Me Write Pretty One Day

About 25 years ago when my late father entered semi-retirement a fellow retired clergy member advised him that if he ever intended to write his memoirs, sooner would be better than later. The reasoning went that once a person reached their ripe old age it would probably take a good long while to tell many of the stories that had accumulated. 

The sheer volume of work is not the only concern. I can attest to the fact that once you approach retirement age the recall of details can become an issue. Memories fade, dates become sketchy, and who actually said what can be difficult to recall. My dad’s friend had a suggestion for that too.

He advised that since they are the writer’s memories, from their point of view, and no one can really fact check that, go ahead and write what you remember, how you remember it.

I like that advice. I took it to heart.

On March 11^th, 2011 I began writing and posting on my “Who Knew?” blog.
With the blog I’ve taken the advice of my freshman composition instructor, the award-winning writer David Mura, by trying to use my own voice when writing.
I type up my tales, as closely as I can, to how I would say it if I were telling you the stories out loud. 

Grammar be damned!
I ain’t got time, nor the inclination, to clean up my writing to fit some prescribed format.
Grammar Nazis? Just move along, there’s nothing to see here.

I hope that as my work is being read the reader hears my voice reciting the words.
I think good storytellers have that ability.
And I’ve been fortunate enough to know some really good storytellers.
I’ve written about some of them. I intend to write about others.
Most of them are just regular folks who can spin a yarn.
Others are professional writers who do it in a more refined manner.

But to me both a well-turned phrase and a well told story are things of beauty to behold.

My favorite author, David Sedaris, is a master of the short essay. I’ve read all of his books and one of my favorites is “Me Talk Pretty One Day”. The book begins with David’s story about being pulled out of his class in elementary school in North Carolina to spend time with a speech therapist in an effort to eliminate his lisp. We still detect traces of the lisp however every October when we go to one of Minneapolis’ downtown theater to listen to him read stories, answer a few questions, and general crack wise, for us, and a few thousand of his other fans.

Sedaris is, in my estimation, a prodigious writer. He began keeping a journal in 1977 and has rarely missed entering something each day for the last 40 years. He’s also written 11 books of short stories mainly about his life, his family, and their quirky tales.

As I get older and take the time to reflect I realize that it’s the stories that matter.
When all is said and done the stories remain.
And sometimes the quirkiest ones are the best.

I had an opportunity recently to visit with an old friend who used to be a sportswriter for one of the Twin Cities’ daily papers. We rehashed old times and laughed about shared memories. At one point I asked him, now that he’d retired, why he hadn’t written a book or a blog, or contributed any pieces anywhere that I had noticed. He merely shook his head and said he wasn’t interested in writing anymore, and that he often found that books by retired sportswriters were mainly vanity projects done more for the writer’s benefit than the readers’.

My first thought was a disappointed feeling because I always liked to read his articles. I thought I probably would have enjoyed the book that I just found out will never be written.
Then I started to think about my writing.
Is it just a vanity project?
Do the readers get anything out of it?

I began writing this blog to share some stories I have found interesting over the years.
If nothing else it can be a legacy I leave. Stories you that survive me can discuss and laugh about at my memorial service. That’ll make that time less uncomfortable for my heirs.
If that makes it a vanity project, then I plead GUILTY.
But I’d also like to plead my case, as I’ve typically viewed my posts as tributes to the people, places, and events I’ve met, visited, and experienced along the way.

As for my readers (I’ve had almost 24 thousand page views over the years) I seem to get a few compliments and have even been told once that I was one of my reader’s favorite writers.
I gotta admit, that made my day.
More recently, one of my posts was, unbeknownst to me, passed on to a relative of the person who was the subject of that story. I’m told he liked it and found it informative since it contained stories he hadn’t heard.
Another day made.

So THANK YOU ALL for reading along.
I hope you’re getting something out of it.
I DO appreciate you indulging me.

I’ll keep my day job, but I’ll keep churning these things out, and hopefully I’ll write pretty one day. 

Success has many fathers, while failure is an orphan.

When asked about the Bay of Pigs disaster -the 1961 failed invasion of Cuba by United States forces – President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, in accepting responsibility for the failure, said,
“…Victory has 100 fathers and defeat is an orphan…”
JFK was quoting and translating, from Italian, the words of Count Galfazzo Ciano,
“La victoria trova cento padri, a nessuno vuole riconoscere l’insuccesso.”

   

I’m taking the liberty of tweaking their famous words and applying a different meaning.
I’m not accepting blame for anything that went wrong, although I do have thick skin, and typically do so when warranted.
Neither am I inflating my importance to any situation, though I do believe I have broad shoulders with which I am willing to carry more than my share of most loads.

No, this piece is an ode to a handful of people who gave birth to the boys we were, and developed us into the men we became.

I refer not to just to moms and dads but also the teachers, coaches, and mentors, that often intentionally and sometimes perhaps unwittingly played a part in getting those of us at the tail end of the Baby Boom generation, through our adolescence, into adulthood, to the point where we sit now, middle age.

As long as there have been scientists and scholars the debate has been waged; Nature vs. Nurture?
Are our personality and behavior shaped primarily by the gene pool that we emerged from (Nature)?
Or are they formed primarily by the sea of experiences we sail on (Nurture)?
It’s a difficult question to answer because in most cases the same people who spawned us are also those who raised us. Our parents taught us the basics and formed us, as well as they could, to be productive, contributing members of society.

At the University of Minnesota there have been renowned research projects known as, “The Minnesota Twins Family Studies”. From 1979 to 1999 Professor T.J. Bouchard began studying identical twins (since their genetic material matched 100%) that were being raised, for a variety of reasons, in different environments. Under Bouchard 137 pairs of twins (81 identical and 56 fraternal) were used as research subjects in 170 different studies. It was assumed that using twins would be the ideal way to study the impacts of nature versus nurture.

Bouchard and his researchers have interviewed twins from throughout the world about their interests, experiences, and medical histories. They found that identical twins reared apart have about the same chance of developing similarly as if they were raised together. Which would suggest that genetics (or Nature) plays a very strong part in the development of personal characteristics.

But differences between identical twins reared apart were revealed as well, meaning that there definitely is a nurture component at work as well.
But to what degree?
We may never know. 

All I really know for sure is that growing up in America, in Minnesota, in Bloomington, and coming of age in the late 1970’s was, to me, a privileged situation.

Oh sure we didn’t have the internet, but if we needed information we looked it up in a dictionary or encyclopedia. If we wanted to chat with friends we called them at their homes or rode our bike to their house to see them.

Mobile phones? Hell yeah. The handset from the phone mounted on the kitchen wall was as mobile as you could stretch the 12-foot coiled cord.

Fitness Apps? Nah, we had parks and schoolyards with baseball diamonds, hockey rinks, basketball courts, and fields for football and soccer, plus, other kids our age who were usually up for a game at the drop of a hat.

I was lucky enough to grow up in a parsonage right next to the church where my dad preached. Like in the movie, The Sandlot, there was a perpetual baseball game going in that churchyard most of the summer. You just had to walk out there and join in.
Once school started in the fall touch football became our thing.

When the snow flew my dad used to flood an ice rink in the backyard for us.
Mom placed carpet squares on the floor from our backdoor to my chair at the kitchen table allowing me to keep my skates on while eating dinner to keep the intermission between afterschool hockey and after dinner hockey to a minimum.
Thanks mom and dad!

Evidently there are proverbs from varying African cultures that can be roughly translated to,
“It takes a village to raise a child.”
I very much doubt that African proverbs were considered when my, and my friends’ dads volunteered to coach the Bloomington Athletic Association (BAA) teams we played on as kids. Nor when our moms helped carpool us to games and practices. All I know is that as kids we never lacked for adult guidance. Mentors who were willing to help were everywhere in our childhood. As we grew older, and went to high school, teachers, counselors, and coaches were available to mentor us as well.

Now that we’ve reached the autumn of our years I find it interesting to check in and see how things are progressing.
Some of the parents, coaches, and mentors are gone, but their influences live on.

One particular friend whose father coached many of my friends has now himself developed into possibly the most supportive and encouraging father for his children. His experience seems to have taught him the power and possibilities that emerge when encouragement and praise are used effectively.

Another friend whose parents worked blue-collar jobs providing well for he and his brothers, has worked hard for years at his white-collar job to become the ultimate super provider for his wife and kids. His parents and coaches obviously instilled in him a work ethic that would serve us all well.

And then there is another friend, whose father taught him the art of stickhandling without watching the puck and helped him develop the soft hands of a very talented hockey player, who now uses those hands to help the father perform routine daily tasks that many of us take for granted.  Selfless devotion to friends and family is not lost on either of them.

As for me you may have heard the stereotypes of preacher’s kids (PK’s).
Some believe that PK’s are more exposed to the tentpole events in life like births, marriages, and deaths, since their clergy parents are involved quite frequently with those events.
Oftentimes issues such as unemployment, marital discord, injustice, and poverty arise as concerns of congregation members that a Pastor may help counsel them through.
In many cases PK’s become hyper-aware of these issues partially due to their parents’ influence.
I believe those stereotypes fit me fairly well.

It’s often been said that the acorn doesn’t fall far from the oak.
I believe I can speak for my friends, as a group, by saying that we are grateful for the parents, teachers, coaches, and mentors, who shaped us and gave us our roots and our wings.

Indeed, far from being orphans, MANY fathers helped us become the men we are.

  

The World Breaks Everyone

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those it will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially.”
Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms


I’m Minnesotan by birth but a Golden Gopher by choice.  I’m a proud graduate and supporter of the University of Minnesota.

I’m steeped in the lore and I help to uphold the traditions.  I stand while singing the rouser, I use the term “Ski-U-Mah” as punctuation and I abhor all things Wisconsin Badger related 24/7/365.

Being a Gopher hockey fan has given me a separate set of characteristics. 
I’m a proud alumnus of the “NE” section.  

The cheerleaders used these signs to get each of 4 sections of the arena to shout
 one portion of MinNEsota. The NE section shouted it loudest and proudly lasted longest yelling,
"NE! NE! NE!" long after the other sections quit.

I have a new appreciation for The Battle Hymn of the Republic. 

The pep band plays The Battle Hymn of The Republic only when the team gathers at center ice after the second game of a series sweep by the Gophers at Mariucci Arena.

And Bulldogs from Duluth, especially during hockey season, are more a nuisance than an actual satellite campus of the one I graduated from and now work on.

Herb Brooks, the legendary Gopher hockey coach, to the best of my research and knowledge, never skated against the University of Minnesota Duluth (UMD) Bulldogs during his playing career from 1956 through 1959. The Bulldogs played an independent Division I schedule until the 1965-66 season. UMD joined the Western Collegiate Hockey Association (WCHA), the conference that the UofM Gophers were charter members of.  The two schools would then face off on a regular basis as conference rivals.

Blair Arch, Princeton University

On the East Coast the Ivy League schools are known for their excellent academics, beautiful campuses, and unique rules governing their athletic teams. Scholarships are not offered for either academics nor athletics. Financial aid is based on need only. Student-athletes truly are students first and athletes second.

While these schools are steeped in tradition there is one they have abolished. In the late 1960’s the Ivy League schools began admitting female students. Until then qualified, highly intelligent women, yearning for an Ivy-like experience, who would, in this day and age, be admitted to the Ivies only had the choice of applying to, “The Seven Sisters” (Barnard, Bryn Mawr, Mount Holyoke, Radcliffe, Smith, Vassar, and Wellesley).

Sisters schools were an interesting concept.
Kind of a consolation prize.
Lesser, but good enough for women.

Herb Brooks became the Gopher head coach before the 1972-73 hockey season. Primarily relying on the previous coach’s (Ken Yackel) recruits Herbie’s Gophers struggled the first year finishing with a 15-16-2 won/lost/tie record.
They improved to 22-11-6 in his second season.

In Herb’s third season the Gophers notched a 31-10-1 record.
They won the WCHA Tournament Championship, and the UofM’s first hockey NCAA National Championship.

Five of their wins that year came at the Duluth Bulldogs’ expense.
Herb allegedly preached to his team,
“HERE AT MINNESOTA WE DON’T LOSE TO THE SISTER SCHOOL!”
And they rarely did.

From the 1974-75 season through Herb’s last season (1978-79) behind the UofM bench the Gophers went 20-3-2 against the Bulldogs.

Herbie Brooks was a calculating, intimidating presence who schemed and planned his actions. Referring to Duluth as the “sister school” was, in my opinion, meant to deride UMD.
To break them.
And to inspire the Gophers. Surely Minnesota had to be far superior to their lesser “sister school” up north. 
Would Harvard ever lose to Radcliffe?
I don’t think so.

Although Minnesota and UMD both wear maroon and gold the similarities pretty much end there. Gophers don’t like the Bulldogs and the Bulldogs hate the Gophers. It’s a convenient arrangement somehow. It’s the way it’s meant to be.
A mutual hatred society if such a thing is possible.

Being a fan of Gopher hockey, I enjoyed helping my old friend, equipment manager, Harry Broadfoot, whenever he hosted WCHA and NCAA hockey tournaments. These events were typically staged off campus at either the Target Center in Minneapolis or at the St. Paul Civic Center.
Oftentimes the guy running equipment, laundry, and other supplies in a white cargo van between the arena and the campus equipment rooms was me.

I mention Harry as the host, but actually the hosts were the WHOLE University of Minnesota system, including the University of Minnesota Duluth, the rival, the Bulldogs, the sister school.

I first grudgingly met rival Minnesota Duluth Bulldog equipment manager Rick Menz in the locker room area of the St. Paul Civic Center during the 1989 WCHA Final Four tournament.
Working with him over that March weekend I surprisingly found Rick to be a pretty decent guy.
After winning the regular season championship that year my Gophers finished fourth out of the four teams at the tournament that weekend, but I took consolation in the fact that I’d somehow befriended a Bulldog.

Four weeks later we reconvened at the Civic Center when Harry and Rick were tabbed again to co-host another hockey tournament. This time it was the NCAA Frozen Four. The National Championship. And my Gophers were in the mix! As were Maine, Michigan State, and Harvard. Truth be told, I was also kind of excited to be able to renew acquaintances with my new friend from Duluth as well.

Minnesota convincingly beat the Maine Black Bears 7-4 to advance to the National Championship game. The Harvard Crimson needed overtime to edge the Michigan State 4-3 for the right to play the Gophers, for all the marbles, just a few miles from the Minnesota campus. The stage was set for a storybook finish.

The game turned out to be what now is referred to as an instant classic. A close, well fought, game that was tied at 3-3 at the end of regulation. At the 7:24 mark of sudden death overtime Gopher Randy Skarda rang what should have been the game winning shot off of the goal post behind the Harvard goalie and the game played on.

At the 5:51 mark, shortly after the echo from Skarda’s shot stopped reverberating throughout the raucous arena tragedy struck for the Gopher faithful when Harvard’s Ed Krayer scooped up a rebound and slid it past Gopher goalie Robb Stauber for the win and the National Title. The arena fell silent and just then it dawned on many of us Gopher hockey fans that this was the cruelest April Fool’s joke to ever be played on us. The storybook ending was not to be. It didn’t play out at all the way we had planned, not on April 1^st, 1989 anyway.

The thrill of victory...

I had been standing near the Zamboni entrance, next to my new friend Rick Menz when that game, that title chase, and those hopes ended. He reminded me that it was a pretty good run and that being right there, watching my team, playing in overtime, for the national title, was something I’d never forgot so I should savor it even though at that moment I was a broken fan. 

A few seconds later I followed Rick’s lead and headed back to the locker rooms, helped unlock the doors, and prepared for two teams to soon arrive to undress, unwind, pack their gear, and head home. Obviously, those chores would be easier to do for one team than the other, but we all did what we had to do and moved on.

...and the agony of defeat.

I worked a few other tournaments with Harry and Rick over the years and came to the conclusion that my former rival from Duluth was actually a really good guy. He even helped arrange tickets for Duluth Bulldog hockey games for me, my kids, their teammates, and some of their dads when we were in the Duluth area for youth hockey tournaments. More than once.

I heard through the grapevine that Rick retired from UMD in 2008 after working 29 years with Bulldog hockey. It was finally time for one of the truly nice guys to be able to enjoy the beauty that is northern Minnesota in retirement with his wife Susan, their two children, and 3 grandchildren.

Rick’s wife, Susan Elizabeth LeGarde-Menz, worked as an elementary school lunch lady in the Duluth area early in her career. She and Rick married in 1975. Fifteen years later an opportunity arose for Susan to work for St. Louis County so she took that job.

In October 2015 the 60-year-old Susan was looking forward to retiring within the next year and having more time to devote to her favorite hobbies; photography and cookie baking.
A grandson would be born soon so she was looking forward to that big event. Spending time with loved ones, especially your children’s kids, is, I believe, an extra special reward for a life well-lived.

On the afternoon of October 13^th Susan ventured out to the Twin Ponds park, camera in hand, to photograph the changing colors of the trees in her favorite area of Duluth. The autumn color show is often mentioned by many Minnesotans as one of the highlights of living in this cold and snowy region. Susan even had a favorite tree that she enjoyed photographing as it changed throughout the year.

It was while standing on a sidewalk, taking pictures of that tree, that Susan was struck and killed by a hit and run driver.

Justen Paul Linskie had been charged in 17 driving related cases since 2002, and convicted 7 times for driving while his license was revoked, suspended, or for simply not having a license. He’s also been convicted for drunk driving, drug possession, and receiving stolen property.

At the time of the fatal crash Linskie was supposed to be attending a court-ordered drug treatment session as mandated as part of an early release from his recent drug-related federal prison sentence.

Onlookers reported hearing Linskie say,
“You never saw me here!”
as he fled the scene on foot leaving both his fiancé’s mother’s car and Susan LeGarde Menz abandoned in Twin Ponds.

Three University of Minnesota Duluth students pulled Susan from the water, called for emergency responders, and attempted to revive her.
Linske fled into the nearby woods, failed to dial 911, hid from the police, and later that day, after being arrested, lied to the police by repeatedly changing his story while being questioned.

Rick Menz’s world changed that day. He described it as,
“A series of lasts and firsts. The last kiss. The last embrace. The first person at the hospital who couldn’t look me in the eye. The first act of kindness when the officer that brought me there hugged me. The first time I walked into that room and held her. The first time I had to tell her sister, Gail, that Susie was gone.”

Linskie’s case came to trial in November of 2016. It took the jury less than an hour to return a guilty verdict to the charge of criminal vehicular manslaughter.

Allowed to make a statement at the sentencing hearing Rick Menz offered,
“In a short statement to try to summarize your feelings and the feelings of your family in something this tragic is hard to do. But, you do the best you can and that's what we've been doing for the last 14 months. We're doing the best we can." 

On December 19^th, 2016, the judge sentenced Linskie to the maximum sentence of 88 months and $20,000 in restitution.

I believe the most important message revealed in this tragic tale was best uttered by my old rival, now longtime friend, a man broken and now forced to be stronger, on the day his was wife was senselessly killed,
“If there’s anything to learn from this, I hope people will realize that you can’t take anything in life for granted. You have to cherish every second.”

I try to remember this message everyday Rick. By sharing your story, I hope many more will as well.
Stay strong my friends.

Where have you gone Charlie Frenafratz?

I’ve come to know a lot of interesting characters in my travels.
One of the most interesting, however, is a guy I never met. I do miss him though now that he’s gone.

I arrived on the campus of the University of Minnesota as a freshman in the fall of 1978.
I was fortunate enough to have a student job with the Golden Gopher football team which began practice 5 weeks before the fall semester started.
Sure that made for a shortened summer break, but I was making a whole lot of new friends and finding my niche in this massive campus and community.

One of the nicer guys that I got to know was an older equipment guy by the name of Francis “Bud” Kessel. Buddy, as many people called him, stood about 5 feet 2 inches tall. Maybe that’s part of what drew us to each other as I was only a few inches taller than him.
I know I mainly liked Bud because of the interesting stories he told about the things he had seen and done in his life time.

Buddy was born in 1928 in the Bronx, New York. He spoke with a New York accent.
“Todd” was pronounced as “Tard”. People had good idears and some things were yuuuge rather than very large.

Being a kid in New York City back in the day sounded like a magical experience. Buddy and his pals used to hang around the stage doors of Carnegie Hall and the Broadway Theaters. They used to walk in with the performers and stage hands. What did they care if a handful of kids saw the show for free. It didn’t matter that much back then.

Bud never got to SEE a Frank Sinatra show. But when Ol’ Blue Eyes appeared at Carnegie Hall early in his career Buddy and his friends stowed away in the orchestra pit multiple times to just HEAR him perform with Tommy Dorsey’s band up on the stage.

Bud’s first teenage crush was on a young model and Broadway actress and dancer called Diane Belmont. Her real name, as we all came to know her later, was Lucille Ball. I love Lucy indeed.

The Bud I met wore big old glasses (like a lot of us did back then) and khaki work pants every day I ever knew him. He loved to laugh, and often nudged you with his forearm to make certain you were following the story he was telling.

As the equipment manager for Gopher hockey back then Bud needed to be poised and ready to fix anything that may break during practices and games. The task is made easier by teaching an eager student employee the finer points of the trade and letting them handle a lot of the grunt work. I was learning similar skills, as they applied to football, in my job at the other end of campus.
I worked Gopher football, but my passion was Gopher hockey.

  

The hockey Gophers played in the old Mariucci Arena where the locker rooms were located in the basement, one story below the ice level. Both teams trudged up and down old wooden steps for pregame, between periods, and after games.

By the time I met him a 50-year-old Buddy had seen and worked enough semi-pro, minor league, national team, Olympic, college and professional hockey games that he typically let his student employee handle things upstairs while Bud sat outside the locker room with Irv, the septuagenarian security guard, listening to the game on a radio and telling old stories. I’d bring a loaf of bread, some cold cuts and mustard, and we’d have a wonderful time until we heard the clatter of forty pairs of sharpened steel skate blades clomping down the steps signaling it was time for us to swing into action.

 I can still close my eyes and hear that clatter, smell that odor, and feel my heart beat faster, as it’s time to prop the door open, pass towels out to the players, and offer water and juice to any and all that need hydration, as if I were still an undergrad lucky enough to be in my Graceland, the inner sanctum of Gopher hockey, helping Bud with anything that needed doing.

And hearing Buddy’s great stories.

The same year that Bud was born the Graf Zeppelin began transatlantic service from Germany to New York. He told stories of he and his schoolboy friends running outside and looking up as these yuuuge airships cast massive shadows over the New York skyline. He recalled all too well watching the Hindenburg sailing over the city on its ill-fated journey to Lakehurst New Jersey as a nine-year-old kid on May 6^th, 1937. Most concluded after that day that hydrogen filled airships used for long distance travels perhaps was no longer a good idear. 

Bud got his start in the athletic equipment business as a kid. He was a bat boy for the New York Yankees and used to tell of the time that Babe Ruth waved him out to the on-deck circle to sit on his knee as the Sultan of Swat waited his turn while Lou Gehrig was at bat.
That was a far simpler time and legendary players did stuff like that back then.

Many of the stories that Bud laughed hardest at while he told them involved he and his traveling partner, Charlie Frenafratz. Charlie sounded like a ne’er do well with a golden heart.

The first time I heard of Charlie was when Bud saw a student employee who lacked focus and was easily distracted. The student reminded Bud of the time, riding in Charlie’s car, they stopped to fill up with gas. Service stations back then were all full-service, so that day the attendant put the nozzle into the gas tank opening and walked away to help other customers while Charlie’s tank filled.

You may recall that this story reminded Bud of people who lacked focus. Evidently Charlie Frenafratz was the poster child for that malady.  Before the employee could return to remove the nozzle and collect payment from him Charlie was on to his next task. Pulling away from the pump stretched and then snapped the hose with a spray, and then a steady stream of gasoline accompanied by a shower of sparks. 

 
A half block up the road the loud clunk, as the disembodied nozzle eventually fell to the pavement, finally caught Charlie’s attention. He pulled over, hopped out of his car, and assessed the situation. Continuing around the block to return to the scene of the crime Charlie pulled back into the gas station, parked, rolled down his window and yelled at the attendant,
“HEY! YOU FORGOT TO PUT MY GAS CAP BACK ON!”

The story always ended there. I’m not sure if the gas station owner chalked up the repair expense as part of the cost of doing business or if Charlie had to dig deeper in his pocket or not.  We’ll never know. But I’ll bet that back in the day, being that it was a simpler time, attorneys didn’t get involved like they would today.

Bud was a big fan of fire departments, fire stations, and firefighting paraphernalia. He began collecting unique fire hose nozzles, badges, and insignia. At one point in time an unemployed Charlie Frenafratz was traveling with Buddy on one of his trips to Canada with a US National hockey team. Bud had pulled a few stings to have him added as an equipment assistant, so he could earn a few bucks and stay busy for a while.

Bud only asked Charlie to do two things on this trip;
1. Follow orders, and,
2. Keep his mouth shut.

The 10-day trip went pretty well for 9 days.
The team won more than they lost, Bud was able to trade game tickets for some antique brass fire hose nozzles and a few badges and pins, and Charlie had worked out pretty well as an assistant.

The tenth and final day, however, was another matter.
Facing the prospect of having to pass through customs on the US/Canadian border, and possessing some unusual firefighting items he hadn’t carried into Canada, Bud did what every self-respecting equipment guy would do; he buried them in an equipment trunk and just hoped that one was not randomly selected for inspection.

 
As the caravan of vehicles approached the border crossing there was a backup as vehicles were slow to pass through the check point. With each passing moment Charlie grew more agitated and vocal since he wanted to get home as soon as possible.
Bud reminded him to cool down and that his irate comments would only inflame the situation and could cause more delays since typically, when traveling with a team, the border agents took the equipment guy’s word for it that there was nothing to declare and they were waved right through.

Charlie either didn’t believe Bud, or perhaps he figured there would be no problem if he said a thing or two. 

So he did.

And then he said more.

And then a little more.

Next thing we know Bud and Charlie have been ordered to pull the equipment van to a holding area, unload it all, and start unlocking trunks and unzipping equipment bags.
The undeclared firefighting items were found, but no questions were asked.
Buddy believes the border agent didn’t really care what was in the van. He just wanted to inconvenience Charlie for having such a big mouth.

Now two hours behind schedule Bud and Charlie began repacking bags, reloading trunks, and piling everything back into the van.
I gotta believe that in this day and age of heightened security there would have been closer scrutiny of the van’s contents, more questions asked, and most likely confiscation of the firefighting items.
Needless to say Charlie was NOT a member of the traveling entourage when Bud was the equipment guy for the 1980 Miracle on Ice US Olympic hockey team.

The final job of Buddy’s career was as the assistant equipment manager for Gopher football. He retired in 1988 and I replaced him in that position. Months after taking that job I found out from a few ballplayers that many of them thought for sure I was Bud’s son. They probably assumed as much since Bud and I had the same stature. With all due respect to my actual dad I’m honored nonetheless to be linked with Bud even if mistakenly as his son.

Even in his retirement years I enjoyed getting together with Bud to grab a nice sandwich and to laugh about old times and even older friends.
I always loved hearing Bud’s stories about his old friend Charlie Frenafratz.
I never met Charlie however.
I’ve often suspected that Bud and Charlie were the same person and that Charlie was merely a fictitious scapegoat that Bud used to tell of the humorous things he himself had done, but didn’t want to admit to.

Bud passed away in June of 1998 at age 70. And with his passing the legend of Charlie Frenafratz died as well.

In the song, “Mrs. Robinson,” Paul Simon asks the question, 

“Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.”

Simon has stated that the line was a tribute to heroes of a long gone past and remembrance of simpler times.

Bud and Charlie are a couple of my heroes from more recent simpler times even though I only ever met one of ‘em.

The weather is here, wish you were great!

In 1960 the US Food and Drug Administration approved a drug named Enovid, the first oral contraceptive, or THE PILL as it was often called.

The US birthrates rapidly began to tumble thereafter.

By the time that the Baby Boom generation ended in 1964 class sizes in most US schools were shrinking dramatically. My classmates and I were one of the last really large groups to move through the Bloomington school system like a large rodent being swallowed by a snake.

I graduated in 1978 from Lincoln, one of the three high schools in town, with 608 of the best classmates a guy could ask for. Kennedy and Jefferson high schools graduated similar numbers that year too. 1,800 kids graduating in that one town, in one year, was pretty amazing.

Growing up in Bloomington Minnesota in the 1970’s was a wonderful experience. Having two cross-town rival schools was, as we found out later, kind of unusual, but for us it seemed normal since that was just the way it was.

I tried to make the best of it and actually made some pretty good friends from both of the other two schools. It helped that my part-time job bagging groceries was at a store located firmly in Jefferson territory and that a few Kennedy people worked there with a handful of us Lincoln Bears.

I fell in with a group of Jefferson kids that seemed like pretty regular folks except for the fact that they wore powder blue uniforms, stood for the Michigan fight song, and tried to learn in the anarchy that was their schools modular scheduling system. I skipped out of my school a few times and traveled across town to witness the Jefferson inmates running their asylum. NO THANKS!

There was one guy in that Jefferson group that I stayed in touch with far longer than the others.

He got involved with big time college athletics, like me.
He was a long-time assistant to his mentor, like me.
And, he was a bit of a wise-ass, like me.

Brian Dutcher graduated from Jefferson High School the same year I graduated from Lincoln. A long-time friend and classmate of mine recalls the time, back in the day that, “Dutch” approached a group of his classmates and said, to one of them,

“Hey I heard that everyone had a great time at your cabin last weekend. What happened? Didn’t you show?” Then the grin and irrepressible laugh.

Classic Dutch. Bump, set, spike. 

Dutch and I were undergrads together at the University of Minnesota. I was busy with my studies and working in the football equipment room. Dutch spent a lot of time at Williams Arena and the basketball office as his dad was the head coach of the Gopher men’s basketball team.

Despite running in different circles Dutch and I still did have a few adventures in college. We used to swap gear on occasion, and Dutch even taught me a big lesson on the changing economics of college athletics. You see, as Dutch explained it to me, his dad had 3 income streams.

His contract with the UofM to coach the basketball team,
the money he made from his summer youth basketball camps, and,
the money Nike paid him to endorse, and have his team wear, their shoes and apparel. 

Of those three the contract with the UofM brought in the least money, BUT, it made the other two possible.
Interesting. And quite lucrative.

Maybe I should have gone into coaching.
Dutch did. And he’s done well at it.

After getting his start as a graduate assistant coach at the University of Illinois, and then as an assistant coach at South Dakota State, Dutch returned to the Big Ten as an assistant and associate head coach at the University of Michigan.

My trips to Ann Arbor when Gopher football would take on the Wolverines at the Big House (Michigan Stadium) were typically highlighted by a few events. A chance to visit with my old friend and fellow equipment guy Bobby Bland. A Chicken Philly sandwich with chili cheese waffle fries (on full scholarship in exchange for a few Gopher t-shirts and ballcaps) from Mr. Spots for Friday lunch while setting up the visitors’ locker room. And of course, a gameday visit, and an awful lot of laughs, with Dutch on Saturday.

Not being a college basketball fan, I’ve always remembered Dutch for his sense of humor. Most remember him though for being the guy who assembled the Fab Five, Michigan’s heralded 1991 recruiting class, that many believe is the greatest class ever recruited in college basketball.

Chris Webber, Jalen Rose, Juwan Howard, Jimmy King, and Ray Jackson.
The black shoes, the Big Dance, and two National Championship games (as freshman and sophomores).

They were the big story in college basketball and college athletics overall.

Dutch was the most famous assistant coach in all the land.
No one imagined he’d hold that distinction for so long though.

In 1999 Dutch followed his head coach Steve Fisher to San Diego State where he became the Aztec’s head coach in waiting.
And waiting he did. For 18 years.

Steve Fisher finally retired after the 2016 season.
Dutch is now at the helm of San Diego State basketball.
He’s the guy in the corner office.
THE MAN.

I’m not sure what has happened to a lot of the other 1800 Bloomington high school grads from 1978. I just know that if I ever find myself in San Diego with a little time to spare you can bet that I’ll make my way to the Aztec hoops office to wish my old friend well, to compare notes on mutual friends, and most of all to share a few wise-ass remarks and an awful lot of laughs.