My first visit was on my first night at college ... nearly 40 years ago. They bundled a bunch of freshmen into a bus and dropped us off at the Minnesota State Fair. In three hours, they said they would pick us up again.
That's all it took -- three hours to fall in love.
Damn near every state has a fair of some sort. It is an uniquely American tradition. (My friend Steph Harris says the county fair near where she grew up in northern New York is actually bigger and better than the state fair in Syracuse.)
The Minnesota fair isn't far from our house. It is a marvel to see. Think of the oddest food you can name -- something that would never appear in a grocery store (like elephant ears) and you'll find it here. It has the usual elements - a fun Midway, a place called Ye Olde Mill where couples can ride a canoe in (for the most part) the dark for a few minutes, animal exhibits, arcades, fun houses, a rollercoaster, etc.
But where this fair makes its mark is the many unusual exhibits - such as a Butterfly House and Machinery Hill - where people get to check out tractors, motorcycles and fireplaces.
On a day like today (high 70s and sunny), the place will be packed to the brim.
They used to run horse and car races here. They stopped that a while back but they have great outdoor concerts at a big venue (Tim McGraw tonite) and smaller ones with groups like the great Nitty Gritty Dirt Band at others.
But the biggest thing is the people watching. It is the one place where people seem to go to forget their troubles. Oh, politicians have their booths here. But none of them seem to do a booming business. People go to the fair to forget about that sort of stuff. They want to eat mini-doughnuts and cheese curds at their own pace. They want to simply walk outside and enjoy the last days of summer before school starts.
The most amazing thing to me about the fair is that, even though 100,000 plus people walk through the gates every day and the place is huge, you still manage to run into an astounding amount of people you know. Old classmates, old workmates, old girlfriends. You tend to forget your past issues and complaints. You simply smile, walk at your own pace and enjoy the sights and sounds of the place.
In this fast-moving complicated world with cellphones, dvd players, computers, etc., it is a nice break.
Frankly, we need more of these diversions. But this one will do nicely for now.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A heckuva night at the ballpark
As noted earlier, I recently celebrated my 50-year anniversary of attending major league baseball games. With the White Sox in town and the pennant race afoot, it seemed like a good time to start on year 51. Accordingly, I was at Target Field last night with a dear friend and former co-worker whose only known drawback is being an Avowed Yankee Fan. (Being a New York native, she gets a pass, though, on this one.)
Neither one of us are Twins' types but we know and appreciate good baseball when we see it. A little over three hours after we arrived, we left somewhat exhausted after a rollicking affair that ended with a bombastic home run in the 10th inning.
Although most of the media buzz around town was the news that a certain elderly, gray-haired quarterback was spotted entering the Vikings' digs in Eden Prairie, there were 40,000 of us who were on hand for one of the most rousing ballgames I have seen in years.
As the AYF noted, more people than usual were in their seats at the start of the game. Good thing, too. The locals started fast with a pair of home runs in the first inning en route to a 4-0 lead. The White Sox, three games behind in the standings and skidding fast, snapped back with three quick runs to tighten the game. And we were off and running the rest of the night.
Baseball doesn't often go like this. When it does, the game can become a whirling dervish and players sometimes amaze themselves. Take Minnesota OF Jason Kubel, for example.. On many occasions, Kubel looks at fly balls like a man fighting bees. In the 3rd inning on this night, however, he took off immediately in hot pursuit of a shot up the alley. Not only did he make a great catch, he quickly flipped the ball to CF Denard Span and nearly nailed Chicago's speedy Juan Pierre scampering back to first.
In the bottom of that inning, Jim Thome, a lumbering sort was standing on first base with two out when Danny Valencia launched a ball high off the wall in right field. Thomas runs like an out of control moose and headed home at what qualifies for him as full blast. But the Sox executed a perfect relay and nailed him for the final out of the inning. Have you ever heard 40,000 people go quiet at once? It's weird.
Chicago tied it up in the fourth but Minnesota's Delmon Young, in the midst of a terrific season, untied matters with a line shot into the left field seats.
It was still 5-4 in the 8th. Young was on third with one out when J.J. Hardy rapped a ground ball to second, Young broke for the plate but seemed out by 10 feet. No matter. He stiffarmed Sox catcher A.J. Pierzynski, causing another roar from the stands. For some reason, Pierzynski, who started his career with the Twins, gets booed unmercifully every time he is here. The crowd may have been puzzled as to Young's motives but they liked the idea anyway. (They may think otherwise later. Players have long memories. There will be a moment down the line when a game is out of hand and Mr. Young will get a chance to see the logo of a baseball quite closely. Let's note ahead of time that he will deserve this visit.)
It was still 5-4 when we began a memorable 9th inning. Matt Capps, the closer acquired from Washington a month ago, entered to save the night for the locals. Alexei Ramirez silenced the majority of the crowd instantly when he hit a laser shot into the left field seats. It might be the hardest line drive home run I have ever seen. At first, I thought it hit somebody in the head and bounced back into play. But, no, it was a fan who picked up the ball and nearly threw it from the left field bleachers to shortstop in disgust.
It looked like the Sox might win it right there when they loaded the bases with one out and their best hitter, Paul Konerko, at the plate. But Capps induced the big man to hit into a double play to end the threat.
At this point, the AYF observed something both of us had missed. It was roughly 10:00 p.m., normally the time when many Twins fans get up and leave no matter what the score. Not this time, though. They seemed to sense we were about to witness something memorable.
They were right.
The 10th inning was really something. With one out and nobody on, we suddenly saw a young boy, age 12 or so, sprint from his seat near the left field line out towards Young. The kid stopped short, got on his knees, waved his arms back and forth and bowed down a couple of times. He then ran back to his seat, which was only a section and a few rows from us. The security guards weren't fooled. They ran over to him and informed the lad he had witnessed his last pitch in person. The really weird part is it looked like he was there with his mother and a couple of siblings. They seem puzzled this intrusion wasn't appreciated by the guards ... although the crowd around us roared with pleasure.
I asked the AYF what would have happened if, as a youth attending games at Yankee Stadium, she would have done such an action. I can't remember the particulars of the answer but the general impression was there might be some horsewhipping involved.
This interruption may have inspired the Sox, who promptly pieced together three straight singles for a 6-5 lead. For all the world, it looked like the visitors were about to make a huge statement that the AL Central race was really up for grabs after all. Considering the hullabaloo caused by the visit of the grey-haired gentleman at Vikings' HQ, the AYF and I agreed that, if the school held, this game might end up on page 5 of the sports section today.
I still had this thought when Young led off the bottom of the 10th with a single. Thome strode to the plate. On the first pitch, the lumberjack took a mighty swing ... and missed the ball by a foot. Undaunted, he repeated this gesture and nearly knocked the ball into 4th St. for a game-winning home run.
The grey- haired fellow who garnered most of the headlines in the papers today (and, likely, for weeks to come) should only hope he ever gets cheered this loudly this year. Five minutes after the game, people were still yelling. The AYF and I agreed that it was one of the most astounding things we have ever seen on a diamond... even though our personal teams were not involved at all.
It may be tough to top that one. But the beauty of baseball is there is always another day.
Neither one of us are Twins' types but we know and appreciate good baseball when we see it. A little over three hours after we arrived, we left somewhat exhausted after a rollicking affair that ended with a bombastic home run in the 10th inning.
Although most of the media buzz around town was the news that a certain elderly, gray-haired quarterback was spotted entering the Vikings' digs in Eden Prairie, there were 40,000 of us who were on hand for one of the most rousing ballgames I have seen in years.
As the AYF noted, more people than usual were in their seats at the start of the game. Good thing, too. The locals started fast with a pair of home runs in the first inning en route to a 4-0 lead. The White Sox, three games behind in the standings and skidding fast, snapped back with three quick runs to tighten the game. And we were off and running the rest of the night.
Baseball doesn't often go like this. When it does, the game can become a whirling dervish and players sometimes amaze themselves. Take Minnesota OF Jason Kubel, for example.. On many occasions, Kubel looks at fly balls like a man fighting bees. In the 3rd inning on this night, however, he took off immediately in hot pursuit of a shot up the alley. Not only did he make a great catch, he quickly flipped the ball to CF Denard Span and nearly nailed Chicago's speedy Juan Pierre scampering back to first.
In the bottom of that inning, Jim Thome, a lumbering sort was standing on first base with two out when Danny Valencia launched a ball high off the wall in right field. Thomas runs like an out of control moose and headed home at what qualifies for him as full blast. But the Sox executed a perfect relay and nailed him for the final out of the inning. Have you ever heard 40,000 people go quiet at once? It's weird.
Chicago tied it up in the fourth but Minnesota's Delmon Young, in the midst of a terrific season, untied matters with a line shot into the left field seats.
It was still 5-4 in the 8th. Young was on third with one out when J.J. Hardy rapped a ground ball to second, Young broke for the plate but seemed out by 10 feet. No matter. He stiffarmed Sox catcher A.J. Pierzynski, causing another roar from the stands. For some reason, Pierzynski, who started his career with the Twins, gets booed unmercifully every time he is here. The crowd may have been puzzled as to Young's motives but they liked the idea anyway. (They may think otherwise later. Players have long memories. There will be a moment down the line when a game is out of hand and Mr. Young will get a chance to see the logo of a baseball quite closely. Let's note ahead of time that he will deserve this visit.)
It was still 5-4 when we began a memorable 9th inning. Matt Capps, the closer acquired from Washington a month ago, entered to save the night for the locals. Alexei Ramirez silenced the majority of the crowd instantly when he hit a laser shot into the left field seats. It might be the hardest line drive home run I have ever seen. At first, I thought it hit somebody in the head and bounced back into play. But, no, it was a fan who picked up the ball and nearly threw it from the left field bleachers to shortstop in disgust.
It looked like the Sox might win it right there when they loaded the bases with one out and their best hitter, Paul Konerko, at the plate. But Capps induced the big man to hit into a double play to end the threat.
At this point, the AYF observed something both of us had missed. It was roughly 10:00 p.m., normally the time when many Twins fans get up and leave no matter what the score. Not this time, though. They seemed to sense we were about to witness something memorable.
They were right.
The 10th inning was really something. With one out and nobody on, we suddenly saw a young boy, age 12 or so, sprint from his seat near the left field line out towards Young. The kid stopped short, got on his knees, waved his arms back and forth and bowed down a couple of times. He then ran back to his seat, which was only a section and a few rows from us. The security guards weren't fooled. They ran over to him and informed the lad he had witnessed his last pitch in person. The really weird part is it looked like he was there with his mother and a couple of siblings. They seem puzzled this intrusion wasn't appreciated by the guards ... although the crowd around us roared with pleasure.
I asked the AYF what would have happened if, as a youth attending games at Yankee Stadium, she would have done such an action. I can't remember the particulars of the answer but the general impression was there might be some horsewhipping involved.
This interruption may have inspired the Sox, who promptly pieced together three straight singles for a 6-5 lead. For all the world, it looked like the visitors were about to make a huge statement that the AL Central race was really up for grabs after all. Considering the hullabaloo caused by the visit of the grey-haired gentleman at Vikings' HQ, the AYF and I agreed that, if the school held, this game might end up on page 5 of the sports section today.
I still had this thought when Young led off the bottom of the 10th with a single. Thome strode to the plate. On the first pitch, the lumberjack took a mighty swing ... and missed the ball by a foot. Undaunted, he repeated this gesture and nearly knocked the ball into 4th St. for a game-winning home run.
The grey- haired fellow who garnered most of the headlines in the papers today (and, likely, for weeks to come) should only hope he ever gets cheered this loudly this year. Five minutes after the game, people were still yelling. The AYF and I agreed that it was one of the most astounding things we have ever seen on a diamond... even though our personal teams were not involved at all.
It may be tough to top that one. But the beauty of baseball is there is always another day.
Friday, August 13, 2010
A truly golden anniversary
This Sunday, I celebrate a golden anniversary. It will be 50 years ago that I attended my first major league baseball game. it was a twi-night doubleheader between the Milwaukee Braves and the Cincinnati Reds at wonderful old Crosley Field.
Even a hardcore like me can't remember too many of the details. Thanks to a wonderful site called retrosheet.org, I can report I witnessed the first of hard throwing Jim Maloney's 134 major league wins in a 5-3 decision in the opener. I did remember that my distant cousin Wally Post hit a home run and knocked in four runs. (Guess who the Reds' second baseman was? None other than the volatile Billy Martin.)
I remembered Cincinnati won both games. But I confess I didn't call Bob Purkey, who was a pretty good pitcher for a dozen years or so, tossing a rarity -- a 11-hit shutout in a 4-0 second game win.
(I was only seven years old and would like to think I stayed until the end. My suspicion, however, is Aunt Ida convinced Uncle Cletus that we needed to go home before it was all over. But I digress.)
50 years later, however, I do remember some things as if it were yesterday. I remember the excitement when I saw the lights of the ballpark from I-75 (Oldtimers might remember it as the Millcreek Expressway). I remember the sign for the exit for Crosley Field and damn near peeing my pants as we got close to the park.
Uncle Cletus worked for the Dayton Daily News for years. He had wrangled some great seats -- a couple of rows behind third base. As luck would have it, I had a great view for what happened in the seventh inning. Frank Robinson - perhaps the best player I ever personally play - hit a booming shot that bounced off the big scoreboard in center field. Robinson could really run and, seeing the ball bounce away from Hank Aaron in center field (yes, he was a center fielder that night), decided to take a shot at an inside the park home run. As he got around third base, his feet got tangled up with Braves 3B Eddie Matthews and he fell to the ground. The throw came in and Robinson was tagged out.
That was not the end of the action. Robinson must have thought Matthews tripped him because he came up swinging. I remember it being a pretty good fight. I seem to recall Matthews got the better of it. No matter. Both of them got kicked out of the game. For a seven-year old to see something like that in his first big league game was really something.
Until I went to Retrosheet, I didn't remember Purkey pitching the nightcap but I can see Robinson's home run to left field (off Carlton Willey) like it just happened. It was a high, majestic drive that easily cleared the big screen in left field and may have landed in the front window of the old laundry that was just across the freeway. It's still one of the longest home runs I have ever seen. My only other memory is Robinson absolutely glared at Matthews as he rounded third base. This time, however, there were no punches thrown.
It was the start of a love affair at the ballpark that hasn't gone away to this day. Even if I am going to a day game, I still get excited when I see the lights of my destination. That means I am close to going back into another shrine. It doesn't matter if it a truly historic place like Yankee Stadium (I got to see one game there) or a bland place like the late, unlamented Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. They are all places where a person can put their troubles aside for a few hours and just enjoy baseball.
I recently passed another anniversary. On August 11, 1968, I entered Tiger Stadium at 11:30 a.m. to watch batting practice prior to a key twinbill between the Tigers and the Red Sox. I left nine hours and 35 minutes later, exhausted after seeing Detroit rally for a 14-inning win in the opener and a four-run ninth inning gamewinning rally in the second game. I am not sure I could last that long today but it sure was fun that day.
My wife summarized my feelings about baseball neatly a while back. She says this conversation happened early in our marriage. I don't remember it but I believe it to be true.
She: "How come you can remember baseball games you went to when you were a kid but you can't remember to take out the garbage?"
Me: "Because I don't have a passion for the garbage."
In case she (or anybody else is wondering), here is the answer for how long this has been going. Come Sunday, it will be exactly 50 years. Not every game was a classic. Not every game had a great fight to it or a memorable finish. But I enjoyed seeing all of them ... and am looking forward to what is ahead in the next 50 years.
Even a hardcore like me can't remember too many of the details. Thanks to a wonderful site called retrosheet.org, I can report I witnessed the first of hard throwing Jim Maloney's 134 major league wins in a 5-3 decision in the opener. I did remember that my distant cousin Wally Post hit a home run and knocked in four runs. (Guess who the Reds' second baseman was? None other than the volatile Billy Martin.)
I remembered Cincinnati won both games. But I confess I didn't call Bob Purkey, who was a pretty good pitcher for a dozen years or so, tossing a rarity -- a 11-hit shutout in a 4-0 second game win.
(I was only seven years old and would like to think I stayed until the end. My suspicion, however, is Aunt Ida convinced Uncle Cletus that we needed to go home before it was all over. But I digress.)
50 years later, however, I do remember some things as if it were yesterday. I remember the excitement when I saw the lights of the ballpark from I-75 (Oldtimers might remember it as the Millcreek Expressway). I remember the sign for the exit for Crosley Field and damn near peeing my pants as we got close to the park.
Uncle Cletus worked for the Dayton Daily News for years. He had wrangled some great seats -- a couple of rows behind third base. As luck would have it, I had a great view for what happened in the seventh inning. Frank Robinson - perhaps the best player I ever personally play - hit a booming shot that bounced off the big scoreboard in center field. Robinson could really run and, seeing the ball bounce away from Hank Aaron in center field (yes, he was a center fielder that night), decided to take a shot at an inside the park home run. As he got around third base, his feet got tangled up with Braves 3B Eddie Matthews and he fell to the ground. The throw came in and Robinson was tagged out.
That was not the end of the action. Robinson must have thought Matthews tripped him because he came up swinging. I remember it being a pretty good fight. I seem to recall Matthews got the better of it. No matter. Both of them got kicked out of the game. For a seven-year old to see something like that in his first big league game was really something.
Until I went to Retrosheet, I didn't remember Purkey pitching the nightcap but I can see Robinson's home run to left field (off Carlton Willey) like it just happened. It was a high, majestic drive that easily cleared the big screen in left field and may have landed in the front window of the old laundry that was just across the freeway. It's still one of the longest home runs I have ever seen. My only other memory is Robinson absolutely glared at Matthews as he rounded third base. This time, however, there were no punches thrown.
It was the start of a love affair at the ballpark that hasn't gone away to this day. Even if I am going to a day game, I still get excited when I see the lights of my destination. That means I am close to going back into another shrine. It doesn't matter if it a truly historic place like Yankee Stadium (I got to see one game there) or a bland place like the late, unlamented Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. They are all places where a person can put their troubles aside for a few hours and just enjoy baseball.
I recently passed another anniversary. On August 11, 1968, I entered Tiger Stadium at 11:30 a.m. to watch batting practice prior to a key twinbill between the Tigers and the Red Sox. I left nine hours and 35 minutes later, exhausted after seeing Detroit rally for a 14-inning win in the opener and a four-run ninth inning gamewinning rally in the second game. I am not sure I could last that long today but it sure was fun that day.
My wife summarized my feelings about baseball neatly a while back. She says this conversation happened early in our marriage. I don't remember it but I believe it to be true.
She: "How come you can remember baseball games you went to when you were a kid but you can't remember to take out the garbage?"
Me: "Because I don't have a passion for the garbage."
In case she (or anybody else is wondering), here is the answer for how long this has been going. Come Sunday, it will be exactly 50 years. Not every game was a classic. Not every game had a great fight to it or a memorable finish. But I enjoyed seeing all of them ... and am looking forward to what is ahead in the next 50 years.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Farewell to a mentor
One of the detriments of getting older is the sad realization that people who were (or still are) important to you in your life eventually pass away. On the day I headed north for a week at a lodge in northern Minnesota, the man who perhaps did more to save me from heading down life's wrong paths, passed away in his sleep.
Fr. Cullen was 94 and lost his sight a couple of years ago. He would probably be the first to say he was ready to go. he certainly had earned the right to rest forever.
Still, I couldn't help but feed a little sad at his passing.
Fr. Cullen ran the Residence Hall at Assumption when I was in high school. The boarders came from all over the place. There were guys like myself, a Detroiter who had been sent there to get disciplined in my studies. There were guys like Marc Boisvert, a wonderful hockey player who hailed from the tiny fishing village of Chapleau, Ontario. And there were a ton of guys in-between.
Running that group alone would be more than enough work. But Fr. Cullen also was the head of the English Department at Assumption. He was also the head coach for hockey and baseball while I was there. No man ever ran his team with a tougher but fairer stick.
The stories are, of course, endless and could fill up a rainy week.
Today, though, I prefer to remember what the man did for me. He pushed me hard in the areas he knew I had skill in. He gingerly guided me away from things I liked but either didn't know how to do or simply wasn't very good at.
I wanted to play hockey in the worst way. Unfortunately, that is exactly how I played the game. My wife met Fr. Cullen once and asked him what kind of player I was. He smiled and said, "He meant well."
But he saw that there was a way I could contribute to the team. So, he made me the team manager. When we started playing games in the old Windsor Arena, he told me that I could run the clock and do the public address work. He gave me no direct instructions as how to do this, though. (His only advice: "Listen to that guy who does the games at Maple Leaf Gardens. Be that precise." It's advice I have never forgotten and try to emulate to this day.)
That was Fr. Cullen's genius. He wanted you to figure stuff out for yourself.
As a coach, he ran his team hard. As early as 1970, we taped games. I remember one day going in to watch the tape of a 6-0 win over rival Brennan High School. Fr. Cullen kept stopping the tape and pointing out plays that could have gone wrong. The fact that they didn't wasn't important. He wanted his team to get a little better every game.
After a tough loss, he never berated anybody. He understood this wasn't the time or place. I remember a playoff game at Galt. Tom Morse, our goalie, misplayed a puck and turned what should have been an icing into a goal. We eventually lost, 4-3. There was no need to rip Tom a new one. Later on (after we could smile about it) he simply said to Tom, "I bet you will never make that mistake again." I'm betting Tom never did.
He was a man of sharp opinions and could tear your head off is you screwed up. At the same time, he could be gentle. One fine Friday in May, he pulled me out of a classroom. He told me I needed to go home right now. Bob Spillard, a neighbor and a family friend (who, ironically, had attended Assumption himself), was there. He would tell me what was going on. As I was getting into the car, I heard Father say to Bob, "Don't bring him back until you think he is ready."
My mom was dying in a hospital. I went there for one last visit. She passed away early the next morning. When I returned to school a week later, Father simply pulled me aside and said, "If you feel the need to break down, go to your room to do so." At the time, I thought it was callous. Later, I realized he said this because (at least this was true in 1969) high school boys simply don't like to see other boys cry.
The man was often ahead of his time.
I stayed at Assumption the rest of my high school career. When it was time to pick a college, Father knew of a small school in Minnesota I had never heard of. He had a friend who was Dean of Admissions there. It had an up and coming Journalism department. To deal the deal, he sent me to Reno Bertoia, a History teacher at our school who had played baseball in Minnesota in 1961. (Want to win a bar bet? Ask somebody to name the Twins' original third baseman. Throw in the hint he homered off Whitey Ford in the first game in team history. The answer, of course, is Reno Bertoia.)
Mr. Bertoia told me some of the nicest people he had ever met were in Minnesota.
End of deal. I have basically lived in Minnesota ever since.
There is more I can and probably should say about how much Fr, Cullen did for me. I wasn't alone. Thousands of kids at Assumption were guided one way or the other by him.
We'll save more remembrances for another day.
I am grateful I was able to get back a few times to thank him in person. I am grateful he was able to know I acknowledged him in my book on the Twins ... and that he was told about it.
Which leads me to one last thought. The last time I saw Fr. Cullen I thanked him for all he did for me. He gave me a genuine smile in return, a firm handshake and said, "You're welcome." I will remember that sequence forever.
Do the same thing for someone who helped you along the way. They will appreciate it and you will cherish their look back at you.
Fr. Cullen was 94 and lost his sight a couple of years ago. He would probably be the first to say he was ready to go. he certainly had earned the right to rest forever.
Still, I couldn't help but feed a little sad at his passing.
Fr. Cullen ran the Residence Hall at Assumption when I was in high school. The boarders came from all over the place. There were guys like myself, a Detroiter who had been sent there to get disciplined in my studies. There were guys like Marc Boisvert, a wonderful hockey player who hailed from the tiny fishing village of Chapleau, Ontario. And there were a ton of guys in-between.
Running that group alone would be more than enough work. But Fr. Cullen also was the head of the English Department at Assumption. He was also the head coach for hockey and baseball while I was there. No man ever ran his team with a tougher but fairer stick.
The stories are, of course, endless and could fill up a rainy week.
Today, though, I prefer to remember what the man did for me. He pushed me hard in the areas he knew I had skill in. He gingerly guided me away from things I liked but either didn't know how to do or simply wasn't very good at.
I wanted to play hockey in the worst way. Unfortunately, that is exactly how I played the game. My wife met Fr. Cullen once and asked him what kind of player I was. He smiled and said, "He meant well."
But he saw that there was a way I could contribute to the team. So, he made me the team manager. When we started playing games in the old Windsor Arena, he told me that I could run the clock and do the public address work. He gave me no direct instructions as how to do this, though. (His only advice: "Listen to that guy who does the games at Maple Leaf Gardens. Be that precise." It's advice I have never forgotten and try to emulate to this day.)
That was Fr. Cullen's genius. He wanted you to figure stuff out for yourself.
As a coach, he ran his team hard. As early as 1970, we taped games. I remember one day going in to watch the tape of a 6-0 win over rival Brennan High School. Fr. Cullen kept stopping the tape and pointing out plays that could have gone wrong. The fact that they didn't wasn't important. He wanted his team to get a little better every game.
After a tough loss, he never berated anybody. He understood this wasn't the time or place. I remember a playoff game at Galt. Tom Morse, our goalie, misplayed a puck and turned what should have been an icing into a goal. We eventually lost, 4-3. There was no need to rip Tom a new one. Later on (after we could smile about it) he simply said to Tom, "I bet you will never make that mistake again." I'm betting Tom never did.
He was a man of sharp opinions and could tear your head off is you screwed up. At the same time, he could be gentle. One fine Friday in May, he pulled me out of a classroom. He told me I needed to go home right now. Bob Spillard, a neighbor and a family friend (who, ironically, had attended Assumption himself), was there. He would tell me what was going on. As I was getting into the car, I heard Father say to Bob, "Don't bring him back until you think he is ready."
My mom was dying in a hospital. I went there for one last visit. She passed away early the next morning. When I returned to school a week later, Father simply pulled me aside and said, "If you feel the need to break down, go to your room to do so." At the time, I thought it was callous. Later, I realized he said this because (at least this was true in 1969) high school boys simply don't like to see other boys cry.
The man was often ahead of his time.
I stayed at Assumption the rest of my high school career. When it was time to pick a college, Father knew of a small school in Minnesota I had never heard of. He had a friend who was Dean of Admissions there. It had an up and coming Journalism department. To deal the deal, he sent me to Reno Bertoia, a History teacher at our school who had played baseball in Minnesota in 1961. (Want to win a bar bet? Ask somebody to name the Twins' original third baseman. Throw in the hint he homered off Whitey Ford in the first game in team history. The answer, of course, is Reno Bertoia.)
Mr. Bertoia told me some of the nicest people he had ever met were in Minnesota.
End of deal. I have basically lived in Minnesota ever since.
There is more I can and probably should say about how much Fr, Cullen did for me. I wasn't alone. Thousands of kids at Assumption were guided one way or the other by him.
We'll save more remembrances for another day.
I am grateful I was able to get back a few times to thank him in person. I am grateful he was able to know I acknowledged him in my book on the Twins ... and that he was told about it.
Which leads me to one last thought. The last time I saw Fr. Cullen I thanked him for all he did for me. He gave me a genuine smile in return, a firm handshake and said, "You're welcome." I will remember that sequence forever.
Do the same thing for someone who helped you along the way. They will appreciate it and you will cherish their look back at you.
Monday, July 12, 2010
At the Lake
When I was a wee (and, later, not so wee) lad, Mom used to take us for a week's vacation to Grand Bend, Ontario. It was a wonderful hamlet that had a population of 500 in the winter but 5,000 in the summer. For a week, we would stay in a cabin that looked out on Lake Huron. As I recall, we didn't actually DO much. We usually went over to Stratford for a Shakespearean play. We did a little fishing and golfing. We swam in Lake Huron. Our meals consisted of such things as a healthy breakfast of peanut butter crackers.
If we were feeling particularly ambitious, we would go into town.
Downtown Grand Bend only stretched three blocks or so. But it included an area that various games such as SkeeBall and the old bumper cars. I remember my brother Frank (I think brother John may have helped him) won 37 tickets at SkeeBall so he could get a hotplate that Mom used in the cabin.
I can't tell you how big the cabin was but I remember it had a big picture window. One night, I saw am amazing sight. The moon was shining but a storm was rolling across the lake. I can still see the vision of the rain coming in from the right while the moon shone brightly on the left. It was a visual that, even if we had captured it on video (or film in those days) would not have done it justice. It was a sight meant for eyes only.
I mention all this because my wife and I are at a cabin on Lake Winnibigosh in the metropolis of Bena, MN this week. Bena's population is listed as 110. I think that includes the folks who work here, at the general store down the road and perhaps a few dogs I have seen around.
Although it is only a four-hour ride from St. Paul, you feel as is you are million miles away. As a result, the pace of life is ... well ... different. You get up when you want to and go to bed at whatever time seems right. Boy, do you really sleep well, though - even the other night when a rainstorm swept through here. You shave if you feel like it. (Some things have changed at the lake. For example, they now have satellite TV so you can keep up with the world.As this missive shows, Wi-Fi exists ... even in the woods of Bena.)
You grill anything you can. You sit on picnic tables and watch the lake. You play card games. You go out in a boat and fish. You read books. You simply stare at the lake in wonderment. This morning, I am going golfing with the son of an old family friend and two people I met for the first time the other day.
It is such a peaceful feeling here. The pace is so much slower. The folks I am golfing with today are friends of our family friends. The two families have been going to lakes for (depending you talk to) anywhere from 22-24 years. The actual number doesn't matter. The feeling of calm for all of them, however, does.
It is, like the picture of that rainstorm years ago, something meant for the eyes, ears, nose and personal memory bank only.
I understand this type of lifestyle is, for most people, a temporary respite from the real world. To those who don't get to experience it, however, I say "Too Bad." Sometimes, simply moving slowly (or not at all) beats the hell out of racing to the next appointment to make the Deal Of The Century.
If we were feeling particularly ambitious, we would go into town.
Downtown Grand Bend only stretched three blocks or so. But it included an area that various games such as SkeeBall and the old bumper cars. I remember my brother Frank (I think brother John may have helped him) won 37 tickets at SkeeBall so he could get a hotplate that Mom used in the cabin.
I can't tell you how big the cabin was but I remember it had a big picture window. One night, I saw am amazing sight. The moon was shining but a storm was rolling across the lake. I can still see the vision of the rain coming in from the right while the moon shone brightly on the left. It was a visual that, even if we had captured it on video (or film in those days) would not have done it justice. It was a sight meant for eyes only.
I mention all this because my wife and I are at a cabin on Lake Winnibigosh in the metropolis of Bena, MN this week. Bena's population is listed as 110. I think that includes the folks who work here, at the general store down the road and perhaps a few dogs I have seen around.
Although it is only a four-hour ride from St. Paul, you feel as is you are million miles away. As a result, the pace of life is ... well ... different. You get up when you want to and go to bed at whatever time seems right. Boy, do you really sleep well, though - even the other night when a rainstorm swept through here. You shave if you feel like it. (Some things have changed at the lake. For example, they now have satellite TV so you can keep up with the world.As this missive shows, Wi-Fi exists ... even in the woods of Bena.)
You grill anything you can. You sit on picnic tables and watch the lake. You play card games. You go out in a boat and fish. You read books. You simply stare at the lake in wonderment. This morning, I am going golfing with the son of an old family friend and two people I met for the first time the other day.
It is such a peaceful feeling here. The pace is so much slower. The folks I am golfing with today are friends of our family friends. The two families have been going to lakes for (depending you talk to) anywhere from 22-24 years. The actual number doesn't matter. The feeling of calm for all of them, however, does.
It is, like the picture of that rainstorm years ago, something meant for the eyes, ears, nose and personal memory bank only.
I understand this type of lifestyle is, for most people, a temporary respite from the real world. To those who don't get to experience it, however, I say "Too Bad." Sometimes, simply moving slowly (or not at all) beats the hell out of racing to the next appointment to make the Deal Of The Century.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
A day to remember
Today is a national holiday. Oh, not here in the good ol' Aux Etats-Unis. I mean in my former stomping grounds.
It's Canada Day - their version of Independence Day. To my old Canadian comrades, have a good day, eh?
I always remember this day with fondness for another reason. In another life, I worked at a wonderful place called Columbus Boys' Camp. It was located in Orillia, a small hamlet about 100 miles north of Toronto better known as the birthplace of Gordon Lightfoot. I worked as a counselor there for three years before moving to the Senior Staff as Evening Entertainment Director.
I have said this to other people but I need to do it again: Although the most money I ever made there was $500, it was the best job I have ever had.
July 1 was always the start of the first session. You would get to camp a week or two in advance to get the place ready. We would put the dock in Lake Simcoe (amazing how cold the lake could be at that time of year.) Then you painted the cabins (if they needed them) and cleaned up everything. There would be a day or two of prep and getting to know your new co-workers. There was usually a night in town where you would discovered there were two places a fellow could get a drink. One was the local Chinese restaurant (you had to order some food to do it) and the other was a small bar down the street. They often had music there.
(For some reason, the only band I can remember is Jeremiah Peabody and His Funky Little Three-Piece Band. They had a blond chanteuse who was ... well ... hot. But I digress.)
Back to today, though. There was always an extra air of excitement and nervousness as the first group of campers came. (It was often said that the first group dictated how the summer would go. I have no idea if that proved out to be true. Sounded good, though.) You would stand there with new guys you barely knew, getting ready to greet kids who were, for the most part, cutting loose for the only vacation they would have all summer. The first group would arrive and it was like opening the doors to a Justin Bieber concert. Kids poured out from buses everywhere. Getting them to go sit under the big tree where the camp director (Leo Campbell and Don McLeod) would start to give them the drill for their 10 days there was difficult. The pent-up energy of the kids was exciting but nervewracking to watch.
Somehow, the kids would get shephered into their cabins and we were off and running. For whatever reason, I was assigned a lot of Papoose cabins. Most of the kids were seven or eight. They were squirrelly because they wanted to take off and investigate the whole camp in, say, 10 minutes. Getting them to put their stuff away, find a bunck bed to their liking and then listen to us counselors go through our routine was exhausting.
Dinner couldn't come fast enough. Later that first night, there would be another entire camp meeting for a Campfire. There was the usual sorts of entertainment and storytelling. July 1 in Orillia is often a bit brisk. There was something special about a fire set against the backdrop of Lake Simcoe on a chilly night. By the time we headed back, the lads were ready for sleep.
But there was one more task left for counselors and staff. Often, we had a late first night meeting (sometimes at what was left of the fire) to give first impressions of our new cabins. We would trade names of past campers we had been with for the benefit of others. Truth be told, we were probably more tired than the campers. But there was such an adrenalin rush that sleep was still impossible.
The next day, we were hit the ground running for the 10-day adventure.
I think of CBC often. Although it has been nearly 40 years since I was there, I remember the wonderful nights there. I remember sitting with other Americans listening to George McGovern's acceptance speech at the 1972 Dem convention on a transistor radio ... at 3 in the morning. We sat by the flag pole in the middle of the camp to get the best reception.
I remember a few kids' names here and there ... and some of the adventures we had with them. I remember fellow counselors and the great priests and novices that taught me so much about life.
But what I always will remember the most about CBC was an intangible - a feeling that the world could really be a peaceful, simple place at times. We were far enough away from civilization that all the nastiness that was out there really did seem to be in another world. I understand this type of Xanadu can't last. We only get one childhood per customer. On every July 1, however, it is nice to sit back and remember a time when about the biggest care in the world you really had was making sure the kids in your cabin know where City Hall was (you went there to pay your taxes).
It's Canada Day - their version of Independence Day. To my old Canadian comrades, have a good day, eh?
I always remember this day with fondness for another reason. In another life, I worked at a wonderful place called Columbus Boys' Camp. It was located in Orillia, a small hamlet about 100 miles north of Toronto better known as the birthplace of Gordon Lightfoot. I worked as a counselor there for three years before moving to the Senior Staff as Evening Entertainment Director.
I have said this to other people but I need to do it again: Although the most money I ever made there was $500, it was the best job I have ever had.
July 1 was always the start of the first session. You would get to camp a week or two in advance to get the place ready. We would put the dock in Lake Simcoe (amazing how cold the lake could be at that time of year.) Then you painted the cabins (if they needed them) and cleaned up everything. There would be a day or two of prep and getting to know your new co-workers. There was usually a night in town where you would discovered there were two places a fellow could get a drink. One was the local Chinese restaurant (you had to order some food to do it) and the other was a small bar down the street. They often had music there.
(For some reason, the only band I can remember is Jeremiah Peabody and His Funky Little Three-Piece Band. They had a blond chanteuse who was ... well ... hot. But I digress.)
Back to today, though. There was always an extra air of excitement and nervousness as the first group of campers came. (It was often said that the first group dictated how the summer would go. I have no idea if that proved out to be true. Sounded good, though.) You would stand there with new guys you barely knew, getting ready to greet kids who were, for the most part, cutting loose for the only vacation they would have all summer. The first group would arrive and it was like opening the doors to a Justin Bieber concert. Kids poured out from buses everywhere. Getting them to go sit under the big tree where the camp director (Leo Campbell and Don McLeod) would start to give them the drill for their 10 days there was difficult. The pent-up energy of the kids was exciting but nervewracking to watch.
Somehow, the kids would get shephered into their cabins and we were off and running. For whatever reason, I was assigned a lot of Papoose cabins. Most of the kids were seven or eight. They were squirrelly because they wanted to take off and investigate the whole camp in, say, 10 minutes. Getting them to put their stuff away, find a bunck bed to their liking and then listen to us counselors go through our routine was exhausting.
Dinner couldn't come fast enough. Later that first night, there would be another entire camp meeting for a Campfire. There was the usual sorts of entertainment and storytelling. July 1 in Orillia is often a bit brisk. There was something special about a fire set against the backdrop of Lake Simcoe on a chilly night. By the time we headed back, the lads were ready for sleep.
But there was one more task left for counselors and staff. Often, we had a late first night meeting (sometimes at what was left of the fire) to give first impressions of our new cabins. We would trade names of past campers we had been with for the benefit of others. Truth be told, we were probably more tired than the campers. But there was such an adrenalin rush that sleep was still impossible.
The next day, we were hit the ground running for the 10-day adventure.
I think of CBC often. Although it has been nearly 40 years since I was there, I remember the wonderful nights there. I remember sitting with other Americans listening to George McGovern's acceptance speech at the 1972 Dem convention on a transistor radio ... at 3 in the morning. We sat by the flag pole in the middle of the camp to get the best reception.
I remember a few kids' names here and there ... and some of the adventures we had with them. I remember fellow counselors and the great priests and novices that taught me so much about life.
But what I always will remember the most about CBC was an intangible - a feeling that the world could really be a peaceful, simple place at times. We were far enough away from civilization that all the nastiness that was out there really did seem to be in another world. I understand this type of Xanadu can't last. We only get one childhood per customer. On every July 1, however, it is nice to sit back and remember a time when about the biggest care in the world you really had was making sure the kids in your cabin know where City Hall was (you went there to pay your taxes).
Friday, June 18, 2010
Trying to understood the world of dogs
So the Happy Dog and I were taking a stroll this morning, After several days of rain, we had a gorgeous sunny morn. The Happy Dog went along at his usual pace - sometimes plodding, sometimes brisk. One of the fascinating things to watch when dogs are out for a walk is how they pick out places to do their business.
The Happy Dog has a few favorite trees and lawns he likes to visit. When we take a route we haven't traveled for a while, he seems to study areas before deciding which is worthy of a deposit.
The theory is that dogs like to pick spot where they discover a familiar smell. I am not positive of this but I saw The Happy Dog hesitate a couple of times this morning before firing. On one occasion, he seems ready to ... er ... unload when he suddenly changed his mind, and started walking a lot faster towards an inviting tree. I have no idea why he changed his mind and deemed this spot unattractive.
Later, we were walking along when The Happy Dog veered towards a bush, stuck his head into the middle of it and fired. He then had to shake his head free of branches when he came out.
Suffice it to say that when us humans so nature's call, it is not nearly such an adventure.
For years, us pet owners have tried to figure the odd world of cats. You would see them staring at an empty wall and wonder just what the hell they are looking at. I have now decided dogs are equally wacky in their own way.
On the other hand, maybe it is I who am a little nuts for considering these weighty issues.
The Happy Dog has a few favorite trees and lawns he likes to visit. When we take a route we haven't traveled for a while, he seems to study areas before deciding which is worthy of a deposit.
The theory is that dogs like to pick spot where they discover a familiar smell. I am not positive of this but I saw The Happy Dog hesitate a couple of times this morning before firing. On one occasion, he seems ready to ... er ... unload when he suddenly changed his mind, and started walking a lot faster towards an inviting tree. I have no idea why he changed his mind and deemed this spot unattractive.
Later, we were walking along when The Happy Dog veered towards a bush, stuck his head into the middle of it and fired. He then had to shake his head free of branches when he came out.
Suffice it to say that when us humans so nature's call, it is not nearly such an adventure.
For years, us pet owners have tried to figure the odd world of cats. You would see them staring at an empty wall and wonder just what the hell they are looking at. I have now decided dogs are equally wacky in their own way.
On the other hand, maybe it is I who am a little nuts for considering these weighty issues.
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