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. 

An Ode to Chubby Knuckles

October 27th, 2017 would have been my old friend and mentor Dick Mattson's (RIP) 74th birthday.
I'm using this occasion to post this piece that I wrote last spring on my blog site now.
I apologize for re-running it here, but back in the days when Matty and I worked together A LOT of the work we did was fairly repetitious, but never routine. I don't think Matts would mind a rerun.

Posting this now serves a few purposes for me.
It marks Matts' birthday,
It's now on my blog, and,
I can mention to any and all to take a minute to thank those that have helped you along the way.
Parents, teachers, colleagues and mentors.
Someone helped get you where you're at today.
Contact them and let them know that you appreciate the help they gave you.
Call, email, or write.

I wish it could be that simple for me to thank Matty again for all he did for me.

An Ode to Chubby Knuckles
I first shook this hand 40 years ago on a beautiful spring day just like today.

I gave up playing football in seventh grade when everyone else grew to regulation size but I lagged behind. I stayed connected to the sport though and became a student manager at Bloomington Lincoln High School. Our Head Coach, Stan “The Man” Skjei, unbeknownst to me, had played football at the UofM while Matts was cutting his teeth in the equipment room.

Coach Skjei asked me one day whether I was considering the UofM for college, and whether or not I wanted to continue working in the football equipment game. The answer was “Yes” on both counts.
He made a call and arranged my very first “job interview”. I drove to campus, parked the Pacer at the Bierman Building, asked the largest human being I’d ever seen (I believe it was former Gopher, at the time San Francisco 49er, Keith Fahnhorst, back on campus to workout) where I could find the equipment room. I looked in the screened window, knocked and was buzzed in.

Matts grabbed my hand to shake it, began talking a mile a minute, and showing me around the equipment room. I did catch a few points he was making along the way;
“Good enough for Stan Skjei means good enough for me!”
“August 18 we kick off three-a-days!”
“Buckle it up and start payin’ yer dues!”
After about 15 minutes I was headed home having just completed the easiest job interview known to man. Thanks Coach Skjei.

The rest, as they say, is history.

I worked for Matts for 5 years during my student stint under coaches Cal Stoll, and Joe Salem.
I came back later to work with Matts under coaches Gutekunst, Wacker, and Mason.

During my second stint we had a fairly irreverent student staff that liked to pull both Matty’s and my chains. During the season Wednesdays nights were facemask nights whereby we would change out the hardware that holds the masks to the helmets. Better to do so on Wednesday night in a warm dry equipment room than on a sideline, in a driving rain, inside “The Old Horse Shoe on the Banks of the Olentangy” in Columbus Ohio, on a Saturday afternoon, during a game. Invariably, about 45 minutes in to the chore, after we’d each changed 4 or 5 masks, someone would shout, over their shoulder,
“Matts? You still workin’ on that first one? You need a hand?”
The joke being that the old guy couldn’t keep up with the young bucks. He may not have been as nimble as the kids, but he’d already changed thousands of facemasks more over his career than any of us ever could.

On Thursdays before road games we were issued meal money per diems, per UofM policy, since we were traveling out of town and did not have access to any of the meals that were provided for the athletes and coaches. Matts distributed the meal money after the work for the day was done and the student help wanted to be on their way to study, party, or just hang out. I don’t know whether Matty hated to part with all of that cash, or whether he just was not good with money but it took him a while to distribute the funds. One anxious student manager or another asked that he, “Get those chubby knuckles moving!” and a new recurring laugh line was born.
Each and EVERY time Matts handled money some reference to chubby knuckles HAD to be made.
Equipment Room Law.
It can’t be changed.
It shouldn’t be changed.
We still laugh about it every time we assemble all these years later.

Today, with a few of those student employees in the room with us, I held those chubby knuckles in my hand, perhaps for the last time, as the final medical devices were removed from Matts’ earthly body. I was proud to be there, with his son Keith holding his other hand, to offer strength and provide support to Matts, Keith, and Mary Ellen, through the pain and heartache in whatever way I could.

When he is gone I’ll fondly remember those chubby knuckles and all the good times we’ve had together over 40 pretty remarkable years.

Please continue to remember the Mattsons in your prayers.

A Kid Named Gavin

                                          The Big House, Ann Arbor Michigan

There are few things more exciting than the electricity felt on the sideline of a massive football stadium during that interval between the team emerging from the tunnel and the actual kickoff to start the game.

The hype.
The preparation.
The anticipation.
The band, the cheerleaders, and the crowd.

I understand America’s obsession with football.
I have been steeped in it.
Nobody in the world LOVED football more than I did.

That’s right, LOVED.
Past tense.
Allow me to explain.

As a young kid I enjoyed watching Minnesota Vikings’ games and playing touch football in the neighborhood. When I got a little older I was able to join Bloomington Athletic Association (BAA) teams that played tackle football complete with helmets, shoulder pads, and uniforms, just like the colleges and pros.

I was good at it too.

 
Anchoring the offensive line, I played center and either right or left guard positions depending on where coach needed me. In sixth grade I was elected as a team captain.

In seventh grade when most of my classmates grew up, I lagged behind.
Football was far less fun on the short end of such a size disparity.
So I quit the team.
I still played touch football – since a throwing arm like mine would be a terrible thing to waste – watched the Vikings and listened to the Gophers on the radio.

A lot of my friends continued to play for the junior high teams.
When I got to high school I found out I could get re-involved by becoming a student manager.
So I did.
It was a lot of fun.

My high school coach was able to get me a student job with the U of M Gopher football team as an equipment manager. I worked in the football equipment room for five years as a student, and later returned to work ten more years as a full-time employee. 

I got a few small, up close, glimpses of the NFL version of the game while I worked with high school and big-time college football.

I also made some of the best, lonest lasting, friendships of my life.
I traveled places, saw sights, had experiences, and met people, all of them interesting in their own ways.





I also witnessed some of the darker sides of football too.

From the shortsighted, laser-like focus on the next series, the next practice, next week’s opponent.
To a promising runningback blowing out his knee while galloping down the practice field with no one near him.
The pressure to win is so immense that some coaches seem like Jekyl and Hyde between the time they sit in a family’s living room sweet talking their son as a recruit, compared to how they appear to view their players once they’re committed and on campus.

Injured players are sometimes treated as persona non grata if they are unable to play in next week’s game.  Hell, college practices don’t even slow down as medical personnel attend to injured, hurting, and often scared kids. Typically the team drill just gets flipped to go the other direction, someone new is plugged in to replace the injured player, and the rest of the team moves on without them.

I saw how some coach’s mind games, at the higher levels, can get into the players’ heads and really mess them up.
Am I good enough?
A little pain never killed anyone.
How do I get stronger? Bigger? Faster?

I knew I didn’t want my son to go through this physical and psychological meat grinder. Although I did work with a handful of coaches I thought had the proper prospective, they were in the minority.
My wife and I decided early on to try to convince Junior to play other safer and saner sports.

Along about fourth grade, however, my son asked to play football since his good friend Neal was playing. Despite our reservations we decided to let him play. At least one season to see how it went.

Another of their classmates, Gavin, was on the team too. His dad Fred, a gentle giant of a man, with an easy-going nature, was the head coach. In my view he was the best coach my son could ever have.

Coach Fred was low keyed, friendly, and extremely calm, while his offensive and defensive coordinators, fathers of players, tended to hysterics, living and dying with each block or tackle, each run or pass, and especially each win or loss.

You see, the ordinary dad coordinators seemed to have something to prove.
It mattered to them a little more.
Each game they helped coach seemed like their Super Bowl.
They had never played in a Super Bowl however.

Coach Fred had.

TWICE.

Fred McNeill was a first round pick, out of UCLA, in the 1974 NFL draft.
He played 12 seasons for the Minnesota Vikings. During the 1985 season he began coursework at William Mitchell Law School. After graduating at the top of his class, he passed the bar exam, joined a local law firm, and worked his way up to partnership.

But then it all changed.

Fred started forgetting things.
Names, places, dates.

In time things got worse.
His car keys, where he parked, where he was driving.

Then it became heartbreaking.
His wife Tia, son Fred Jr., and Gavin.

Unfortunately the McNeill family, and his career as an attorney, became casualties of Fred’s dementia.

In 2009, when Gavin was 22 years old, his dad was diagnosed with Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, or CTE, which is permanent brain damage believed to be the result of repeated concussive events.

At an age when I was trying to help my son find his way in the world, Gavin, as the dutiful child, was helping his father find his way through his daily routine.
All day.
Every day.

I sincerely hope that all young fathers could have a partner as smart as my wife to raise their children with. Hell, I gotta admit that in addition to raising our two kids she practically raised me as well.
One of the basic lessons she taught, that I struggled with, but finally learned is,
“IT’S NOT BABYSITTING IF THEY’RE YOUR KIDS! IT’S CALLED PARENTING.”

Which leads me to wonder what it’s called when a 20-something son is the primary care provider, over a prolonged period, for his middle-aged dad?
Feeding him, dressing him, just being there for him.

I say it’s heart-warming that Gavin was able to do this for his dad.
More so though, I think it’s heart-breaking that he had to.

In March of 2014 Fred was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease).  He died 20 months later at age 63, at which time the CTE diagnosis was confirmed by Dr. Bennet Omalu who could then look at postmortem tissue samples of Fred’s brain.

 

I often maintain that I’m a deep and complicated guy.  At the risk of sounding hypocritical, I’ll explain where I’m coming from regarding football now.

My deep connections and fondness for the Gophers will keep me watching college football forever.  Research on player safety and increased helmet technology typically came, in my day anyway, from college campuses.

 

I really have no use, however, for the NFL.  A league that makes billions of dollars a year but seems to do little to contribute to player safety nor equipment technology.  In fact we are now finding out that the NFL has denied, attempted to cover up, and or muddle the findings of the links between repeated blows to the head, concussions, and CTE. 
So, I no longer follow the NFL.

I seem to recall John Facenda, the baritone voice of NFL films, in my youth, glorifying the players as, “modern day gladiators”.  Back then that term was high praise for the players of the league, the owners, and the entire system that is now forcing ex-players like San Diego Charger Junior Seau, after years of pain and anguish, to take a self-inflicted shotgun blast to the chest in order that his brain could be examined for confirmation of CTE. 
Now the gladiator description seems to ring too close to true.

The league should do more. 
The players deserve better.
It’s the least they should do for kids like Gavin.

Almost Home

Hi, my name is Todd Stroessner. STROESSNER Matty. It’s STROESSNER.

In the 40 years I knew him I’m pretty sure Matts NEVER pronounced my last name correctly, but that’s okay, he got my first name correct EVERY time and that’s more than my friend, Justin (or is it Jason?) Barrick can say. Matts never got that one correct, but we both loved him for it just the same.

I worked for 5 years as a student manager for Matts and for 10 years I was Barney Rubble to his Fred Flintsone as a full-time equipment manager.

My Dad, was a UCC Minister. He did this eulogy thing fairly routinely in his line of work. I, on the other hand have never done this before. But when you get asked to get up and talk about your mentor and friend, ya gotta do it or as Matts’ old friend “SLAPSHOT” or, Herb Brooks (as the rest of us know him) said,
“If you don’t you’ll take it to your fracking grave. YOUR FRACKING GRAVE!.”
I don’t want that regret, so, with your help we’ll get through this thing together.
Sound like a deal?

In many locker rooms throughout the nation there are signs that say;
What you see here, and what you say here, when you leave here, it ALL stays here.
I’m told that the message is a hallmark of many Alcoholics Anonymous groups as well.
In talking with Keith and Mary Ellen about writing this eulogy we came to the unanimous opinion that with Matty’s passing the statute of limitations has expired, the gloves can come off, and some of the stories can be told.
In that vein, here we go.

I LOVE DICK MATTSON FOR MANY REASONS.

In 1977 my high school football coach, Stan Skjei, a Gopher alum and friend of Matts’ lined up a “job interview’ for me a spot as a student manager for Gopher football.
I first stepped into the Bierman equipment room and met this hurricane of a man that spoke rapid fire and seemed overjoyed to show me around the room.
“GOODENOUGHFORSTAN IS GOODENOUGHFORME!
WESTARTAUGUST18TH!
GETREADYTOSTRAPITUP AND STARTPAYIN’YERDUES!
15 minutes later I was out the door having successfully completed the world’s easiest job “interview”.
Thanks Coach Skjei.

The rest, as they say, is history.

I LOVE THAT MATTS DANCED TO HIS OWN UNIQUE SOUNDTRACK THROUGHOUT HIS LIFE

You know planning a funeral takes an awful lot of work and so many decisions need to be made.
Keith and Mary Ellen have done a great job putting together the events for yesterday and today.
They asked me to help with arranging the All Equipment Room pall bearer crew and making these remarks here.
They never asked me about any music though.
Music was a huge part of Matty’s life. In the equipment room we constantly had a radio on with music playing as opposed to talk radio.

The first day that I visited Matts on his last stay in the hospital he was watching the movie Dirty Dancing. He told me it was his favorite and that he watched it every time it came on. Fittingly he listened to the movie, cuddling grand-daughter Kate, as Keith and Mary Ellen watched it during his last hours in hospice. The final song he ever heard was the “The Time of My Life” from the final dance sequence of that movie.

Matts loved dancing to that song.
Matts truly had the time of his life over his 73 years.
If asked I’d have suggested ending this service with that song.

I’d also have inserted an intermission somewhere here today with, “Tighten Up” by Archie Bell and the Drells, of Houston Texas.
You know, the guys who can dance just as good as they walk?
I once laughed about that golden oldie in front of Matts and he laughed along, but let me know, that back in the day, if “Tighten Up” came on, and you got a partner out on the dance floor your night was pretty much made. I’d also play that one because EVERY time we heard it he’d push up his sleeves, hike up his pants, pop into his stance, and clap his hands, HE WAS READY TO DANCE. It just made him want to move. And he often did dance to it. In the equipment room, by himself, with a HUGE smile on his face.
Pure joy.

To begin this memorial, if asked, I would have played Aaron Copland’s, ‘Fanfare for the Common Man”.
It’s an American classic like Matty. It starts out very simple, like a kid from the small town of Benson Minnesota, but slowly the orchestration is added and it builds to something bigger and grander like a young Matts becoming the prince of the athletic department and the czar of the 4^th street tennis courts for his summer student job, eventually becoming the football equipment manager, and heading the whole equipment operation at the UofM.

I find the piece fitting also since Matts, like many equipment guys, was basically a common man. We don’t have the physical tools to do the notable things that make the 10:00 news or the sports pages, but we help OTHERS do those things. We stand very closely by as those things happen.
Unbeknownst to most is the tremendously uncommon effort it takes to seamlessly move a football team across country and have everything good to go week in and week out. Matts was involved with that from his freshman year in 1961 through the 1995 season. He then took care of other Gopher sports for 12 years. 23 conference and/or national championship rings later, Matts retired in January of 2008 with 3 championship watches thrown in for good measure. He truly did the uncommon things.

I LOVE DICK MATTSON FOR HIS PASSION

Most of you are probably aware that Matts was a recovering alcoholic. Before he found the cure I don’t recall Matts being particularly physically affectionate. Passionate, yes. Affectionate? No.

Doc Larson, the team doctor who admitted Matts to rehab for 30 days of spin dry let me know that he had worked with untold hundreds of addicts and that never, in his years of experience, had he met one that was as mentally ready for the cure as Matty was on the day in 1991 he checked into the TwinTowns facility.

Matts put in the work, completed the program and in addition to coming out dry Matts developed a new, more affectionate persona.
Approaching Matts most days back then now involved a BRO HUG and three pats on the back.
One of these.

(DEMONSTRATE MATTY HUG)

We started referring to them as MATTY HUGS.
In his honor, and as a modified version of Passing the Peace please Matty hug your neighbors now if you are so moved.

Thank you!

Many of you have seen the 1982 picture of Matts joining the end zone celebration from when Mike Hohensee scrambled to buy time and then tossed a pass into the end zone that the Ohio State defender tipped into the waiting hands of Gopher receiver Jay Carroll.
We hadn’t beaten the Buckeyes in a long while so Matts was understandably excited.
Joining the on-field celebration 30 yards from where he should have been stationed hinted at his passion. Rearing back and threatening to flatten the ref if he threw a flag to penalize the Gophers only confirmed his passion.
The freshman football manager who was just getting to know Matty looked at me and calmly asked,
“Will we be working for someone else tomorrow?”
Minnesota hung on for the win and Matts had a shot of brandy with Coach Salem in the equipment room after the game so it was all good.

Over the last few years, realizing that many of us are approaching the autumn of our years, we’ve been gathering at JD Hoyt’s where Pat Montague has annually hosted a nice Gopher football viewing party for Matts and many of us that have worked for, with, and around him.
Two years ago, the night before we gathered, while I rollerbladed on a path near my home, it occurred to me that perhaps we should do something at that gathering to remember those we’d lost since we’d all worked together. One of those departed was our old colleague Jack Johnson. He’d died of cancer and Coach Gary Wilson had dedicated a Cross Country meet to him, naming it Jack’s Run.
After deciding I wasn’t suited to lead a memorial at our gathering, within 10 seconds, I saw, on the trail, a lady wearing a “Jack’s Run” T-shirt. I’d never seen one before, and haven’t seen one since.
I took it as a sign that we better do something. So we did. We drank a toast in Hoyt’s private room as a memorial to our departed.
After doing so I related the story to Matts.
His jaw dropped, his spine stiffened, and he yelled, as only Matty could or would, in a public restaurant,
“HOLY SHI-ITE! IT’S A FRACKING SIGN FROM GOD!
I’ve tweaked the quote a bit, but you get the message.
I don’t know that a divine intervention has ever been described quite like Matts did just then.

I LOVE DICK MATTSON BECAUSE, WHY NOT?

Back in the day I used to find small doodles of arrows running all directions on random sheets of paper in the equipment room with the words, “WHY NOT” scrawled on each and every one of them.
Matts was always trying to solve problems.

While the idea of hiring a cargo plane to fly just the football equipment out to Colorado for our 1991 game in Boulder may have made sense on some levels, the cost would have been prohibitive I’m sure. Incidentally, doing just that without prior authorization, while working for the Philadelphia Eagles, is what got Matts’ and my successor in the Minnesota football equipment room fired from his NFL job.

Perhaps if we’d spent more time trying to solve for the issues raised by a 7:00 pm game time in San Diego, a city that doesn’t allow flights to depart between the hours of 11:30pm and 6:30am, then the football team may have gotten a chance to shower after the game, before boarding that plane home.

I’ve never checked the record books, but that may have been a first in NCAA Division One Football. Matts and I stayed late, packed the truck, and flew out the next morning only to hear, after arriving home, the tale of a very unpleasantly smelly team flight from San Diego to Minneapolis.

Matts even solved financial problems for people.
He co-signed for me on my wife’s engagement ring.
Sold me my first car, a 1971 Torino that was his wife’s car. It was in an accident and the chassis was crooked on the frame so it ran down the street at slight angle. It was the best $50 I’d spent up to that point in my life.
Hell, I was looking for a room to lease for the months of June, July, and August in 1981 just prior to my wedding. Matts convinced me that since my wife and I were paying for our own wedding it only made sense for me to live in a back corner of the Bierman Equipment room.
We had a couch, and a kitchenette back there and showers in the locker room.
What more could a guy need?
Saving that rent money was HUGE back then. It worked out well for us. Thanks again Matty…

Since Matts passed on last week I have heard from a former ballplayer that he is making inquiries to see if we can’t get the equipment room in the new Athletes’ Village named for Matts.
I believe those things take big dollars to accomplish these days.
Well, if it will take money to get that done I am willing to pay the 3 months’ rent owed, but only if earmarked for the Mattson Equipment Room. I’m fully prepared to cut a check, here and now, for the $180 that was the going summer room rent rate on campus back then. Athletic Director Mark Coyle? Let’s talk.

I LOVE DICK MATTSON FOR BEING SO OUTSPOKEN

Rumor has it that the Minnesota state bird, the common loon, has a call that, for reasons that cannot be scientifically explained, does not echo. I believe Matts may have shared this trait with the loon. Jeff Seifritz, who officed next to the Bierman equipment room swears that instead of echoing back into the equipment room Matts voice typically carried, CLEAR AS A BELL, through the cinder block walls and steel doors that divided their work spaces. Astounding, right?

Matts is the only guy I ever saw give Kent Hrbek advice on how to play baseball AFTER Herbie had won a World Series Ring. I saw him also give Tony Dungy ‘what for’ about football after Tony won one Super Bowl as a player, and another as a coach!
I only heard, second-hand, from Keith however, how, on a trip to Tennessee Matts advised Peyton Manning to retire from playing to start his coaching career. Peyton scored one more Super Bowl win as a QB later that year.

On numerous occasions Matts, frustrated with the lack of direction from administrators, would say, “I’m not afraid to make those decisions!” With little or no regard for the fact that those decisions were WA-A-AY above his paygrade, and that those in charge hadn’t solicited his input.

None of that mattered to the guy affectionately known as the Chairman of the Bierman Board of Regents, as Matty was called by many in the athletic department.
As long as anyone would listen, Matts would let you know how things oughta be done.
I truly believe that’s part of the reason Matts ran the only university equipment room anywhere in the nation with the door propped wide open during regular business hours despite there being millions of dollars of athletic gear contained within. He wanted everyone to come in, sit down, feel comfortable, and chat for a while. It never mattered if you were a freshman new to campus, a High Flyer like Jimmy Brunzell, or a former player bringing your family back for homecoming. If you were EVER a Gopher you were welcome in Matty’s equipment room.

Back in the day Harry Broadfoot used to oversee both Gopher men’s hockey AND Basketball. On those occasions when both teams were in town on the same day one of us would cover basketball for Harry. EXCEPT if hoops was playing Indiana when Bobby Knight was coaching. Then Matts would step in and handle things. Knight was very outspoken like Matty was. Some might even call him a bit of a jackass. But Matty loved him. One time, when a sportswriter, like our very own Tris Wykes, asked a question Knight didn’t like he replied,
“You know, EVERYONE learned to write when we were in first or second grade. Most of us, however, moved on to bigger and better things.”
I’ve always suspected that Matty may have planted the seed for that epic take down.

Talking to Ted Steichen, a vendor, and old friend, shortly after one of Matts’ rants I was told,
“I’ve been around the world once, attended two worlds fairs, and three rodeos, and I ain’t never seen anything like Dick Mattson.”
Such a classic description of Matty.

I LOVE DICK MATTSON FOR HIS TOUGHNESS

The archetypal story of toughness that Matts told involved a young Bobby Bell in the 1962 game against Purdue. Bell, a North Carolina native, was injured in the first half and was taken to the locker room where it was determined that he had broken ribs.
Just as the medical staff determined that Bell was done for the day the locker room door creaked open and in strode an older, very distinguished looking gentleman. Bell’s father had traveled from North Carolina for the game.
He was heard to say, “I didn’t travel this far to watch other men’s sons play football.”
Bell’s ribs were taped.
He played the second half.
The Gophers won. And the standard of toughness was raised to a WHOLE ‘NUTHER LEVEL.

Matts often said, “If you’re gonna stay up with the owls you damn well better soar with the eagles too.”
It was his tacit approval for his charges to go out on Friday night so long as they answered the bell and were good to go on Saturday morning. HANGOVER BE DAMNED!

Toughness was valued by Matts and those around him.
M Club President, George Adzick mentioned that Matts was a father figure that he and his Gopher football teammates never wanted to disappoint.
Chris Darkins referred to Matts as a “Gopher Gladiator” who inspired him to keep on fighting.
Old #90, Ed Hawthorne remembers Matts as the greatest of motivators on game days.

Matts’ yardstick was, “Every Saturday in the fall, when the ball is in the air, who can you count on to be there with you in the trenches?”
THAT is the standard of toughness Bobby Bell set all those years ago. It’s the standard Matts held for many of us gathered here today. And it’s a standard he exceeded for decades.

Heck, I even recall driving Matts home once after some athletic department function or another because he had drunk more than he intended to.
As Matts clutched a tree and puked on his own front lawn, a squad car containing two of Brooklyn Park’s finest slowed and stopped. The officers emerged and asked me what was going on.
Before I could answer, from behind me came another question,
“THEY GIVING YA HEAT, TODDY?” Matty croaked between wretches.
The cops and I laughed.
I explained that we just had about 20 feet more to go and he’d be safely home where his wife, Lu, could impose a sentence.
On that spring night, with no trenches in sight, and in no shape to do anything, Matts was ready to do battle with and for one of his own.
I gotta believe Bobbie Bell’s dad mighta been proud of that display of toughness.
Matts’ wife? Probably not so much.

I also recall sitting in a Waffle House, well after midnight, in rural Indiana, a Zubaz wearing Matts commenting in that drunken - I’m sure nobody else can hear it whisper - about the dental health of the nearly toothless locals in the next booth over.

I kind of thought we’d possibly have to fight our way out of that one… if only we could stop laughing.

I LOVE DICK MATTSON FOR HIS CONTRADICTIONS

As long as I knew him Matts was a man of big appetites. He didn’t just like to party. He wasn’t just the life of the party. Matts WAS the party. Period. Chapter. Verse.
But he later took the cure and repeatedly participated in AA’s step 12, actively spreading the word and helping others manage their addictions.

There was never an adage or cliché known to man that Matts couldn’t butcher, yet retired athletic department coworker, Kathy Anderson, mentioned that when they were both students Matts passed her one snowy winter afternoon while she waited for her bus with the observation, “There’s nothing more beautiful than snow slowly melting on a woman’s hair.”

He put on a tough exterior but loved watching “General Hospital” and rejoiced when Luke and Laura finally wed back in the early 80’s. Later he was riveted by television coverage of William and Kate’s actual royal wedding.

He taught me that you don’t necessarily need to respect the man in the corner office, in fact sometimes you shouldn’t, but you still had to respect the corner office.

I LOVE DICK MATTSON BECAUSE OF THE TOOLS HE TAUGHT ME TO USE

When I close my eyes and picture Matts 3 items come into view.
Go ahead, do it now and let’s compare.

(PAUSE A BEAT TO CLOSE EYES)

Here are the 3 things I see.
First, the shorts, he ALWAYS wore shorts.
We used to take pride in those football seasons where we could make it all the way through the schedule, into late November, and wear our shorts for EVERY game.
Shorts and a parka? Somehow Matts rocked that look.

Always tucked away in the pockets of those shorts were a Sharpie pen, and dangling from another pocket was a lanyard, or shoe lace, tethered to an almost comically large key ring containing more keys than a piano.

A quick show of hands, how many of you have been told, “THIS is why we can’t have nice things!”?
Matts with his ever present Sharpie, marking shirts, sweats, and any other athletic equipment, could instantly turn nice looking gear into a bit of an eyesore, was the reason WE couldn’t have nice things back in the day. Countless former Gopher athletes, having recently heard of Matts’ passing, have mentioned that they still have their gear with Matts’ scrawls on them. Every time they see it their memories of Matts and the U. makes them smile.

In addition to making our job in the equipment room easier when laundering, and returning gear to players and staff, Matts’ scrawled markings could be seen as a mark of authenticity, and membership. Surely NOBODY would buy a Minnesota Football t-shirt at Gold Country or the bookstore if it had numbers or a name scribbled unintelligibly on them with indelible ink.
Wearing one of those Matty masterpieces meant you belonged.
You were on the team.
You had something unique, issued to you by a man even more unique.

Of the probably 30 keys that Matty carried on that key ring everyday at work, I’d guess maybe 5 of them got used on a daily basis.
True to Matty’s axiom that it’s better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it, he carried ‘em all.
That mindset also led to the need for a larger truck to move Gopher Football to and from games. In 1986 Matts initiated and sealed the deal with Bill Diercks at Berger Transfer to provide a beautiful semi truck, two drivers, and all expenses, for no charge. The arrangement, as far as I know, the deal still stands so Paul Luxem has been driving a Gopher truck for the athletic department for 30 years now.

As a young student manager being issued keys by Matts was an outward sign of trust and shared responsibility. It meant that you’d paid some dues and you were a part of the team.
Internally it granted you a sense of independence, freedom, and accomplishment.
Keys represent an optimism that you can go anywhere and do anything.
And that self-confidence is part of what Matts provided for many of us.
Whether you’re a young kid from St. Louis Missouri, like John Blackshear, or a small town Minnesota kid like Toph Hiller, or even THIS “Snot-nosed West Suburban kid”, Matts showed us all that with a few keys in your hand, a bit of hard work, and a few friends by your side, remarkable things could be accomplished.

Incidentally, on each of those athletic department keys was inscribed the directive,
“DUPLICATION PROHIBITED”.
When it comes to Matts, they haven’t duplicated him before or since. And I doubt they ever will.

I LOVE DICK MATTSON FOR HIS MATTY TALKS
Matty talks are legendary in the athletic department.
Whether a person needed a kick in the ass, or an encouraging word, Matts often was the one doing that talking.

Most of the time I missed the first few words of his soliloquies since the roar of 120 football players would go up as soon as they heard,
“LISTEN UP MEN! I’M ONLY GOING TO SAY THIS ONCE!”
“MATT-AY!” (From pall bearers and players in attendance)
See? It still happens.
Amazing isn’t it?

I’m sure most of you have seen those Little Free Libraries in people’s yards.
Have you ever taken a book out of one?
I finally did recently.
The book I grabbed was titled, “I’m Proud of You; My Friendship with Fred Rogers”.
A Texas newspaper writer, Tim Madigan, did a story on, and became fast friends with, Fred “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” Rodgers.
No one will confuse Mr. Rodgers for Matty nor the other way around.
But the book explores how these two friends met, supported each other, and helped each other grow.
It might be some sort of sign that I found this book in Matts’ final days.
The book mentions that in South Africa there is a word, UBUNTU, which means,
“I AM BECAUSE WE ARE. My identity is such that it includes you. I would be a very different person without you.”

I think each and everyone one of us, as well as countless others are different because of the time we spent with Matts. Whether you’re an engineer in Hastings like Tony Horton, a salesman in outstate Minnesota like Brett Bresnahan, or a fantastic father, raising a family on the wrong side of the river in St.Paul, like Jim Kimlinger, time spent with Matts changed us all.

At times he showed us the proper way to do things, at times he was a good example of how NOT to do things, but either way, Matts taught so many of us things we carried far from campus and use everyday.

And he was teaching until the very end.
I concluded each of my visits the last week of Matts’ life with final farewells because we never knew which visit would be our last.

The scene of his final words spoken to me actually might have made younger versions of Matts and I laugh. We always seemed to laugh together at the most inappropriate moments. Two old guys, one no longer able to speak with much volume, and the other hard of hearing. I saw his lips moving and couldn’t make it out so I lowered my good ear nearer to his lips and heard him whisper,
“ALMOST HOME.”

I think we should take comfort from those words.
Where dying might seem hard and painful, home is warm and comforting.

I believe Matts’ body was worn out and he was ready to let go.
He knew that he’d done all he could raising Keith to become a fine young man, and that Mary Ellen was there to see that Kate and he would be taken care of in a warm and loving home. 

WHAT I LOVE MOST ABOUT DICK MATTSON IS THAT HE IS FINALLY HOME.

You’ve heard more than enough from me, so I’d like to share 2 final things.

I received a very nice letter through the pipeline after Matts passed. It was written by a former occupant of the corner office.
I’d like share it here;

“The world is a sadder place but Matts has met his last head coach, who will be a lot easier to train than the previous 50 or more.

To Keith, Mary Ellen, and Kate, our deepest sympathy, but I know you all were his greatest joy through this difficult struggle.

To those of you who were blessed to be around him in the years since I left, the void will be filled with wonderful memories. A lifetime full.

The word “GREAT” is thrown around a lot.
In athletics, talent seems to be the common denominator.
But to me the truly great ones all have one thing in common.
They made their team and teammates (family, co-workers, and friends) better.
Dick Mattson was a GREAT ONE.

God you should listen to him, but be careful of the road trips!
With sympathy and love to all,
Leah and John Gutekunst

And lastly, I’ll end this with Matts’ own final words from his M Club Hall of Fame induction last October,

“I don’t know what to say to ya, but God Bless All of Ya!” 

“Great moments are born from great opportunity.”

I’ve written a great number of things over my years at the UofM.
I bluffed my way through a Moby Dick essay (at least I HAD read the Cliff’s Notes version) in an American Studies classroom.
I composed a few test questions in the equipment room for a class I guest lectured at years ago.
I helped write the mission statement for the athletic department in a conference room at the Bierman Building back when stuff like that was in vogue.

Today I write something far more important in the U hospital, bedside in the ICU, on my phone.

A man who has done so much for me over the years lies stricken and the only thing I can do is spend some time here, recount the memories with him, and try, in some way to say thanks, as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

So here goes.

Matts,
One of your old partners in crime, Herb Brooks famously said,

“Great moments are born from great opportunity.”

Legend has it that back in the day the two of you liked to tear it up well into the evening.
As the story goes it is a good thing that the wives, Lu Mattson and Patti Brooks, never got together to compare notes because Herb used to blame Matts and Matts used to scapegoat Herb, and allegedly the wives were never the wiser. That’s probably what they wanted you to believe.

I mention Herb and that particular quote because when recalling the impact you’ve had on my life there are so many moments and opportunities that come rushing forth.

We’ve stood together and stared down the Wolverines from the visitor’s sideline at The Big House in Ann Arbor.
We’ve sloppily slouched together holding up a lamppost on Bourbon Street in New Orleans at an equipment managers convention.
We even worked the connections together and had the time of our lives with family and friends in a Metrodome suite when Mick, Keef, Charlie, Ronnie, and Bill, were in town for the Rolling Stones' Steel Wheels tour.

All of those moments, and so many more, happened only because you let me into the equipment room, tucked me under your wing, and took me along for the ride.

Over the years we’ve shared wins, loses, elation, and heartbreak, with thousands of student athletes, coaches, and staff.

We’ve met some characters along the way, and if you ask around you’ll undoubtedly hear that we’ve BEEN characters along the way too.

We set up locker rooms, moved teams across the country and done tons (yes, literally tons) of laundry.
We’ve done the crappiest of chores that made up the worst job that anyone ever loved.

In the time we’ve known each other we’ve both married, had kids, and grandkids.
We’ve come to the conclusion that we’re better grandfathers than we have been husbands or fathers.
Not sure why it worked out that way, but it is what it is.

We’ve both loved and we’ve lost loved ones.
We’ve laughed and cried together.

We’ve grown a lot and matured a little.
We’ve drifted apart, came back together, and recovered.

And now what remains are the memories we created with all of those opportunities.

Perhaps the best memory of them all for me remains the bond of brotherhood, trust and love that has been proven with the football yardstick that you mentioned so often over the years;

“Every Saturday in the fall, when the ball is in the air, who can you count on to be there with you in the trenches?.

It’s been my honor to be in the trenches with ya Matty. I’ve honestly loved every minute of it.

FAIR WINDS AND A FOLLOWING SEA

Fair Winds and a Following Sea

Years ago I heard that there is nothing more useless in our world than yesterday’s newspaper.
Few revisit a newspaper after a more recent one is delivered.  You can hardly recycle an old newspaper fast enough. 
Last week I found something that may be even more useless; an undelivered eulogy.

My brother-in-law, Bill Johnston passed away unexpectantly on Valentine’s Day.    Because he served in the US Navy Bill was interred last Thursday at Fort Snelling National Cemetery with an honor guard, 3 volleys of rifle shots, Taps, and the presentation of the Flag and shell casings to the next of kin.

Honoring his wishes his Navy Reserve friends threw him a party at a local VFW last Tuesday evening.  Bill would have loved it.  It was low key, casual, and it combined both his actual and his Navy families in a location he had frequented over the years.
 
As the evening wound down a microphone came out and people began sharing their memories of Bill.  I had a great story to tell.  But was it appropriate?  I thought maybe not, so I remained mum.

I find as I grow older that more and more I regret things I didn’t do rather than things I did.
Not speaking at Bill’s party will be added to the list of regrets as I have heard from a few people there that night that they were surprised I didn’t get up and talk.
I should have done it for my wife (Bill’s Sister).
I should have done it for Bill’s family and friends.
Most of all I should have done it for Bill.

In an attempt to rectify that error here are the comments I wanted to make.

“I know many of you here tonight, others of us have yet to meet.
Allow me to introduce myself.  I am Todd Stroessner.  Bill and I haven’t really had any profound effects on each others lives.  Fate just threw us together when I fell in love with and married his baby sister, Liz.

If you’ll permit me I have three vivid memories of Bill I’d like to share.

I’m sure most of you know that when you marry into a family their cares and concerns also become your own. 
You laugh together through the joyous occasions.
You lean on each other and cry together in sorrow.
AND, if you’re lucky, like Bill and I were, you can do both at once.

I hope you are not offended by this story.  Bill and I share an unusual bond forged in a very unique situation. 
Shortly after Liz and I married her Aunt Margie passed away.
Bill and I had never been pall bearers before.  For some reason, unknown to us, Bill and I were stationed on either side of the casket in the front position – maybe that’s where the new guys always go – who knows?  Dick Olson, Mark Hutchinson and Rudy Poppe, all brothers-in-law were also pall bearers, but farther back on the casket.  I don’t recall who the sixth man was.
As the funeral ended at the Catholic church in Shakopee it was time to perform our first duty; carrying the casket from the church to the hearse. 
I mention that the church was in Shakopee because it was fitting since Shakopee is the home of Valley Fair with its roller coasters and other thrill rides.   As we emerged from the worship area and proceeded through the narthex to the front door we realized the steps to street level were so incredibly steep that Bill and I both had the familiar sensation of reaching the top of the first climb of a roller coaster.  We could hardly see where we were descending to. 
Tentatively we walked the first step, no problems.
At the second step we felt the weight slightly shift toward us.
The third step…
Ah yes, the third step.

Quick show of hands; how many people here tonight were children once?
Go ahead, raise your hands.
Now, keep your hands up if, as a child you ever were out with your friends and things kind of innocently got out of hand.
Maybe a baseball went through a neighbor’s window.
Or a full gallon of paint spilled on the garage floor.
Or maybe someone ran the old style electric lawnmower over the cord that powered it.
Remember the expression you all made at that very instant?
I think now a days when that happens some say, ‘The shit just got real!’

Well, on the third step Bill and I gave each other that look and the shit definitely got real when we felt Aunt Margie slide forward headfirst and THUD against the front of the casket.

Later, in the church basement, over potato salad, little turkey sandwiches, and Jell-O with shredded carrots, we compared notes.  Should we have tried to shake her back once we reached level ground?  Would that have looked too weird?  Should we have mentioned it to the undertaker?  We didn’t know, we were the new guys and being in front we were the only ones who must have felt it since none of the others mentioned it.

Bill and I laughed about it that day and any other time we spoke of it. 
I’m hoping that Bill remembers that we decided that if Margie made it to her just reward and had a permanent stiff neck we both were going to plead ignorance.  We were the new guys and didn’t know any better. 
Don’t throw me under the bus Bill, that’s our story and we’re sticking to it.

Fast forward to last Spring.  Jack Daniel’s was running ads that stated that Frank Sinatra liked Jack Daniel's so much that his standing order, every night on stage was 3 rocks 2 fingers, and a splash of water.  He was even buried with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.  Of course Frank was THE MAN, so I had to pose the question to all of my Facebook friends,
‘If Frank is buried with Jack Daniel’s, what do you want to be buried with?’
The first response was a no-brainer.
It was Bill and he said Crown Royal.
The next time I saw Bill we discussed it.  I told him if he wanted, upon his passing, we could toast him with Crown Royal like we did with Courvoisier for his mom Gramma Ole.  He said he’d like that but only if we used the maritime toast, ‘Fair winds and a following sea.’
Bill explained that the toast bids sailors ideal conditions for their journeys. 
It sounded good to me so I told him to consider it done.
After visiting Bill in the hospital recently I finally Googled it and found the full lyrics to the song, 'Fair Winds and a Following Sea' by Tom Lewis.  The toast became even more appropriate when I heard the song.  With your permission I’d like to attempt to read it now.  You surely don't want me to sing it.

‘May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind ever be at your back,
May you find old friends waiting to greet you, there on the outside track.
We're gathered together old times to remember, 'tis but for ourselves we would grieve,
So we'll sing you a chorus and bid you farewell - fair winds and a following sea.

We'll sing of 'The Leaf' and 'The Parting Glass', we'll raise up our voices in song,
No sadness today for the one who has passed, celebrate with a voice glad and strong.
A catch in the throat, a tear in the eye, but no funeral dirge will this be,
We'll roar 'Auld Lang Syne' as a victory song - fair winds and a following sea.
And those of us left here will miss a true friend, who shared with us good times and bad,
Raising a glass to your memory we'll say: “We've known you – why should we be sad?”
We honour a life that was lived to the full, we honour a spirit, now free.
You'll long be remembered, whenever we say: “Fair winds and a following sea!”
You'll long be remembered, whenever we say: “Fair winds and a following sea!”'

The third and final memory I’d like to share about Bill occurred just recently.
Bill cherished buying the birthday or Christmas gift that kids loved but parents hated.
I fancy myself an excellent grandfather, but sometimes a great uncle can trump that.  This past Christmas at Sharon and Dick’s house Bill had bought the twins a couple of flashlights that blinked and made noises.  I didn’t notice that my granddaughter Ayla LOVED those flashlights. 
I hear she kept playing with them all afternoon. 
I didn’t notice, but Bill did.
Ayla turned a year old on January 2^nd and sure enough Bill had another one of those flashlights wrapped and ready to go for her for her big day.
It wasn’t until Bill was stricken and in the hospital that we found out Bill had to go to three different Menard’s stores to find the exact same flashlight that Ayla loved so much.
I didn’t even know there were three Menard’s stores in the Twin Cities, but Bill did. 
And he made the effort just to make a little one year old girl happy.
Bill was a great uncle as well as a great-uncle.

Until we meet again fair winds and a following sea Bill Johnston!”