheim or (later) Seattle on TV. That meant the ballpark existed in your mind's eye more than anything else. And when you let your imagination run wild at a ballpark ... well ... that is a very good thing.
Times have changed. Nearly every game is televised locally. National TV doesn't go there very often because of the late starts. (For a while, ESPN used to do some games. They gave up on that a few years back. Pity.)
But there is something about West Coast games that I still like. You feel like you will know a result that may no appear in the morning paper. The players somehow look different. Even if we struggle to stay awake, they look fresh to me. It is almost as if the players are performing in a dream. It's hard to explain, I know.
Staying up until midnight or later to watch baseball is still a thrill. You to get see things the rest of the country know little (or nothing) about.
If you pick up the morning paper in New York or Washington, you might see this line: Minnesota at Los Angeles, late. But I already know that Ervin Santana pitched a wonderful complete game and Mark Trumbo hit a mammoth homer for the Angels in a 5-1 victory.
It may have cost me a little sleep but it was worth it.
When the team went to the west coast, however, the only games ever aired were the occasional Sunday afternoon game. Night games were never considered.
That meant we listened to Ernie Harwell describe the action from Oakland, Anaheim and Seattle. Often times, I listened to those games through a tiny transistor radio. It was great fun.
What made it fun was the feeling you were being let in on a secret. By the time the games started, you knew how everybody else had done. You knew if the Tigers needed a win to keep pace or gain ground on their foes. You rarely saw Anaheim or (later) Seattle on TV. That meant the ballpark existed in your mind's eye more than anything else. And when you let your imagination run wild at a ballpark ... well ... that is a very good thing.
Times have changed. Nearly every game is televised locally. National TV doesn't go there very often because of the late starts. (For a while, ESPN used to do some games. They gave up on that a few years back. Pity.)
But there is something about West Coast games that I still like. You feel like you will know a result that may no appear in the morning paper. The players somehow look different. Even if we struggle to stay awake, they look fresh to me. It is almost as if the players are performing in a dream. It's hard to explain, I know.
Staying up until midnight or later to watch baseball is still a thrill. You to get see things the rest of the country know little (or nothing) about.
If you pick up the morning paper in New York or Washington, you might see this line: Minnesota at Los Angeles, late. But I already know that Ervin Santana pitched a wonderful complete game and Mark Trumbo hit a mammoth homer for the Angels in a 5-1 victory.
It may have cost me a little sleep but it was worth it.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Goodbye (sort of) to a very good friend
A friend of mine is leaving town next week. My friend's reasons for leaving are personal and needn't be divulged here. (I was sworn to secrecy. When a friend swears you to secrecy, it is like taking an oath in court, I wouldn't dream of violating it.)
But suffice it to say they are very good reasons and I am totally respect my friend for doing so.
Still, I know this is going to be a difficult thing to deal with.
It's not that we won't stay in contact. In this electronic day and age, staying in contact with another person -- no matter where they are -- isn't as difficult as it used to be. (Besides, the situation is temporary.) But staying in contact either by email, text or another electronic means isn't the same as sitting down in person and talking.
See, the problem is, as we get older, we just don't make real good friends. We have a lot of people we are friendly with -- people we can sit and have a drink or tell a joke with at any time. But true friends -- the type where you can bare your soul to them and know you won't be judged for doing so -- are hard to find as you get older. My friend and I have gone through a lot in our lives in recent years. We have shared in each other's triumphs and consoled each other when needed. (I know my friend -- as do I -- has other people who can say the same thing. Still, each friendship is a little different.)
In short, my friend trusted me with key information about things going on and I did the same. As we get older, we don't do that as easily. We simply don't trust as many people. We do that because we have been burned ourselves and seen other gets burned. And it hurts like hell every time it happens.
What I think I am going to miss the most about my friend leaving town is getting together for a drink on short notice. Planning
to go to an event. Watching my friend interact with family members. See my friend play with The Happy Dog. In other words, the simple pleasures of life. I am going to miss chatting with my friend on a million different subjects. I am going to miss seeing example of my friend's big heart when it comes to helping people (myself included). These are the things we cherish in life as we get older.
But a real test of friendship is what is about happen here. I know my friend is leaving the state to do something that is vitally important. It is being done at a bit of sacrifice and it is being done for the best of possible reasons -- coming to the aid and comfort of another person my friend justifiably holds near and dear to the heart. As much as I personally hate to see my friend go, I know this is the best thing to do. Why do I know that? Because my friend's heart has said so. And you rarely go wrong when you follow your heart.
One of the fascinating things about getting older is discovering who really are your friends and who are acquaintances. This particular person has done me many favors -- some of which cannot be priced out under any circumstances. I hope I have reciprocated to my friend accordingly.
But, unlike politics, friendships are not built on a quid pro quo system. Trust doesn't work that way.
So I must put my own feelings aside, say goodbye (for now) to my friend and offer good wishes and good thoughts on the journey ahead. Before departing, I will state my only real goal for my friend is to be happy and safe.
I hope the wishes my friend has for this trip are fulfilled. I look forward to hearing how things go. And thanks from the bottom of my heart for the friend you have been to me oh these many years ... and for the friend I am sure you will continue to be.
But suffice it to say they are very good reasons and I am totally respect my friend for doing so.
Still, I know this is going to be a difficult thing to deal with.
It's not that we won't stay in contact. In this electronic day and age, staying in contact with another person -- no matter where they are -- isn't as difficult as it used to be. (Besides, the situation is temporary.) But staying in contact either by email, text or another electronic means isn't the same as sitting down in person and talking.
See, the problem is, as we get older, we just don't make real good friends. We have a lot of people we are friendly with -- people we can sit and have a drink or tell a joke with at any time. But true friends -- the type where you can bare your soul to them and know you won't be judged for doing so -- are hard to find as you get older. My friend and I have gone through a lot in our lives in recent years. We have shared in each other's triumphs and consoled each other when needed. (I know my friend -- as do I -- has other people who can say the same thing. Still, each friendship is a little different.)
In short, my friend trusted me with key information about things going on and I did the same. As we get older, we don't do that as easily. We simply don't trust as many people. We do that because we have been burned ourselves and seen other gets burned. And it hurts like hell every time it happens.
What I think I am going to miss the most about my friend leaving town is getting together for a drink on short notice. Planning
to go to an event. Watching my friend interact with family members. See my friend play with The Happy Dog. In other words, the simple pleasures of life. I am going to miss chatting with my friend on a million different subjects. I am going to miss seeing example of my friend's big heart when it comes to helping people (myself included). These are the things we cherish in life as we get older.
But a real test of friendship is what is about happen here. I know my friend is leaving the state to do something that is vitally important. It is being done at a bit of sacrifice and it is being done for the best of possible reasons -- coming to the aid and comfort of another person my friend justifiably holds near and dear to the heart. As much as I personally hate to see my friend go, I know this is the best thing to do. Why do I know that? Because my friend's heart has said so. And you rarely go wrong when you follow your heart.
One of the fascinating things about getting older is discovering who really are your friends and who are acquaintances. This particular person has done me many favors -- some of which cannot be priced out under any circumstances. I hope I have reciprocated to my friend accordingly.
But, unlike politics, friendships are not built on a quid pro quo system. Trust doesn't work that way.
So I must put my own feelings aside, say goodbye (for now) to my friend and offer good wishes and good thoughts on the journey ahead. Before departing, I will state my only real goal for my friend is to be happy and safe.
I hope the wishes my friend has for this trip are fulfilled. I look forward to hearing how things go. And thanks from the bottom of my heart for the friend you have been to me oh these many years ... and for the friend I am sure you will continue to be.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Life at the lake is a necessary change of pace
When I was a lad about this time of year, my mother used to pack us up and head off to Grand Bend, Ontario. Grand Bend was a city that had a population of 500 in the winter and 5000 in the summer. My memories of it are almost all wonderful. I once saw a great rainstorm cut across Lake Huron cast against a full moon. I was about seven or eight at the time and can see the pictures of the rain slapping the waves in my head now.
We ate peanut butter crackers on the beach for breakfast. Once or twice, we would go into the downtown area. It was really a 2-3 block strip that ended at Lake Huron. A block before the end, however, was a wonderful penny arcade that also had Dodge-Em cars. I remember my brothers pouring in coins (probably nickels) into a bowling game to win 37 coupons, the amount needed to win a hot plate for use in our cabin. (Youngsters, ask your parents what a hot plate is. It could be used for an amazing amount of things.)
Nearly 50 years later, I still recall that my brothers and myself ran ragged all day long. What I don't recall is what Mom and her good friend Oleta "Pete" Smith, who came on these trips, usually did. I have no head picture of them all from that era.
But I know now what they did while the Wright boys frollicked.
Not much at all. And enjoyed it immensely.
This is being written on a cloudy Tuesday morning inside Cabin 8 at the Nodak Lodge in Bena, MN. It is the second year in a row we have been here. Some longtime friends of Lynne's have been summer vacationing with another family here for quite a while now. As a town, Bena makes Grand Bend look like Grand Rapids. The official population listed is 110. To the best I can tell, though, the town is simply a gas station/general store, a post office and a bar/restaurant. No arcade here.
Nodak Lodge is a simple place run by simple people. It has cabins, a small receptions area that includes one pool table, a video machine and a small area to congregate in, a swimming pool, a few campground spots and pits for fires, a basketball court and Lake Winnibigosh. Thee is an area to dock a boat if you are so inclined. Or you can rent one or a pontoon to go out on the lake.
That's it.
To a New Yorker, a Chicagoan, or a Los Angelino, that probably sounds pretty damn boring without enough to keep people interested for two days, much less a week.
To us Minnesotans, however, it offers something that is hard to find anywhere else. It is something I suspect Mom and Pete did every day in Grand Bend while the Wright boys ran around and through Lake Huron on our inner tubes and chased Shep, the dog up and down the beach for hours.
It offers serenity.
Life in Minnesota is not considered hectic at all. We're known for our laidback approach to just about every issue. The movie "Fargo" wasn't that far off the mark at all when it came to stereotyping folks around here.
But the simple fact is all that life is hectic and complicated in every city that is not the size of Bena or Grand Bend. You can't avoid it. For example, right now in Minnesota, we in the second week of a statewide shutdown caused by a lack of a state budget. The shutdown is affecting services all over the state. It occurred because the state legislature is much more interested in scoring political principles than in helping constituents.
(The shutdown even affects life at the small general store on Highway 2, roughly 7/10th of a mile from Cabin 8. One of that store's biggest sources of income is lottery sales. The lottery is one of the many state-run industries that closed during this shutdown. "People still have their habits," the clerk told me the other day. "They come in daily and ask things have changed and they can buy tickets.")
At Nodak Lodge, however, nothing has changed much. Roger and Melissa, who run the place, are about as pleasant and accommodating people as one will find in the world. I have no idea of their political or social persuasions. What's more, I don't need to know it. No, I'm here to watch Lake Winnibigosh take turns being peaceful and being majestic. (Last night, it was the latter as whitecaps, seen above, bounced to and fro. Wonderful sight.)
Life here is uncomplicated and peaceful ... and that is why we come. The coffee seems to taste better here. The food on the grill smells better. You get up when you want and you go to bed when you want. During the day, we simply have conversations with our friends, read a book while sunning at the pool, play board or card games, or (on cloudy days like today), hack away at writing. There is a TV available in the cabin if you want it (Lynne gets to catch up on shows she doesn't get to see at home because she is working). A fellow might even go out on the dock with a big cup of coffee or a stiff drink, light up a cigar and simply watch the day or night unfold.
In other words, we get to come and go and eat as we please for a week. That is about as good as it gets.
It is also necessary. You see, we are running ourselves ragged as a country. We are at constant loggerheads politically and socially. St. Paul is no New York or Detroit but, even there, people are snapping at each other over the smallest things. This kind of continual unrest cannot be good for the body or the soul. We need a break -- whether it is something as simple as putting a fishing pole in the water, golfing on a course that nobody has ever heard of or simply sitting by the bay window reading a book or working a crossword puzzle.
When you go on a vacation like this, you do the things that interest you -- not the stuff you feel you have to do. You work at pleasing yourself for a change. At Grand Bend, for example, Mom's one personal pleasure was an annual trip to Stratford to see a Shakespearean play. It was the only thing she seemed to insist on (besides making us wait an hour after eating to return to Lake Huron). And I can see the relaxed smile she had on her face as we sat in the round watching those weird costumes and trying to understand 16th century English.
Time here doesn't stop altogether -- we really don't want it to do that -- but it does go slower. There are occasional outbursts of energetic disagreement "Why did you play that card?" is a common refrain. But about the worst thing you will see is an incident like the one that happened by the pool the other day. A mother yelled at her son for committing the crime of splashing his sister. The lad, about age 9, was sent muttering to a chair for a timeout. This lasted about two minutes until the mother turned to another nearby adult and sighed, "Well, we are on vacation, aren't we?" and released the fellow from custody with the plea "Don't do it so often, please." The fellow jumped happily back in the water and was later actually seen guiding his sister around the pool. Such is the healing power of Nodak Lodge.
There is more than can be said but you get the point. It's time for another cup of barefoot coffee. The new day is dawning and today's placid, tame adventure is about to commence. Which will it be today? Do I return to my book? Do I go for an exploratory walk (Bigfoot is supposed to be around here somewhere.) ? Do we hop in the car and go to the adult version of the old penny arcade -- the casino up the road? Do we wander into Grand Rapids just to see what the hell goes on there in the summer? Or so we just sit and talk a bit about life in general or politics in particular? Or is today's task as simple as watching Mikade, the soon-to-be-three year old son of Lynne's godson Donny, as he takes on his world one pillow and toy car at a time?
At the lake, there are many options. But just about all of them are peaceful and quiet ones. It is not a life that most of us would want for 52 weeks of the year. For one week, however, it is about as heavenly as it gets.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Happy Father's Day, Dad
There is a picture in our hallway of me bring raise in the air by my father. I must have been only a couple of days (maybe a month or so) old at the time. Unfortunately, that is about as close I ever got to knowing Dad.
By the time I was able to remember things, he was not at the house. My mother, good Catholic that she was, never lied to me about him. She simply said he was sick.
And that was true. The problem was it was a sickness we didn't know much about in the late 50s and early 60s. We didn't know what to do with people who had "personality" disorders. So, we stuck them in a hospital. I am not sure my mother, a nurse, even knew exactly what occurred at the hospital. All I ever knew was we went there to visit him every now and then. At holidays, he would come home for a short time. (Odd. I can't remember if he stayed at home overnight.) I don't remember his voice at all.
But I have been told by my older brothers that, when he was well, he was a terrific fellow. Somewhere, there is a picture of my brother Frank with Dad in New York City. They are riding on elephants. That's right. Elephants in Central Park. Frank said he was seven or eight at the time. Dad's departure because of illness (I am guessing, among other things, it was an early form of Alzheimer's) was tougher on Frank and my oldest brother Johnny because they knew him a bit as a dad. Me? He was simply a guy who came around at times. He was pleasant enough. But I don't recall a single son/dad interaction (like playing catch) with him.
(I was lucky, though. I had a wonderful Big Brother and several other adults who filled in the best they could.)
So, I have to take the word of other people about him. I have been told he had a great sense of humor and he was a kind and caring man. Uncle Cletus, who I lived with from age 2 to 6, never said a bad word about him. Uncle Emmett, who was married to Dad's only sister, praised him, too. Aunt Mary Jane, who was married to Dad's brother, once described him as "impish." At the time, I had no idea what that meant. Now that I do know it, I would like somebody to call me impish just once.
On a day like today, we tend to remember happily and (if they are still with us), spend time with our dads. What I always will remember about Dad is an amazing incident that occurred 42 years ago.
Mom passed away from cancer on May 17, 1969. Two days later, the wake was held. It was a miserable cold, rainy spring day. What I remember at the funeral home is thinking of how strong Dad was that day. How he greeted Mom's old friends and family. I can still see him smiling, shaking hands and hugging everyone. I didn't know how sick he really was. And I was only 15 years old. But I remember being amazed at what I was seeing.
I have never asked my brothers if that is the way it really was. I think we all want to have a good memory of our dads. This one is mine and I don't want to lose it.
Dad slipped badly after Mom died. He suffered a stroke and a loss of memory. I moved on with my life and was in college when he died. I remember going back to that same funeral home when Mom had been. This time, there were only a few people -- my brothers a couple of family friends.. When dad died, there weren't enough people left who remembered him to have pallbearers. My brothers and I helped carry the casket to the hearse.
I felt bad for Dad. I am sure this wasn't the way he planned it out. It was just the way it was. All sons, I suspect, want to do something special for their dad. I had never gotten the chance to do so. The dice just didn't fall that way. There was nothing to do but accept it and move on.
A few years later, though, I was able to finally do something for him. I was in Detroit for business and made a quick trip to the cemetery to visit Mom and Dad's graves. On Dad's marker, I noticed the year of his death had never been etched in. Mom had paid for the stones years in advance. When Dad died, they simply put the marker in. Nobody noticed. Because none of my brothers live in Detroit, they never saw it either.
But it bothered me to no end. I went to the marker place across the street from the cemetery. A kind woman looked up the bill. Nothing had ever been noted about putting the year of his death on the marker. I inquired how much it was. When I got back to town, I mailed them a check immediately. The woman called me back a few days later to say it had been done. Would she like me to send a picture of it. I said that wasn't necessary. But I appreciated the gesture.
A couple of years later, I was back in Detroit for one day. I rented a car and sped to the cemetery. I ran anxiously to the site. The year had been carved in. Whoever did it was a real marksman because it looked to the world as it had actually been done at the time of death ... not 30 years later.
Visiting a cemetery to see your parents' grave is usually a sad experience. This one was, too. But it was tempered by the fact that, at long last, I finally was able to do something for my dad.
Happy Father's Day, Dad. Looking forward to sitting down with you one day.
By the time I was able to remember things, he was not at the house. My mother, good Catholic that she was, never lied to me about him. She simply said he was sick.
And that was true. The problem was it was a sickness we didn't know much about in the late 50s and early 60s. We didn't know what to do with people who had "personality" disorders. So, we stuck them in a hospital. I am not sure my mother, a nurse, even knew exactly what occurred at the hospital. All I ever knew was we went there to visit him every now and then. At holidays, he would come home for a short time. (Odd. I can't remember if he stayed at home overnight.) I don't remember his voice at all.
But I have been told by my older brothers that, when he was well, he was a terrific fellow. Somewhere, there is a picture of my brother Frank with Dad in New York City. They are riding on elephants. That's right. Elephants in Central Park. Frank said he was seven or eight at the time. Dad's departure because of illness (I am guessing, among other things, it was an early form of Alzheimer's) was tougher on Frank and my oldest brother Johnny because they knew him a bit as a dad. Me? He was simply a guy who came around at times. He was pleasant enough. But I don't recall a single son/dad interaction (like playing catch) with him.
(I was lucky, though. I had a wonderful Big Brother and several other adults who filled in the best they could.)
So, I have to take the word of other people about him. I have been told he had a great sense of humor and he was a kind and caring man. Uncle Cletus, who I lived with from age 2 to 6, never said a bad word about him. Uncle Emmett, who was married to Dad's only sister, praised him, too. Aunt Mary Jane, who was married to Dad's brother, once described him as "impish." At the time, I had no idea what that meant. Now that I do know it, I would like somebody to call me impish just once.
On a day like today, we tend to remember happily and (if they are still with us), spend time with our dads. What I always will remember about Dad is an amazing incident that occurred 42 years ago.
Mom passed away from cancer on May 17, 1969. Two days later, the wake was held. It was a miserable cold, rainy spring day. What I remember at the funeral home is thinking of how strong Dad was that day. How he greeted Mom's old friends and family. I can still see him smiling, shaking hands and hugging everyone. I didn't know how sick he really was. And I was only 15 years old. But I remember being amazed at what I was seeing.
I have never asked my brothers if that is the way it really was. I think we all want to have a good memory of our dads. This one is mine and I don't want to lose it.
Dad slipped badly after Mom died. He suffered a stroke and a loss of memory. I moved on with my life and was in college when he died. I remember going back to that same funeral home when Mom had been. This time, there were only a few people -- my brothers a couple of family friends.. When dad died, there weren't enough people left who remembered him to have pallbearers. My brothers and I helped carry the casket to the hearse.
I felt bad for Dad. I am sure this wasn't the way he planned it out. It was just the way it was. All sons, I suspect, want to do something special for their dad. I had never gotten the chance to do so. The dice just didn't fall that way. There was nothing to do but accept it and move on.
A few years later, though, I was able to finally do something for him. I was in Detroit for business and made a quick trip to the cemetery to visit Mom and Dad's graves. On Dad's marker, I noticed the year of his death had never been etched in. Mom had paid for the stones years in advance. When Dad died, they simply put the marker in. Nobody noticed. Because none of my brothers live in Detroit, they never saw it either.
But it bothered me to no end. I went to the marker place across the street from the cemetery. A kind woman looked up the bill. Nothing had ever been noted about putting the year of his death on the marker. I inquired how much it was. When I got back to town, I mailed them a check immediately. The woman called me back a few days later to say it had been done. Would she like me to send a picture of it. I said that wasn't necessary. But I appreciated the gesture.
A couple of years later, I was back in Detroit for one day. I rented a car and sped to the cemetery. I ran anxiously to the site. The year had been carved in. Whoever did it was a real marksman because it looked to the world as it had actually been done at the time of death ... not 30 years later.
Visiting a cemetery to see your parents' grave is usually a sad experience. This one was, too. But it was tempered by the fact that, at long last, I finally was able to do something for my dad.
Happy Father's Day, Dad. Looking forward to sitting down with you one day.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Nice to be among some old-fashioned journalists again
I just finished two days at my one of my favorite gigs of the year -- the AAA baseball tournament. In Minnesota, we have classes for high school baseball. Howard Voigt, the grand poohbah pr guy of the league, always opts to hang with the Class A schools- the smallest ones -- in Jordan, just south of Minneapolis.
It's a good idea because most of those schools are from out of the Twin Cities. There are always a lot of small town radio stations on hand. I suspect it makes them feel good -- and it should -- that the head guy works with them. The next level -- class AA -- assembles in St. Cloud and are left in the capable PR hands of the folks from St. Cloud State and St. John's. A few TC schools always get there but, again, it is mostly an outstate contingent. This means small dailies, weeklies and small radio stations descend en masse.
The big schools -- most of which are from town -- go to Midway Stadium. There are always a few outstate schools, too. This year, Bemidji and Rochester Century represented the intruders, The other six were from various parts of the area.
As a result, there are usually fewer radio stations, often no TV and only a few reporters. It's a good thing, too. Midway Stadium's press box isn't very big. For some games, I had to dispatch bloggers to a small, covered area just outside the press box. I hated doing that but space issues dictate the folks from the daily papers get first crack at the best seats.
We live in an era where journalists -- in print and on the air -- seem to want to climb over each other to be colorful and controversial. That may work with pro and college teams. But it doesn't usually play well at the prep level.
The three daily reporters who were on hand this time knew exactly what the hell they were doing. They had only one concern -- to write, interesting, accurate stories. The nod to the modern era was they had to provide Twitter and/or Facebook updates and then get something up quickly for their paper's website. This is a departure from the way things used to be. To be honest, it can be a major pain-in-the-rump.
But Ken Hanson (Rochester Post-Bulletin), Amelia Rayno (Star Tribune) and Tim Leighton (Pioneer Press) did so uncomplainingly. In the case of the latter two, they knew their print stories would be chopped down because there was a lot of other big news around town. They weren't covering Ricky Rubio signing with the Timberwolves, the press conference announcing a new Wild coach or the return of Joe Mauer to the adoring multitudes at Target Field.
Perhaps they wished they had one of those plum assignments instead. (I don't know. I didn't ask.) But I was fascinated to watch all of them work. You see, these three knew their duty. They went out and did it without worrying about anything else. They asked for help when they needed it but didn't bury me with unnecessary questions. They appreciated whatever extra info I passed onto them ... even if it was something they didn't really need or would use.
In short, they were professional in their actions ... and their words.
Normally, that would not be cause for comment. But such is the state of journalism these days that it is, indeed, now news when you run across three low-maintenance types. It was a pleasure to be able to not worry about a lot of little things ... and to actually be able to watch and enjoy a few games.
It also restored my faith there are a few solid journalists left out there. After you watch some cable TV and read some of the breathless commentary by columnists on subjects (and people) they know little about, a fellow begins to wonder.
It's a good idea because most of those schools are from out of the Twin Cities. There are always a lot of small town radio stations on hand. I suspect it makes them feel good -- and it should -- that the head guy works with them. The next level -- class AA -- assembles in St. Cloud and are left in the capable PR hands of the folks from St. Cloud State and St. John's. A few TC schools always get there but, again, it is mostly an outstate contingent. This means small dailies, weeklies and small radio stations descend en masse.
The big schools -- most of which are from town -- go to Midway Stadium. There are always a few outstate schools, too. This year, Bemidji and Rochester Century represented the intruders, The other six were from various parts of the area.
As a result, there are usually fewer radio stations, often no TV and only a few reporters. It's a good thing, too. Midway Stadium's press box isn't very big. For some games, I had to dispatch bloggers to a small, covered area just outside the press box. I hated doing that but space issues dictate the folks from the daily papers get first crack at the best seats.
We live in an era where journalists -- in print and on the air -- seem to want to climb over each other to be colorful and controversial. That may work with pro and college teams. But it doesn't usually play well at the prep level.
The three daily reporters who were on hand this time knew exactly what the hell they were doing. They had only one concern -- to write, interesting, accurate stories. The nod to the modern era was they had to provide Twitter and/or Facebook updates and then get something up quickly for their paper's website. This is a departure from the way things used to be. To be honest, it can be a major pain-in-the-rump.
But Ken Hanson (Rochester Post-Bulletin), Amelia Rayno (Star Tribune) and Tim Leighton (Pioneer Press) did so uncomplainingly. In the case of the latter two, they knew their print stories would be chopped down because there was a lot of other big news around town. They weren't covering Ricky Rubio signing with the Timberwolves, the press conference announcing a new Wild coach or the return of Joe Mauer to the adoring multitudes at Target Field.
Perhaps they wished they had one of those plum assignments instead. (I don't know. I didn't ask.) But I was fascinated to watch all of them work. You see, these three knew their duty. They went out and did it without worrying about anything else. They asked for help when they needed it but didn't bury me with unnecessary questions. They appreciated whatever extra info I passed onto them ... even if it was something they didn't really need or would use.
In short, they were professional in their actions ... and their words.
Normally, that would not be cause for comment. But such is the state of journalism these days that it is, indeed, now news when you run across three low-maintenance types. It was a pleasure to be able to not worry about a lot of little things ... and to actually be able to watch and enjoy a few games.
It also restored my faith there are a few solid journalists left out there. After you watch some cable TV and read some of the breathless commentary by columnists on subjects (and people) they know little about, a fellow begins to wonder.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Brightness amid the gloom
It's pretty damn easy to get depressed about the state of affairs these days. We have a nationally known politician (the badly named Mr. Weiner) whose activities on Twitter suggest he is either naive, foolish or just plain icky. None of those attributes are positive and reflect well on a fellow who used to have some influence.
Here in Minnesota, we are less than three weeks from a statewide shutdown that will send thousands of employees to the sidelines. If the folks who will be charged with this mess (the state legislature and the governor) are concerned about that fact, they are keeping it a good secret. All the public talk has simply been posturing to their fans. Strangely, they will be allowed to get paychecks while keeping others from theirs.
As Tom Lehrer once put it, "Actions like this make you feel like a Christian Scientist with appendicitis."
But leave it to some young folks to perform actions that give you hope. There were two separate events 75 miles apart. Neither will change the course of history. But they give me hope nonetheless.
The first happened Thursday night at the state high school girls' softball tournament in Mankato. St. Paul Johnson's team was about to take the field for its game when rain and lightning halted play. The Johnson team repaired to a tent near the press box. I was standing near them watching the rain. After a few minutes of conversation, it became obvious the game would not start for a while. So, this group of 15-16-17-18 year olds simply improvised some sort of singing game. It is hard to describe but it ended up with one girl having to go in the middle and sing or do something to "tag" somebody else. Then that person went into the middle and did the same to another girl. This went on for half an hour or so. The Johnson girls were having a wonderful time, just laughing and riding each other when someone made a mistake or didn't do the ritual right.
Eventually, their game was called and they had to return at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. High school kids are pretty resilient. On a gray, ugly morning, Johnson gave it a good effort, losing 2-1 to end their season. But they played hard to the end and smiled on their way out of the complex. They didn't like losing any more than any other team does. But these kids seem to understand it was just a game and the companionship meant as much as the final result.
The next incident happened this morning at the local playground. I was walking The Happy Dog when I came across 10 kids, who looked roughly 10-12 years old. They were about to start baseball practice. The coach (I presume) said something and the kids sprinted en masse towards a cone in the outfield. The fellow who got there first was beaming as if he had just won the lottery.
The coach walked slowly out there with a tennis racket and a tennis ball. A kid asked him what was the deal. The coach explained he was going to hit them tennis balls because it would the easiest way to learn how to catch flyballs. Besides, if they got by a tennis ball, it's not going to hurt as much. "Don't be afraid of the ball," he said.
The youngsters didn't seem sold on this idea. But then the coach whacked the first ball in the air. A young guy named Mason raced to his left and caught the ball. He then jumped in the air excitedly. When the coach got ready to hit the next ball, there was a rush of candidates. The next two failed in their quest but a fourth guy caught a ball and earned high fives all around. I'm not sure there were any future major leaguers in the bunch. Parents sitting on chairs looked up from their blackberries and put down their coffees to applaud him.
It was a gentle reminder that, when adults seem to be doing their best to screw the world up, kids, with their inherent optimism and enthusiasm, can ride in and still do something that will make you smile.
Of course, some day, those same kids will become adults. They will then have their chance at doing act as stupidly as Anthony Weiner or as stubbornly as our fine legislators are doing here in Minnesota.
For now, though, their world isn't very complicated. Enjoy it while you can, kids.
But thanks for acting your age. It was enough to make this craggy, occasionally cranky adult smile amid the gloom the rest of the world seems to want to impose on us.
Here in Minnesota, we are less than three weeks from a statewide shutdown that will send thousands of employees to the sidelines. If the folks who will be charged with this mess (the state legislature and the governor) are concerned about that fact, they are keeping it a good secret. All the public talk has simply been posturing to their fans. Strangely, they will be allowed to get paychecks while keeping others from theirs.
As Tom Lehrer once put it, "Actions like this make you feel like a Christian Scientist with appendicitis."
But leave it to some young folks to perform actions that give you hope. There were two separate events 75 miles apart. Neither will change the course of history. But they give me hope nonetheless.
The first happened Thursday night at the state high school girls' softball tournament in Mankato. St. Paul Johnson's team was about to take the field for its game when rain and lightning halted play. The Johnson team repaired to a tent near the press box. I was standing near them watching the rain. After a few minutes of conversation, it became obvious the game would not start for a while. So, this group of 15-16-17-18 year olds simply improvised some sort of singing game. It is hard to describe but it ended up with one girl having to go in the middle and sing or do something to "tag" somebody else. Then that person went into the middle and did the same to another girl. This went on for half an hour or so. The Johnson girls were having a wonderful time, just laughing and riding each other when someone made a mistake or didn't do the ritual right.
Eventually, their game was called and they had to return at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. High school kids are pretty resilient. On a gray, ugly morning, Johnson gave it a good effort, losing 2-1 to end their season. But they played hard to the end and smiled on their way out of the complex. They didn't like losing any more than any other team does. But these kids seem to understand it was just a game and the companionship meant as much as the final result.
The next incident happened this morning at the local playground. I was walking The Happy Dog when I came across 10 kids, who looked roughly 10-12 years old. They were about to start baseball practice. The coach (I presume) said something and the kids sprinted en masse towards a cone in the outfield. The fellow who got there first was beaming as if he had just won the lottery.
The coach walked slowly out there with a tennis racket and a tennis ball. A kid asked him what was the deal. The coach explained he was going to hit them tennis balls because it would the easiest way to learn how to catch flyballs. Besides, if they got by a tennis ball, it's not going to hurt as much. "Don't be afraid of the ball," he said.
The youngsters didn't seem sold on this idea. But then the coach whacked the first ball in the air. A young guy named Mason raced to his left and caught the ball. He then jumped in the air excitedly. When the coach got ready to hit the next ball, there was a rush of candidates. The next two failed in their quest but a fourth guy caught a ball and earned high fives all around. I'm not sure there were any future major leaguers in the bunch. Parents sitting on chairs looked up from their blackberries and put down their coffees to applaud him.
It was a gentle reminder that, when adults seem to be doing their best to screw the world up, kids, with their inherent optimism and enthusiasm, can ride in and still do something that will make you smile.
Of course, some day, those same kids will become adults. They will then have their chance at doing act as stupidly as Anthony Weiner or as stubbornly as our fine legislators are doing here in Minnesota.
For now, though, their world isn't very complicated. Enjoy it while you can, kids.
But thanks for acting your age. It was enough to make this craggy, occasionally cranky adult smile amid the gloom the rest of the world seems to want to impose on us.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Farewell to a WS hero
Every baseball fan has his team. It may not be the first team you knew. But it is the one that really caught your fancy. If you're really lucky, that team ends up a winner.
Mine was the 1968 Detroit Tigers. A few members of that team are gone now. But, with all due to respect to Joe Sparma (who pitched the game that won the pennant), none of the major contributors from that club had left us.
Until today.
Word has come that Jim Northrup has died at age 71. Northup was a left-handed hitting outfielder who filled in nicely that season when longtime star Al Kaline broke his hand.
Although he only hit .264, he seemed to get his hits in bunches. I remember a July 4 game against the Angels when he bombed two home runs in a 13-10 win. One of them (as I recall, off Andy Messersmith) went to left field - a rarity for a pull hitter. Earlier, he hit three grand slam homers in one week. Two of them came on consecutive at-bats in a game at Cleveland. The third came on a rare Saturday night game at Tiger Stadium off a Chicago pitcher name Cisco Carlos. I can still see it -- a line drive that snaked inside the right field foul pole. Later in the same game, Northup just missed hitting another one. It landed in the upper deck but was foul by a couple of inches. That's better than most guys do in a career.
In the World Series, the Tigers looked doomed until they rallied for a dramatic victory in the best baseball game I have ever seen, a stirring 5-3 victory that kept their hopes alive. In Game 6, they buried the Cards early with a 10-run 3rd inning, tying a famous record. Northup capped that rally with ... you guessed it ... a grand slam home run.
Now it came to game 7. Mickey Lolich, on two days' rest, battled the great Bob Gibson on even terms for six innings. In the 7th, Detroit, which had recorded just one hit all day, got back-to-back singles. That brought up Northup, who hit a line drive to center field. Curt Flood saw it late, stumbled slightly and watched hopelessly as it sailed over his head for a two-run triple. The Tigers added two more runs and won the game and the Series.
Northup, who was a tall, handsome left-handed hitter, was the toast of the town.
The man played a dozen seasons, batting .267 with 153 home runs and 610 RBI. Those were numbers a fellow could be very proud of. But, to those of us who reveled in that glorious season of 1968, Jim Northup will always be remembered as the guy who got the big hit that brought the Tigers the World Series.
The stories in the paper noted Northup suffered from Alzheimer's at the end of his life. I hated to hear that. I prefer to remember him as the carefree, smiling guy who had what many players dreamed of -- a magical season capped by a World Series championship. His numbers were not the type that put you in the Hall of Fame ... except in the eyes of a 15-year old who was crazy about baseball.
R.I.P. Jim.
Mine was the 1968 Detroit Tigers. A few members of that team are gone now. But, with all due to respect to Joe Sparma (who pitched the game that won the pennant), none of the major contributors from that club had left us.
Until today.
Word has come that Jim Northrup has died at age 71. Northup was a left-handed hitting outfielder who filled in nicely that season when longtime star Al Kaline broke his hand.
Although he only hit .264, he seemed to get his hits in bunches. I remember a July 4 game against the Angels when he bombed two home runs in a 13-10 win. One of them (as I recall, off Andy Messersmith) went to left field - a rarity for a pull hitter. Earlier, he hit three grand slam homers in one week. Two of them came on consecutive at-bats in a game at Cleveland. The third came on a rare Saturday night game at Tiger Stadium off a Chicago pitcher name Cisco Carlos. I can still see it -- a line drive that snaked inside the right field foul pole. Later in the same game, Northup just missed hitting another one. It landed in the upper deck but was foul by a couple of inches. That's better than most guys do in a career.
In the World Series, the Tigers looked doomed until they rallied for a dramatic victory in the best baseball game I have ever seen, a stirring 5-3 victory that kept their hopes alive. In Game 6, they buried the Cards early with a 10-run 3rd inning, tying a famous record. Northup capped that rally with ... you guessed it ... a grand slam home run.
Now it came to game 7. Mickey Lolich, on two days' rest, battled the great Bob Gibson on even terms for six innings. In the 7th, Detroit, which had recorded just one hit all day, got back-to-back singles. That brought up Northup, who hit a line drive to center field. Curt Flood saw it late, stumbled slightly and watched hopelessly as it sailed over his head for a two-run triple. The Tigers added two more runs and won the game and the Series.
Northup, who was a tall, handsome left-handed hitter, was the toast of the town.
The man played a dozen seasons, batting .267 with 153 home runs and 610 RBI. Those were numbers a fellow could be very proud of. But, to those of us who reveled in that glorious season of 1968, Jim Northup will always be remembered as the guy who got the big hit that brought the Tigers the World Series.
The stories in the paper noted Northup suffered from Alzheimer's at the end of his life. I hated to hear that. I prefer to remember him as the carefree, smiling guy who had what many players dreamed of -- a magical season capped by a World Series championship. His numbers were not the type that put you in the Hall of Fame ... except in the eyes of a 15-year old who was crazy about baseball.
R.I.P. Jim.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Some thoughts on friends
My wife and I went out for dinner and drinks with some friends last night. Lynne used to work with one of them and still runs into him in their professional duties. They happen to live near us. Still, we hadn't been together since New Year's Eve.
There was no real reason for this except that we all had busy schedules. Time just got away from us.
That's a pity because we always have fun when we get together -- good food and companionship are in abundance.
While we were out and about, I ran into another old friend, who stopped and joined us for about a half hour. He, too, is a wonderful fellow who I got to know about 25 years ago when we were covering the same games. We see each other 3-4 times a year but we do correspond via email and Facebook.
The point of the above is that watching people's friendships can be interesting. My wife is very lucky. She has a group of friends she has known since she was very young. One group is from the neighborhood where she grew up. Another is from one of her first jobs. In both cases, she got to know these people as they were forming their lives. She was able to grow and adjust with them. I asked her if any of them had changed radically since she first knew them. The answer: no.
I envy her for having groups like that. But, as she points out, she has lived here all her life. Thus, it is easier to stay in contact with these people. (There are exceptions to this. One of the friends from that group moved out of town several years ago. But Lynne has managed to keep in contact with her and visits her in her city when she can.)
When you grow up in one town and go to school in another, it is not so easy to develop those kinds of close relationships. Most of the time, you are meeting people when their personality and traits are already developed. If you meet someone when they are, say, 25 or 35, their tendencies are fairly well in place. But you often don't know what those tendencies are. You find you learn them piece by piece ... as situations come up. You may think you know your new friend well but then they surprise you. For example, they may like a politician or a movie star you can't stand. They may have a social preference that is not the same as yours. If you had known this person all (or most) of your life, you would have already known this. When we catch up to them as adults, there are always a few missing elements. We find them out later.
That's not a bad thing at all. But it does serve as a reminder that friendships that are initiated when the two folks are adults are not and can never be the same as those developed when you are young. It doesn't mean they are better or worse. it just means they are different. In just about every case I know, it is almost impossible to have it develop as deeply as those friendships with people you have known most of your life. I leave to psychologists to tell us why for sure. All I know it is true.
C'est la vie. It just happens that all the friendships I have developed evolved in adulthood. They are wonderful people and I cherish each and every one of them. But I do so knowing that there is probably some aspect about that person that I simply don't know ... because the situation that would let me know that fact has never come up. I am willing to bet I have a friend out there who is deathly afraid of snakes or spiders. But I have never seen that person near one. So how would I know this?
As a result, you discover sometimes to your chagrin that some people just weren't who you thought they were. I can think of one personal case where a person who I thought was a friend made a promise that wasn't kept. It was a promise I was absolutely believed would happen. When it didn't, I was disappointed at myself more than that person. I hadn't done my homework diligently enough. I trusted that person. And I shouldn't have. I didn't know that person as well as I thought I did. This happened a while back. I have moved on but I will never, never forget it.
The flip side happens, too. People surprise the hell out of you with an act of friendship you didn't know they had in them. Those kind of moments are delightful.
In the end, what I am looking for in friends can be boiled down to one word: trust. Trust that I will always attempt to do right by and for you and that you will do the same for me. Trust that if you told me something in confidence, that I won't run home and tell someone the first chance I get. And vice versa.
It is easier to develop these kinds of relationships when you are very young. It does happen in adulthood, too. But not as often.
My goal for the rest of 2011 and beyond is to work on developing my friendships. I suspect I have (quite unintentionally) been slack in this department. It doesn't mean you have to see or talk with them every day or even every week. But it means you must pay attention to them and check in to make sure all is well.
I'm hoping it doesn't take six months for us to get together again for dinner and drinks. I had a ball last night ... and I think they did, too. The simple fact is, as we get older, we have to work a little harder on our friendships. Otherwise, we risk losing them or getting snookered. I didn't mean it so much when I was 8, 18 or even 28 years old. You can still recover quickly from whatever happens and move on. At age 58, however, it is a different story. And, frankly, life is difficult enough without having to deal with that kind of issue, too.
There was no real reason for this except that we all had busy schedules. Time just got away from us.
That's a pity because we always have fun when we get together -- good food and companionship are in abundance.
While we were out and about, I ran into another old friend, who stopped and joined us for about a half hour. He, too, is a wonderful fellow who I got to know about 25 years ago when we were covering the same games. We see each other 3-4 times a year but we do correspond via email and Facebook.
The point of the above is that watching people's friendships can be interesting. My wife is very lucky. She has a group of friends she has known since she was very young. One group is from the neighborhood where she grew up. Another is from one of her first jobs. In both cases, she got to know these people as they were forming their lives. She was able to grow and adjust with them. I asked her if any of them had changed radically since she first knew them. The answer: no.
I envy her for having groups like that. But, as she points out, she has lived here all her life. Thus, it is easier to stay in contact with these people. (There are exceptions to this. One of the friends from that group moved out of town several years ago. But Lynne has managed to keep in contact with her and visits her in her city when she can.)
When you grow up in one town and go to school in another, it is not so easy to develop those kinds of close relationships. Most of the time, you are meeting people when their personality and traits are already developed. If you meet someone when they are, say, 25 or 35, their tendencies are fairly well in place. But you often don't know what those tendencies are. You find you learn them piece by piece ... as situations come up. You may think you know your new friend well but then they surprise you. For example, they may like a politician or a movie star you can't stand. They may have a social preference that is not the same as yours. If you had known this person all (or most) of your life, you would have already known this. When we catch up to them as adults, there are always a few missing elements. We find them out later.
That's not a bad thing at all. But it does serve as a reminder that friendships that are initiated when the two folks are adults are not and can never be the same as those developed when you are young. It doesn't mean they are better or worse. it just means they are different. In just about every case I know, it is almost impossible to have it develop as deeply as those friendships with people you have known most of your life. I leave to psychologists to tell us why for sure. All I know it is true.
C'est la vie. It just happens that all the friendships I have developed evolved in adulthood. They are wonderful people and I cherish each and every one of them. But I do so knowing that there is probably some aspect about that person that I simply don't know ... because the situation that would let me know that fact has never come up. I am willing to bet I have a friend out there who is deathly afraid of snakes or spiders. But I have never seen that person near one. So how would I know this?
As a result, you discover sometimes to your chagrin that some people just weren't who you thought they were. I can think of one personal case where a person who I thought was a friend made a promise that wasn't kept. It was a promise I was absolutely believed would happen. When it didn't, I was disappointed at myself more than that person. I hadn't done my homework diligently enough. I trusted that person. And I shouldn't have. I didn't know that person as well as I thought I did. This happened a while back. I have moved on but I will never, never forget it.
The flip side happens, too. People surprise the hell out of you with an act of friendship you didn't know they had in them. Those kind of moments are delightful.
In the end, what I am looking for in friends can be boiled down to one word: trust. Trust that I will always attempt to do right by and for you and that you will do the same for me. Trust that if you told me something in confidence, that I won't run home and tell someone the first chance I get. And vice versa.
It is easier to develop these kinds of relationships when you are very young. It does happen in adulthood, too. But not as often.
My goal for the rest of 2011 and beyond is to work on developing my friendships. I suspect I have (quite unintentionally) been slack in this department. It doesn't mean you have to see or talk with them every day or even every week. But it means you must pay attention to them and check in to make sure all is well.
I'm hoping it doesn't take six months for us to get together again for dinner and drinks. I had a ball last night ... and I think they did, too. The simple fact is, as we get older, we have to work a little harder on our friendships. Otherwise, we risk losing them or getting snookered. I didn't mean it so much when I was 8, 18 or even 28 years old. You can still recover quickly from whatever happens and move on. At age 58, however, it is a different story. And, frankly, life is difficult enough without having to deal with that kind of issue, too.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
People 2, Buckthorn 0
Before I became a co-homeowner a decade ago, I didn't know the difference between buckthorn and Buck Owens. However, when you live with it in your backyard, you learn quickly what a vile thing buckthorn really is.
According to the DNR, it is an invasive species that is popular hedging material. There is another less polite word for it. The damn thing is a weed that, given a chance, can take over an area quickly. Once in place, it moves faster than Bob Hayes in his prime.
It is also an ugly thing, given to spreading in several directions at once.
All of which makes today's victory sweet, indeed.
It started as a simple battle. My wife was clearing out an area of weedage in the backyard. A couple of years ago, I had sprayed Round Up all over a bunch of buckthorn stumps and then covered them with old coffee cans. Thus deprived of life, the buck finally stopped there. It didn't get any better but not did it shrink much.
Seeing Lynne in the backyard hacking away at weeds inspired me into action. Before I knew it, I had made it my day's mission to wipe out some of the buckthorn stumps that were trying to hang on to ruin the backyard view.
I chose a smaller member of this insidious tribe as my first victim. I started hacking away only to discover this species has some very deep roots. The little spade I had wasn't up to the task at all. So, I went back to the garage and found every shovel we had. For half an hour, I took battering this immovable object turns with three different shovels, a saw, a clipper, a mallet and a hammer. Finally, I saw a glimmer of hope. There was just one root left to eliminate. I twisted it this way and that and - presto - the root grudgingly gave in.
Victory over a root that was no more than 18 inches in length but had to run at least that long in depth.
Flush with victory, I turned to a nearby stump and declared war on it.
Another half hour of whacking and hacking produced modest effect. At this point, my neighbor Al wandered by with a bemused look on his face. "You're not going to get it that way," he said. "Let me get my pick."
A pick. Isn't that something you use on a guitar?
Well, not exactly. Al swung his pick a few times with limited success. "Let me get my chainsaw," he said. "That'll do it."
Lynne looked up with some concern. I have always wanted a chainsaw. Lynne, however, has always thought this was a bad idea ... perhaps on the ground that I might accidentally lop a limb or leg off in the process. As she would prefer this not to be the case (whether it be mine or somebody else's), it has always been agreed the only type of chainsaw I can use is a toy one I was given by Lynne and her sisters as a Christmas gift a few years back.
Al returned with the chainsaw and I stepped back as far as I dared. Five minutes into this exercise, the stump stayed put. "My blade isn't very good," Al sighed. "I think my brother has been using this thing again."
But we had come a long ways and I wasn't ready to give in. I stared at the stump and got an idea. Using the pick (now that I knew how to do so), I angled underneath one of the connecting roots. The wood finally begin to slowly splinter. But the stump remained. I grabbed an old (non-chain) saw and chipped away at more wood. After a couple of minutes, I heard a crack and knew victory was really at hand. A twist here and there and the thick stump finally left the ground. "I think that thing has been there for about 20 years," Al sighed. "Nice sight, isn't it?"
Lynne, who had decided this was a good time to move her base of operations on the other side of the fence, sighed with satisfaction. Two nasty stumps gone and no limbs, digits or legs lost in the process.
For years, I have heard athletes say the beer always tastes better after their team wins a game.
I know what they mean. The Labatt's tasted damn good.
Two down and another 50 or so to go. I'm in no hurry to go back. But I am encouraged that total victory is possible.
According to the DNR, it is an invasive species that is popular hedging material. There is another less polite word for it. The damn thing is a weed that, given a chance, can take over an area quickly. Once in place, it moves faster than Bob Hayes in his prime.
It is also an ugly thing, given to spreading in several directions at once.
All of which makes today's victory sweet, indeed.
It started as a simple battle. My wife was clearing out an area of weedage in the backyard. A couple of years ago, I had sprayed Round Up all over a bunch of buckthorn stumps and then covered them with old coffee cans. Thus deprived of life, the buck finally stopped there. It didn't get any better but not did it shrink much.
Seeing Lynne in the backyard hacking away at weeds inspired me into action. Before I knew it, I had made it my day's mission to wipe out some of the buckthorn stumps that were trying to hang on to ruin the backyard view.
I chose a smaller member of this insidious tribe as my first victim. I started hacking away only to discover this species has some very deep roots. The little spade I had wasn't up to the task at all. So, I went back to the garage and found every shovel we had. For half an hour, I took battering this immovable object turns with three different shovels, a saw, a clipper, a mallet and a hammer. Finally, I saw a glimmer of hope. There was just one root left to eliminate. I twisted it this way and that and - presto - the root grudgingly gave in.
Victory over a root that was no more than 18 inches in length but had to run at least that long in depth.
Flush with victory, I turned to a nearby stump and declared war on it.
Another half hour of whacking and hacking produced modest effect. At this point, my neighbor Al wandered by with a bemused look on his face. "You're not going to get it that way," he said. "Let me get my pick."
A pick. Isn't that something you use on a guitar?
Well, not exactly. Al swung his pick a few times with limited success. "Let me get my chainsaw," he said. "That'll do it."
Lynne looked up with some concern. I have always wanted a chainsaw. Lynne, however, has always thought this was a bad idea ... perhaps on the ground that I might accidentally lop a limb or leg off in the process. As she would prefer this not to be the case (whether it be mine or somebody else's), it has always been agreed the only type of chainsaw I can use is a toy one I was given by Lynne and her sisters as a Christmas gift a few years back.
Al returned with the chainsaw and I stepped back as far as I dared. Five minutes into this exercise, the stump stayed put. "My blade isn't very good," Al sighed. "I think my brother has been using this thing again."
But we had come a long ways and I wasn't ready to give in. I stared at the stump and got an idea. Using the pick (now that I knew how to do so), I angled underneath one of the connecting roots. The wood finally begin to slowly splinter. But the stump remained. I grabbed an old (non-chain) saw and chipped away at more wood. After a couple of minutes, I heard a crack and knew victory was really at hand. A twist here and there and the thick stump finally left the ground. "I think that thing has been there for about 20 years," Al sighed. "Nice sight, isn't it?"
Lynne, who had decided this was a good time to move her base of operations on the other side of the fence, sighed with satisfaction. Two nasty stumps gone and no limbs, digits or legs lost in the process.
For years, I have heard athletes say the beer always tastes better after their team wins a game.
I know what they mean. The Labatt's tasted damn good.
Two down and another 50 or so to go. I'm in no hurry to go back. But I am encouraged that total victory is possible.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
I'll pass on this one
The word is out that we are soon going to get see pictures of the now late Osama bin Laden. I have little doubt they will become one of the most viewed pictures ever. If I happen to come across it (either via TV or otherwise), I may take a look out of curiosity. But I have no plans to do a search to find the picture.
Why? Because I have no desire to look at something that has been described as gruesome.
If i want to see gruesome, all I need to do is flip on the TV and find a cop show in HD. There is always enough blood and guts to go around for a good fix.
Or I can watch Drew Butera bat for the Twins.
I have no illusions on this one. In a society where we still have cockfighting and dog fighting, can there be any doubt of a desire for a market for this picture? But that doesn't mean I have to join in.
Being in the minority is often painful. But not this time.
Why? Because I have no desire to look at something that has been described as gruesome.
If i want to see gruesome, all I need to do is flip on the TV and find a cop show in HD. There is always enough blood and guts to go around for a good fix.
Or I can watch Drew Butera bat for the Twins.
I have no illusions on this one. In a society where we still have cockfighting and dog fighting, can there be any doubt of a desire for a market for this picture? But that doesn't mean I have to join in.
Being in the minority is often painful. But not this time.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Supporting A Friend In Need
The kerfuffle started about 9:00 a.m. It was a crappy morning outside -- wet and dreary. As per usual, I fed The Happy Dog breakfast and his morning treats. Seeing the wet landscape, I told The Happy Dog we would wait a but before tending to the morning walk.
At first, The Happy Dog seemed to understand this concept. I guess that he, too, could see it was raining cats and ... whatever ... outside.
So I set up the laptop in the dining room and began to delve into the morning emails. Suddenly, I was aware of some flailing feet and low moaning. I walked around the table and, saw, to my horror, The Happy Dog on his side shaking uncontrollably. I yelled at Lynne to get the vet clinic on the phone immediately and rushed to my friend's side.
Many years ago, I worked at a camp where we had kids who were subject to epileptic seizures. I remembered the key to dealing with them was keep them calm and make sure they didn't hurt themselves. So I tried to talk softly to The Happy Dog and petted his back. The seizure continuse. Although they probably only ran for 15-20 seconds, it seemed like minutes. I saw some red liquid shoot out of his mouth. Some foam followed. In all likelihood, he simply bit his tongue. But it was a mess.
In time, The Happy Dog calmed down and looked dazed. He, too, probably wondered what the hell just happened. We got the vet on the phone and the nurse said to get in there right away.
By the time we got there (it's only about 5 minutes away), The Happy Dog appeared to be back to normal. But he had to pee and poop like Secretariat. Even though it was still raining cats and ... well, you know ... the need for a good P & P trumps everything else. THD did his duty and gratefully ran inside the vet clinic.
A nurse came, suggested a room off the lobby with a nice carpet, and gave him some water. Dr. Casey took a look, checked out some vitals and immediately ordered up blood tests. 75 minutes after it had started, The Happy Dog was back home and seems back to normal.
What happened? What caused this aberration? Is this the start of something serious or was this an unusual reaction to the anxiety of not getting out for a walk at the usual time? We may get an answer tomorrow when we get the blood tests back. In the meantime, I now have a brochure as to what to do if a future seizure occurs. And I am suddenly nervous about leaving the house for 90 minutes to have lunch with a (human) friend.
For now, he appears to be fine. It may well have been a one-time only thing, a blip on the health radar. I can relate to that. But I also know that all blips on the health radar run the risk of potential future consequences. We will be watching The Happy Dog a lot closer from now on.
Although we don't think of animals this way often, the incident had to be terrifying for him, too. So, I was happy to be there to calm him down and be at his side in a moment of crisis.
And that's the point. If you saw a friend have a seizure, you would likely rush to help that person. You would comfort that person and his/her family the best you could. You would get them to a doctor or call for an ambulance. And you would not think twice about staying with them as long as you felt necessary.
So it is here. The Happy Dog has been a member of the family for nearly nine years. Frankly, I know he is getting up there in age (he'll be nine in June). There will be a time (hopefully, way down the road) where Lynne and I will likely have to make a difficult decision as to his future wellbeing. But, right up to that moment, he deserves our best level of attention possible.
In other words, we will do for him what we hope someone would do for us if the roles were reversed. Yes, it costs money to go to the vet. And money is tight now. But The Happy Dog has always been loyal to us. Seems to me that (within reason, of course), this is our time to be loyal to him.
That's probably too mushy for some people. For others, it probably sounds ridiculous. But, to animal owners and lovers, it makes sense. The Happy Dog may not be a friend in the same sense as the old pal I am meeting for lunch today. But he is a friend. And I was taught years ago to come to an aid of a friend no matter what kind of help is needed. And that does make sense to me.
At first, The Happy Dog seemed to understand this concept. I guess that he, too, could see it was raining cats and ... whatever ... outside.
So I set up the laptop in the dining room and began to delve into the morning emails. Suddenly, I was aware of some flailing feet and low moaning. I walked around the table and, saw, to my horror, The Happy Dog on his side shaking uncontrollably. I yelled at Lynne to get the vet clinic on the phone immediately and rushed to my friend's side.
Many years ago, I worked at a camp where we had kids who were subject to epileptic seizures. I remembered the key to dealing with them was keep them calm and make sure they didn't hurt themselves. So I tried to talk softly to The Happy Dog and petted his back. The seizure continuse. Although they probably only ran for 15-20 seconds, it seemed like minutes. I saw some red liquid shoot out of his mouth. Some foam followed. In all likelihood, he simply bit his tongue. But it was a mess.
In time, The Happy Dog calmed down and looked dazed. He, too, probably wondered what the hell just happened. We got the vet on the phone and the nurse said to get in there right away.
By the time we got there (it's only about 5 minutes away), The Happy Dog appeared to be back to normal. But he had to pee and poop like Secretariat. Even though it was still raining cats and ... well, you know ... the need for a good P & P trumps everything else. THD did his duty and gratefully ran inside the vet clinic.
A nurse came, suggested a room off the lobby with a nice carpet, and gave him some water. Dr. Casey took a look, checked out some vitals and immediately ordered up blood tests. 75 minutes after it had started, The Happy Dog was back home and seems back to normal.
What happened? What caused this aberration? Is this the start of something serious or was this an unusual reaction to the anxiety of not getting out for a walk at the usual time? We may get an answer tomorrow when we get the blood tests back. In the meantime, I now have a brochure as to what to do if a future seizure occurs. And I am suddenly nervous about leaving the house for 90 minutes to have lunch with a (human) friend.
For now, he appears to be fine. It may well have been a one-time only thing, a blip on the health radar. I can relate to that. But I also know that all blips on the health radar run the risk of potential future consequences. We will be watching The Happy Dog a lot closer from now on.
Although we don't think of animals this way often, the incident had to be terrifying for him, too. So, I was happy to be there to calm him down and be at his side in a moment of crisis.
And that's the point. If you saw a friend have a seizure, you would likely rush to help that person. You would comfort that person and his/her family the best you could. You would get them to a doctor or call for an ambulance. And you would not think twice about staying with them as long as you felt necessary.
So it is here. The Happy Dog has been a member of the family for nearly nine years. Frankly, I know he is getting up there in age (he'll be nine in June). There will be a time (hopefully, way down the road) where Lynne and I will likely have to make a difficult decision as to his future wellbeing. But, right up to that moment, he deserves our best level of attention possible.
In other words, we will do for him what we hope someone would do for us if the roles were reversed. Yes, it costs money to go to the vet. And money is tight now. But The Happy Dog has always been loyal to us. Seems to me that (within reason, of course), this is our time to be loyal to him.
That's probably too mushy for some people. For others, it probably sounds ridiculous. But, to animal owners and lovers, it makes sense. The Happy Dog may not be a friend in the same sense as the old pal I am meeting for lunch today. But he is a friend. And I was taught years ago to come to an aid of a friend no matter what kind of help is needed. And that does make sense to me.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
"The King's Speech" is a great movie ... and more
Just got around to watching "The King's Speech" yesterday. If you haven't seen it yet, you need to. It is an important story that is very well told. We tend to mock royalty these days. Most of the reason for that is, here is the lower 48, the concept of royalty seems odd to us.
But it doesn't to the Brits. The men and women who have taken on those roles may, indeed, have all the money a person will never need at his/her disposal. But they also carry a burden - namely, that every action they take is subject to a country's scrutiny. That means if you have any sort of handicap (and I think we can agree being a stutterer is a handicap), you will be subject to considerable ridicule.
The movie has great acting ... and is worth seeing just for that fact alone. But it also is a triumph of will, guile and plain old-fashioned guts. At some point in our lives, we all have had to reach out for help. More times than not, that helps come from an unlikely source. (In this case, a commoner who wasn't even a doctor.)
My favorite moment of the movie comes at the end. It is when the King is done with his important speech. On his way out to greet his subjects, he stops to simply say, "Thank you" to the man who stood by his side during what was likely the biggest personal crisis in the King's life. It would have been easy to forget to do so. But great men get that way by not forgetting the little things.
But it doesn't to the Brits. The men and women who have taken on those roles may, indeed, have all the money a person will never need at his/her disposal. But they also carry a burden - namely, that every action they take is subject to a country's scrutiny. That means if you have any sort of handicap (and I think we can agree being a stutterer is a handicap), you will be subject to considerable ridicule.
The movie has great acting ... and is worth seeing just for that fact alone. But it also is a triumph of will, guile and plain old-fashioned guts. At some point in our lives, we all have had to reach out for help. More times than not, that helps come from an unlikely source. (In this case, a commoner who wasn't even a doctor.)
My favorite moment of the movie comes at the end. It is when the King is done with his important speech. On his way out to greet his subjects, he stops to simply say, "Thank you" to the man who stood by his side during what was likely the biggest personal crisis in the King's life. It would have been easy to forget to do so. But great men get that way by not forgetting the little things.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Farewell, MISTER Bertoia
It was during the first week of the 1968 school year. I had transferred into Assumption High School as a sophomore. I was trying to impress my new comrades in the back row at the start of History Class. So I told them some joke I had heard. There were several guffaws, which got the attention of The History Teacher, who stopped his writing on the blackboard.
"Perhaps you might want to tell us all what is so funny, Mr. Wright," said The History Teacher.
I stammered a bit and repeated the joke. The silence in the classroom was deafening. The History Teacher looked at me quietly and said, "That wasn't worth the time, Mr. Wright." And then he proceeded to start the lesson.
After class, The History Teacher pulled me aside, saying "Tomorrow, we start over, okay? We all have bad days."
The History Teacher was Reno Bertoia, a gentle soul who passed away the other day at age 76. What I didn't know then was he was a man of many talents who saw things in kids they didn't see in themselves. Most of us simply knew him as Mr. Bertoia, the fellow who assisted Father Cullen with the baseball team and taught a crackerjack, lively history class. What most of us didn't know was he was a rarity, a native of Italy who played 10 seasons in the major league. And he was no run-of-the-mill assistant baseball coach. No, Mr. Bertoia knew the game inside out and chose to teach us baseball the way he learned it -- one lesson at a time.
That fall of 1968 was a memorable one. The Detroit Tigers, who served as Mr. Bertoia's main major league employer (7 of his 10 seasons were as a semi-regular third baseman) had rolled over the American League field to win their first pennant in 23 years. They clinched the pennant on a Tuesday night. The next day, they got rained out so they had to play a makeup game on Thursday against the Yankees. Mr. Bertoia marched into class and asked who would like to go to the Tiger game that afternoon. The codicil was we had to behave ourselves or we would regret it forever. Half a dozen or so went with Mr. Bertoia. I learned as much baseball during that meaningless afternoon game as I had during my whole life.
This was the famous game when Denny McLain, cruising to his 31st victory, gave Mickey Mantle a meatball for a pitch that was hammered into the upper deck in right field. Mr. Bertoia said he didn't like the idea but, considering the score (Detroit led 6-1) and all that Mantle had done for the game (this was his last game in Detroit), an exception could be made. "You have to respect the guys who made the game great," he said. "He did a lot for the game. I guess it was time the game did something for him he'll always remember."
The next day in class, Mr. Bertoia then ordered all of us who had been there at the game to write down everything we remembered about it. It was my first lesson in reporting. "You guys saw history yesterday," he said. "Now put it down in words."
A couple of weeks later, Detroit was playing St. Louis in the World Series. We watched the games either in Mr. Bertoia's or Father Cullen's classroom. But they wanted more than you to be fans. They wanted you to remember what you had watched. So, there were questions asked each day about the previous game. Good teachers use different methods to get kids to think.
The following spring, I decided to tryout for the baseball team. After watching about three swings, Mr. Bertoia pulled me aside. "If you are going to have that slow of a bat, you better learn how to bunt," he said. I never did learn how to hit but I could bunt with the best of them.
In time, we got to know each other better. He knew I had spent a lot of time as a youth with my uncle in Dayton, Ohio. My uncle had been my first baseball instructor. By 1970, he was retired but he was still a big Cincinnati Reds fan. Mr. Bertoia came up with two prime tickets for Game 2 of the 1970 World Series between Baltimore and Cincinnati. A drawing was held. Amazingly, the fellow who had a distant cousin play for the Reds was able to take his uncle to see his first World Series game. I have always suspected the raffle was akin to the famous one in the initial episode of M*A*S*H. (The one where Father Mulcahy is declared the winner of a date with a nurse).
All Mr. Bertoia said was, "I better get a written report on the entire day." He did. Later that year, he pulled me aside again. "Do you have a summer job yet," he asked. I told I hadn't. "Good," he said. "I suggest you spend the summer at Columbus Boys' Camp as a counselor. It will be a great experience." CBC was a camp in Orillia, Ontario run for kids from the Toronto area who would not have gotten a vacation otherwise. It was such a great job that I came back for four more years, including two as Evening Entertainment Director. It was the most rewarding job I ever had ... even though my top pay was something like $600 for the summer.
Fast forward two more years. I was considering colleges. I had received some information about a small school called St. Thomas in a far-off place called St. Paul, Mn. One day, Mr. Bertoia found me in the hallway. "Hey, I just thought you should know that some of the nicest people I ever met were during the two months I played in Minnesota," he said. "It's a great place and they will treat you well." What I didn't know was he called the hockey coach there (Gus Schwartz) and recommended I get hired as a manager/public address announcer. (I had been doing Assumption's games at Windsor Arena.) I also didn't know he called the head of the school's burgeoning Journalism Department to give me a recommendation as a student "with potential. But he needs to get his butt kicked occasionally." Father Whalen, who founded the department, agreed ... at least with the latter idea.
Last year, I gratefully acknowledged his help in inspiring my book on the Twins "162-0." I sent him an inscribed copy as a thank you. He sent a note back saying he appreciated getting the book, adding "Hope your joketelling is now as good as your writing." Man never forgot, did he? But he did forgive.
We all have high school teachers in our lives who made a big difference, I only took one class from Mr. Bertoia. Truth be told, our paths didn't cross all that often afterwards. But I always remembered the little lessons he taught me. And I wasn't alone. A few years ago, I was in Windsor for a couple of days. My wife and I went out to dinner at a place that had a piano player. During one of the player's breaks, we were chatting. I told him where I had went to school. "You're one of Reno's boys, aren't you?", the piano player said. "Isn't he a great man?"
Yes, he was. To me, however, he will always be MISTER Bertoia. May he rest in peace.
"Perhaps you might want to tell us all what is so funny, Mr. Wright," said The History Teacher.
I stammered a bit and repeated the joke. The silence in the classroom was deafening. The History Teacher looked at me quietly and said, "That wasn't worth the time, Mr. Wright." And then he proceeded to start the lesson.
After class, The History Teacher pulled me aside, saying "Tomorrow, we start over, okay? We all have bad days."
The History Teacher was Reno Bertoia, a gentle soul who passed away the other day at age 76. What I didn't know then was he was a man of many talents who saw things in kids they didn't see in themselves. Most of us simply knew him as Mr. Bertoia, the fellow who assisted Father Cullen with the baseball team and taught a crackerjack, lively history class. What most of us didn't know was he was a rarity, a native of Italy who played 10 seasons in the major league. And he was no run-of-the-mill assistant baseball coach. No, Mr. Bertoia knew the game inside out and chose to teach us baseball the way he learned it -- one lesson at a time.
That fall of 1968 was a memorable one. The Detroit Tigers, who served as Mr. Bertoia's main major league employer (7 of his 10 seasons were as a semi-regular third baseman) had rolled over the American League field to win their first pennant in 23 years. They clinched the pennant on a Tuesday night. The next day, they got rained out so they had to play a makeup game on Thursday against the Yankees. Mr. Bertoia marched into class and asked who would like to go to the Tiger game that afternoon. The codicil was we had to behave ourselves or we would regret it forever. Half a dozen or so went with Mr. Bertoia. I learned as much baseball during that meaningless afternoon game as I had during my whole life.
This was the famous game when Denny McLain, cruising to his 31st victory, gave Mickey Mantle a meatball for a pitch that was hammered into the upper deck in right field. Mr. Bertoia said he didn't like the idea but, considering the score (Detroit led 6-1) and all that Mantle had done for the game (this was his last game in Detroit), an exception could be made. "You have to respect the guys who made the game great," he said. "He did a lot for the game. I guess it was time the game did something for him he'll always remember."
The next day in class, Mr. Bertoia then ordered all of us who had been there at the game to write down everything we remembered about it. It was my first lesson in reporting. "You guys saw history yesterday," he said. "Now put it down in words."
A couple of weeks later, Detroit was playing St. Louis in the World Series. We watched the games either in Mr. Bertoia's or Father Cullen's classroom. But they wanted more than you to be fans. They wanted you to remember what you had watched. So, there were questions asked each day about the previous game. Good teachers use different methods to get kids to think.
The following spring, I decided to tryout for the baseball team. After watching about three swings, Mr. Bertoia pulled me aside. "If you are going to have that slow of a bat, you better learn how to bunt," he said. I never did learn how to hit but I could bunt with the best of them.
In time, we got to know each other better. He knew I had spent a lot of time as a youth with my uncle in Dayton, Ohio. My uncle had been my first baseball instructor. By 1970, he was retired but he was still a big Cincinnati Reds fan. Mr. Bertoia came up with two prime tickets for Game 2 of the 1970 World Series between Baltimore and Cincinnati. A drawing was held. Amazingly, the fellow who had a distant cousin play for the Reds was able to take his uncle to see his first World Series game. I have always suspected the raffle was akin to the famous one in the initial episode of M*A*S*H. (The one where Father Mulcahy is declared the winner of a date with a nurse).
All Mr. Bertoia said was, "I better get a written report on the entire day." He did. Later that year, he pulled me aside again. "Do you have a summer job yet," he asked. I told I hadn't. "Good," he said. "I suggest you spend the summer at Columbus Boys' Camp as a counselor. It will be a great experience." CBC was a camp in Orillia, Ontario run for kids from the Toronto area who would not have gotten a vacation otherwise. It was such a great job that I came back for four more years, including two as Evening Entertainment Director. It was the most rewarding job I ever had ... even though my top pay was something like $600 for the summer.
Fast forward two more years. I was considering colleges. I had received some information about a small school called St. Thomas in a far-off place called St. Paul, Mn. One day, Mr. Bertoia found me in the hallway. "Hey, I just thought you should know that some of the nicest people I ever met were during the two months I played in Minnesota," he said. "It's a great place and they will treat you well." What I didn't know was he called the hockey coach there (Gus Schwartz) and recommended I get hired as a manager/public address announcer. (I had been doing Assumption's games at Windsor Arena.) I also didn't know he called the head of the school's burgeoning Journalism Department to give me a recommendation as a student "with potential. But he needs to get his butt kicked occasionally." Father Whalen, who founded the department, agreed ... at least with the latter idea.
Last year, I gratefully acknowledged his help in inspiring my book on the Twins "162-0." I sent him an inscribed copy as a thank you. He sent a note back saying he appreciated getting the book, adding "Hope your joketelling is now as good as your writing." Man never forgot, did he? But he did forgive.
We all have high school teachers in our lives who made a big difference, I only took one class from Mr. Bertoia. Truth be told, our paths didn't cross all that often afterwards. But I always remembered the little lessons he taught me. And I wasn't alone. A few years ago, I was in Windsor for a couple of days. My wife and I went out to dinner at a place that had a piano player. During one of the player's breaks, we were chatting. I told him where I had went to school. "You're one of Reno's boys, aren't you?", the piano player said. "Isn't he a great man?"
Yes, he was. To me, however, he will always be MISTER Bertoia. May he rest in peace.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Indeed, Time (or at least Spring) begins on Opening Day
Today is the day that a friend of mine, a non-baseball person, struggles with the most. Today is the official start of the 2011 baseball season. There are a half dozen games on tap across the land. People will smile a little more today. I can't tell you why for sure. It just is.
In theory, this should be no big deal. After all, the season lasts 162 games. What's one game against that backdrop? But what my friend doesn't realize is that Opening Day is like the bear waking up from his winter snooze to go outside his cave again. Even if we head to the ballpark in a parka, we know that we soon won't need them anymore. We know that everybody from the world champ Phillies to their obscure neighbors the Pirates start even today.
Opening Day is about hope more than anything else.
I only went to one OD at Tiger Stadium. In retrospect, it was a rather tame, unmemorable affair. The Yankees beat Detroit, 3-0. As was his wont, Mickey Lolich pitched the whole game but his teammates offered tepid support. I sat in the upper deck behind home plate and remember it was cold but sunny.
But, as often happens, there were some unusual happenings. Gary Sutherland, a foot soldier who managed to play a dozen years in the bigs despite hitting only .248, had four hits that afternoon. Roy White, who was a helluva good outfielder for years for the Yankees, was the dh for the first time in his career. (I looked it up. White played 1600+ games in his career and only DHed about 100 times.) It was also the last Opening Day for Detroit's peerless Al Kaline, a once great right fielder who was now a fulltime dh.
I don't remember many games I went to at Tiger Stadium when the locals lost but I will always remember that one.
Upon arriving here for college, I went to a couple of Opening Days at Met Stadium. On one of them, Nolan Ryan pitched for the Angels. There was snow stacked up outside the stadium and only 13,909 attended the game. Ryan threw rockets past most of the Twins on a day when it couldn't have been 45 degrees. I remember Glenn Borgmann, of all people, drilled a bases-loaded double off the center field fence. But that was it. Angels won (7-3, as I recall). We wore parkas but still had a blast of a good time. it was just fun to be outside after a long winter.
Opening Day IS a big deal. Indeed, The Voice Of The Turtle can be heard (or at least imagined) again. The sun will stay out a little longer. People will smile a little more than usual. I feel bad for folks who -- even the non-baseball fans -- who don't get this concept. I don't claim to understand all of the reasons why Opening Day is special. I simply know it is.
In theory, this should be no big deal. After all, the season lasts 162 games. What's one game against that backdrop? But what my friend doesn't realize is that Opening Day is like the bear waking up from his winter snooze to go outside his cave again. Even if we head to the ballpark in a parka, we know that we soon won't need them anymore. We know that everybody from the world champ Phillies to their obscure neighbors the Pirates start even today.
Opening Day is about hope more than anything else.
I only went to one OD at Tiger Stadium. In retrospect, it was a rather tame, unmemorable affair. The Yankees beat Detroit, 3-0. As was his wont, Mickey Lolich pitched the whole game but his teammates offered tepid support. I sat in the upper deck behind home plate and remember it was cold but sunny.
But, as often happens, there were some unusual happenings. Gary Sutherland, a foot soldier who managed to play a dozen years in the bigs despite hitting only .248, had four hits that afternoon. Roy White, who was a helluva good outfielder for years for the Yankees, was the dh for the first time in his career. (I looked it up. White played 1600+ games in his career and only DHed about 100 times.) It was also the last Opening Day for Detroit's peerless Al Kaline, a once great right fielder who was now a fulltime dh.
I don't remember many games I went to at Tiger Stadium when the locals lost but I will always remember that one.
Upon arriving here for college, I went to a couple of Opening Days at Met Stadium. On one of them, Nolan Ryan pitched for the Angels. There was snow stacked up outside the stadium and only 13,909 attended the game. Ryan threw rockets past most of the Twins on a day when it couldn't have been 45 degrees. I remember Glenn Borgmann, of all people, drilled a bases-loaded double off the center field fence. But that was it. Angels won (7-3, as I recall). We wore parkas but still had a blast of a good time. it was just fun to be outside after a long winter.
Opening Day IS a big deal. Indeed, The Voice Of The Turtle can be heard (or at least imagined) again. The sun will stay out a little longer. People will smile a little more than usual. I feel bad for folks who -- even the non-baseball fans -- who don't get this concept. I don't claim to understand all of the reasons why Opening Day is special. I simply know it is.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Small town bb is fun
My friend Tom Elliott, who covers preps for the St. Cloud Times, threw me an accosting look yesterday. "Your sports blog has been headed in different directions lately," he said.
I started to protest that I said in the first effort that a lot of what goes on here would not have a lot to do with sports. But there are times where it is time to return to one's roots.
So, Tom, I hope you read this one. This is one of those times.
About a month ago, I rhapsodized about the pleasures that come with section hockey week. Today is another happy missive. This time, the subject is the MSHSL Class A boys' basketball tournament.
For the first 57 years of its existence, Minnesota had a one-class BB tournament. In 1970, it went to a two-class event. 25 years later, it was expanded to a 16-team event. Two years after that, they went to the current four-class format. While the majority of games are played at Target Center, 10 first round games are played at creaky Williams Arena, the home of the University of Minnesota basketball teams since 1921.
The Class A teams play their quarterfinal games here. The last several years, I have been assigned the p.a. duties for two of those games. It is about as much fun as you can have for four hours on a spring afternoon.
When I walked in, a team called MACRAY, an amalgamation based in Clara City in southwest Minnesota, was in the process of taking apart a local school. A skinny 6-7 senior named Seth Hinrichs, who is headed for Lafayette on a hoop scholarship, was busy making shots from everywhere. (I wonder how Lafayette, which came one game from going to the NCAA tournament this year, found him. The small school is located in Easton, PA - not exactly on any beaten path from Minnesota.)
As this happened, the crowd of 3,000 or so seemed to be coming out of their socks with joy. MACCRAY eventually won and will be staying in town for the weekend.
Now it was my turn to go to work. In the first game, Chisholm, a small town in northern Minnesota, took on Fosston. The Chisholm coach is a fellow named Bob McDonald, who has only been on the job 56 years. Chatting with him before the game, one might have thought he was in his first year. "You never know how kids are going to react, do you?", he said. "We played well in the sections. I don;t have a feel for whether we will do so today."
McDonald's kids all look the same -- young, lean with short hair. If you didn't know better, you might have thought you were watching a scene from the movie "Hoosiers." They call officials "sir" and, when asked, go back to their benches to wait to report in as a sub. But these kids are no rubes. Adam Vake, a 6-3 forward with a very nice touch and a huge hunk of a center named Sioka Latu were simply too much for Fosston to handle. The Bluestreaks played some nasty defense and won solidly, 51-39.
It was a fun game but it paled compared to the second game which pitted Springfield against Upsala. Springfield, located in the southwest corner of the state, boasts a population of 2,215. That makes it a booming metropolis compared to Upsala, which listed a total of 424 residents in the 2000 census.
"But it has a barbershop, a post office, a bar, a gas station and a grocery store. They also have a new gym," Elliot informed me. (The hamlet is in the SC Times coverage area.)
Both schools had marching bands that would be right at home in the Rose Bowl Parade. Just about Class A school has one like that. At Williams, we sit below the crowd. So, the bands sounds as if they are coming out of the skies. Trying to talk over them is trying to talk over the women of "The View." After a while, you simply give up trying and learn to wait them out.
There appeared to be nobody left in either town by gametime. The Springfield section behind me made a constant racket. I was distracted early by a fellow who seemed to believe the officials (none of whom came from anywhere near either city) were engaged in some sort of criminal conspiracy against his Tigers. At one point, he hollered, "You guys owe us eight calls." This would establish a new record for even upness.
As it develops, the enthusiasm occasionally went overboard. The first Upsala free throw of the afternoon was greeted with a shrieking airhorn, a definite no-no at prep games. The conspirator, however, must have been given a hint. He did it once but never repeated it. At halftime, a security guard told me he knew where the general direction where the perpetrator was hiding. Apparently one nasty look is enough at these games.
These may be small schools but everybody, it seems, has some big boys on it. Springfield's big fella is Tyler Marx, who is 6-8 and is built like a mountain. At one point, he simply glared at an Upsala shooter, who decided it was time for a pass instead of a shot.
The Cardinals may come from a small town but they made some very big plays to keep the game close for a long time. A freshman named Christian Pekarek caught my eye early. He dove for a loose ball and ended up off the raised court out of view from all of us. He emerged seconds later smiling. Later in the first half, he dove for a ball and crashed directly into the on-court possession clock, making a dent in it that looked like it had been hit by a baseball bat. He landed on top of me and Ron Cadwell, who was helping handle the official scoring. He also flattened a water bottle that drenched the official scorebook. Fortunately for your Mr. Pekarek, I was able to brace his fall and keep him from bouncing off a railing behind me. Ron and Kingsley Wilson, the official scorer, were not so lucky. Ron spent the rest of the game with ice on his hand and Kingsley needed a bandage to close his wound.
The small school kids play for keeps here. (Don't take my word for it. Go to the Friday St. Cloud Times website and check out the pictures from the game. Great stuff.)
Pekarek was not done. Later, he ended up in a pile behind the Springfield bench and nearly landed in the band section at the end of the court. While on the court, he made some great passes and a a few good steals. "If he lives to be a senior, he'll be a helluva player," one guy noted. My own view was there must be no walls in the Upsala gym.
The action wasn't always highly skilled. But it was always highly intense. Bodies flew everywhere all game. "We had more guys fly off the court in this game than we have seen all season in college games," said one Williams worker. At one point, I spotted Upsala coach Vern Capelle, who has only been on the job for 25 years, jumping high in the air to get his team's attention to call a timeout. (In case you're wondering, Class A coaches do not have show contracts. I remember a few years ago one head coach stopping in the middle of his timeout discussion to tie his shoe. He got up and said "Now where was I? Oh, yes, now you have to cover ...")
There was one point in the second half where, with the game still in doubt, the entire Springfield bench closed their eyes as Upsala took a free throw attempt. They only opened them when the crowd roared behind them the shot was missed.
Later, I recorded another bb first. Cody Milbrath, perhaps Springfield's best player, had to depart the game at one point because he somehow managed to get blood on his back. It required him to change jerseys with Shawn Anderson, a sophomore who apparently wasn't going to see the light of day. I've seen a lot of blood on players but never a cut on the back. Have no idea how that could have happened.
On the court, Upsala hung in there as long as it could. But Springfield was a little bigger and, frankly, a little better. A 5-9 guard named Jesse Kieper nicely complimented Milbrath, who is 6-5 and the aforementioned Marz. Eventually, this wore the Cardinals down for a 10-point win. But such is the small town pride that, when, as part of the post-game ritual, it was announced that Upsala ended the year with a 25-4 mark, their crowd stood up and cheered one last time.
Everything moves to Target Center from here. That's somewhat understandable. After all, playing in a NBA arena has to be a juicing experience.
But there is something magic about the Class A games at Williams. Granted, the winners would probably get waxed if they played Hopkins, the big school power who is favored to win another AAAA crown Saturday night. There were some awkward moments near the rim and a few three-point attempts that were better left untried.
But that's off the point. High school athletics is, in part, about the chase. In this case, you have small towns who often face an opponent they know nothing about. (In many cases, it is a town they never heard of.) So they simply go about and run the plays they have done all year The fans yell their lungs off (even if they do make idiots of themselves on occasion.)
It is not always artistic basketball. But it is fun to watch and very intensely played.
That's what it is supposed to be about, right?
I started to protest that I said in the first effort that a lot of what goes on here would not have a lot to do with sports. But there are times where it is time to return to one's roots.
So, Tom, I hope you read this one. This is one of those times.
About a month ago, I rhapsodized about the pleasures that come with section hockey week. Today is another happy missive. This time, the subject is the MSHSL Class A boys' basketball tournament.
For the first 57 years of its existence, Minnesota had a one-class BB tournament. In 1970, it went to a two-class event. 25 years later, it was expanded to a 16-team event. Two years after that, they went to the current four-class format. While the majority of games are played at Target Center, 10 first round games are played at creaky Williams Arena, the home of the University of Minnesota basketball teams since 1921.
The Class A teams play their quarterfinal games here. The last several years, I have been assigned the p.a. duties for two of those games. It is about as much fun as you can have for four hours on a spring afternoon.
When I walked in, a team called MACRAY, an amalgamation based in Clara City in southwest Minnesota, was in the process of taking apart a local school. A skinny 6-7 senior named Seth Hinrichs, who is headed for Lafayette on a hoop scholarship, was busy making shots from everywhere. (I wonder how Lafayette, which came one game from going to the NCAA tournament this year, found him. The small school is located in Easton, PA - not exactly on any beaten path from Minnesota.)
As this happened, the crowd of 3,000 or so seemed to be coming out of their socks with joy. MACCRAY eventually won and will be staying in town for the weekend.
Now it was my turn to go to work. In the first game, Chisholm, a small town in northern Minnesota, took on Fosston. The Chisholm coach is a fellow named Bob McDonald, who has only been on the job 56 years. Chatting with him before the game, one might have thought he was in his first year. "You never know how kids are going to react, do you?", he said. "We played well in the sections. I don;t have a feel for whether we will do so today."
McDonald's kids all look the same -- young, lean with short hair. If you didn't know better, you might have thought you were watching a scene from the movie "Hoosiers." They call officials "sir" and, when asked, go back to their benches to wait to report in as a sub. But these kids are no rubes. Adam Vake, a 6-3 forward with a very nice touch and a huge hunk of a center named Sioka Latu were simply too much for Fosston to handle. The Bluestreaks played some nasty defense and won solidly, 51-39.
It was a fun game but it paled compared to the second game which pitted Springfield against Upsala. Springfield, located in the southwest corner of the state, boasts a population of 2,215. That makes it a booming metropolis compared to Upsala, which listed a total of 424 residents in the 2000 census.
"But it has a barbershop, a post office, a bar, a gas station and a grocery store. They also have a new gym," Elliot informed me. (The hamlet is in the SC Times coverage area.)
Both schools had marching bands that would be right at home in the Rose Bowl Parade. Just about Class A school has one like that. At Williams, we sit below the crowd. So, the bands sounds as if they are coming out of the skies. Trying to talk over them is trying to talk over the women of "The View." After a while, you simply give up trying and learn to wait them out.
There appeared to be nobody left in either town by gametime. The Springfield section behind me made a constant racket. I was distracted early by a fellow who seemed to believe the officials (none of whom came from anywhere near either city) were engaged in some sort of criminal conspiracy against his Tigers. At one point, he hollered, "You guys owe us eight calls." This would establish a new record for even upness.
As it develops, the enthusiasm occasionally went overboard. The first Upsala free throw of the afternoon was greeted with a shrieking airhorn, a definite no-no at prep games. The conspirator, however, must have been given a hint. He did it once but never repeated it. At halftime, a security guard told me he knew where the general direction where the perpetrator was hiding. Apparently one nasty look is enough at these games.
These may be small schools but everybody, it seems, has some big boys on it. Springfield's big fella is Tyler Marx, who is 6-8 and is built like a mountain. At one point, he simply glared at an Upsala shooter, who decided it was time for a pass instead of a shot.
The Cardinals may come from a small town but they made some very big plays to keep the game close for a long time. A freshman named Christian Pekarek caught my eye early. He dove for a loose ball and ended up off the raised court out of view from all of us. He emerged seconds later smiling. Later in the first half, he dove for a ball and crashed directly into the on-court possession clock, making a dent in it that looked like it had been hit by a baseball bat. He landed on top of me and Ron Cadwell, who was helping handle the official scoring. He also flattened a water bottle that drenched the official scorebook. Fortunately for your Mr. Pekarek, I was able to brace his fall and keep him from bouncing off a railing behind me. Ron and Kingsley Wilson, the official scorer, were not so lucky. Ron spent the rest of the game with ice on his hand and Kingsley needed a bandage to close his wound.
The small school kids play for keeps here. (Don't take my word for it. Go to the Friday St. Cloud Times website and check out the pictures from the game. Great stuff.)
Pekarek was not done. Later, he ended up in a pile behind the Springfield bench and nearly landed in the band section at the end of the court. While on the court, he made some great passes and a a few good steals. "If he lives to be a senior, he'll be a helluva player," one guy noted. My own view was there must be no walls in the Upsala gym.
The action wasn't always highly skilled. But it was always highly intense. Bodies flew everywhere all game. "We had more guys fly off the court in this game than we have seen all season in college games," said one Williams worker. At one point, I spotted Upsala coach Vern Capelle, who has only been on the job for 25 years, jumping high in the air to get his team's attention to call a timeout. (In case you're wondering, Class A coaches do not have show contracts. I remember a few years ago one head coach stopping in the middle of his timeout discussion to tie his shoe. He got up and said "Now where was I? Oh, yes, now you have to cover ...")
There was one point in the second half where, with the game still in doubt, the entire Springfield bench closed their eyes as Upsala took a free throw attempt. They only opened them when the crowd roared behind them the shot was missed.
Later, I recorded another bb first. Cody Milbrath, perhaps Springfield's best player, had to depart the game at one point because he somehow managed to get blood on his back. It required him to change jerseys with Shawn Anderson, a sophomore who apparently wasn't going to see the light of day. I've seen a lot of blood on players but never a cut on the back. Have no idea how that could have happened.
On the court, Upsala hung in there as long as it could. But Springfield was a little bigger and, frankly, a little better. A 5-9 guard named Jesse Kieper nicely complimented Milbrath, who is 6-5 and the aforementioned Marz. Eventually, this wore the Cardinals down for a 10-point win. But such is the small town pride that, when, as part of the post-game ritual, it was announced that Upsala ended the year with a 25-4 mark, their crowd stood up and cheered one last time.
Everything moves to Target Center from here. That's somewhat understandable. After all, playing in a NBA arena has to be a juicing experience.
But there is something magic about the Class A games at Williams. Granted, the winners would probably get waxed if they played Hopkins, the big school power who is favored to win another AAAA crown Saturday night. There were some awkward moments near the rim and a few three-point attempts that were better left untried.
But that's off the point. High school athletics is, in part, about the chase. In this case, you have small towns who often face an opponent they know nothing about. (In many cases, it is a town they never heard of.) So they simply go about and run the plays they have done all year The fans yell their lungs off (even if they do make idiots of themselves on occasion.)
It is not always artistic basketball. But it is fun to watch and very intensely played.
That's what it is supposed to be about, right?
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