Category: Bob’s Blog

After the publication of “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” more than two years ago (has it really been that long?) I came to the realization that I’d basically just put a huge chunk of my past and my life on public display. Not all of it, but a lot. As you probably know, the original manuscript was so long it would have resembled the New York City phone book once it was published, so a lot of bits and stories ended up on the virtual editing room floor. And, having been a child of the 50s who went to college as a baseball player in the 70s, some of the more raucous stories were not suitable for family viewing. It was the 70s. And then the 80s. It’s just how it was.

But, even through all that, there are some things that never made it in the book. I mean, I couldn’t have written my entire life-story chronologically without spending another lifetime doing it. So today, another Thursday when I had no real material for this blog, it occurred to me that I could probably come up with a number of things that aren’t in the book, haven’t been written about, and therefore represent just a few little things about me you don’t know. Some of them are pretty enlightening, in a sort of “looking back I can see my future in that moment” sort of way.

So here we go, and they are not necessarily going to be in any sort of order.

The Marketing Guy Within

My senior season on the SIUE baseball team marked the end of an era for me, but it also foretold what was to come. In my spare time, I got to work setting up sponsorships of various home games or home stands with local businesses. I just wanted to do it. There was no compensation and no one asked me. In the end, I got the regional McDonald’s office to provide coupons for free fries with the purchase of any burger. Every fan got one when we played a Saturday afternoon game at our home field. The guy from McDonald’s actually called me the next week to thank me. They sold a lot of Big Macs to go with those fries.

I also did a deal with Spanky’s, one of our favorite bars in Edwardsville, to give away coupons for discounted glasses of beer. There were a few other such promotions I can’t remember now, but the biggest one was a huge coup. I got the number one FM station in St. Louis to sponsor our final home game of the season. KSHE 95 was by far the most popular rock music station in the entire St. Louis metro area, playing album-oriented rock. Everyone our age listened to K-SHE (always referred to as “Kay-she”). The agreement included having DJs come out to do a live remote during the game, and the station would publicize it for two weeks ahead of time, plus lots of goodies would be given away at the game. The people at K-SHE thought 4,000 people might show up. We usually drew about 400. And then it rained. The game never happened. That was a microcosm of our senior season. Nothing went right.

I think my main motivation was to raise the awareness of the baseball team on campus. Our ballpark was separated from the main campus by a few miles. You couldn’t walk from class to the game. You had to WANT to go to a game, and that meant usually only families and girlfriends made the drive. I put posters up all over campus for each promotion, and we did increase our attendance. The K-SHE thing would’ve blown the roof off, but you can’t control the weather. All of that, though, sounds an awful lot like the indoor soccer GM I later became.

My Only Play

In my entire life, I was only ever in one stage performance. It was in seventh grade at Mary Queen of Peace. The play was “A Christmas Carol” and since I never lacked confidence I was just sure I’d have a starring role. If not Scrooge himself, then at least Bob Cratchit. Instead, I was cast as Bob Cratchit’s son. I had one line. On the day of the performance, during my epic scene, my mind wandered (imagine that!) and I missed my cue. My acting career was very short.

The Book That Never Was – Part One

Somewhere in the mid-90s, I was in a groove reading murder mysteries. I decided, in my normal plucky “let’s just do it” way, to try to write one myself, and drag racing would be central to the plot. The working title was “Murder In Five Seconds” and the short version of the plot was that a famous World Champion Funny Car driver would have his car run off the end of the track and he’d be found dead within it. But the crash didn’t kill him, and it wasn’t natural causes. Someone had found a way to make him die as soon as he hit the throttle. It was murder! I didn’t use any real names, but they were all based on real NHRA characters. Any big fan could have connected those dots.

I wrote the first chapter and thought it was pretty good. And then I thought, “OK, how do I string this whole complicated plot together?” I realized murder mystery writers are geniuses. It’s REALLY hard work, and it was way over my head. I gave up trying. I think there’s a copy of that first chapter in print around here somewhere, but I have no clue where. We’ve moved five times since then, and those still-packed boxes mock me with whatever might be inside them. One of these days…

The Book That Never Was – Part Two

This one really was a portent of what was to come. In 2001, I decided to write a daily diary of my life for the full year, focused mainly on the NHRA stuff, but also my personal life. And I managed to do it. It was about three inches thick when printed out. It just so happened to be an eventful year, and the material was pretty rich. The guys I showed it to, on the crew, all loved it. So, I thought “Well, if this is going to be a book I better show it to some editors pretty quick, before it’s all old news.” The first two people I shared it with, who would have a good understanding of what the public might want to read, dismissed it immediately. The overall response was “Who would want to read about you?” I put my tail between my legs and put it away.

Four years later, the blog began. And the initial thoughts of a few people in charge had to do with that same “Who would want to read about you?” question. I’ll admit, the initial failure of the 2001 diary still hung around my neck. I, too, wondered who the hell would want to read about me. But I plowed forward (get it?) and went for it. Here we are 14 years later.

The Blog Almost Ended Way Early

Here’s something you don’t know, for sure. At one point, in that first year of the blog or maybe just a little after a year, an NHRA representative came to see my in my office, in the lounge of the CSK hospitality transporter. He had a stern look on his face. To paraphrase his statement, it went something like “You write the most popular blog on our site, but so little of it promotes the sport. We want you to get rid of the cats, the Pond Cam thing, and all the other nonsense. You’re supposed to promote the sport.” I took a deep breath and dug in my heels. I said “If it’s the most popular blog on the site, that should tell you what people want to read. And, as it grows its drawing new people to your site. That’s promoting the sport. If you can’t let me write it like this, that’s fine. I’ll quit writing it altogether.” History tells you who won that debate.

It’s not hard to imagine that one or two of the drivers might have complained about the nonsense I wrote about and the number of readers I had, although I don’t know that for a fact. In effect, it was a little unfair for them. I was a writer. I could write about the cats and make it entertaining just as well as I could write about the last race and make it just as fun. A few of the drivers that took writing the blogs seriously were really good at it. Jack Beckman, for one, and he and I used to talk about style in those early days. As I always put it, “These blogs really aren’t supposed to be about how you did at the last race, or what your elapsed times were. That’s old news and all over the internet. It should be about your life. Let the readers see you at home or out to dinner.” Jack did a great job with it. He got it, but I think my material and my place on the pecking order (a PR guy, for crying out loud) irritated a few others. At least I think that was the case. I’m not paranoid. I’m NOT paranoid!

That Home Run Against Team USA 

I’ve extensively documented the big upset win the Sauget Wizards pulled off over the USA National Team, here. No need to rehash that again. But, did you know I probably shouldn’t have started that game? I’d begun the season in a horrible slump, pretty much unlearning all the great stuff Coach Bob Hughes had instilled in me. That’s kind of how slumps are. They’re mostly mental. I’d get in a rut of not only swinging at the first pitch nearly every at-bat, but doing so no matter how bad a pitch it was. So then you think, “OK, I’ll take the first pitch next time,” and it goes right down the middle. Two pitches later, you’re trudging back to the dugout with another K. It’s really mentally awful. It seems like you have an 0-2 count on you when you step in the box.

That’s how I’d started that season, and I probably wasn’t hitting .250 when we got to Millington and the USA Team’s stadium. But… I was the guy who arranged for the game to be played. I think Coach Hughes had some loyalty and appreciation in his head when he penciled me into the starting line up batting 7th.

I clearly remember feeling a great deal of responsibility to Coach Hughes and the team. We’d be facing the best team, with the best pitching, we’d ever seen. I didn’t really know what it was going to look and feel like. I’d faced some flame throwers in the minors, but I was 30 years old by the time we played the USA game and hadn’t seen pitching like that in quite a while. I was as focused as I’ve ever been. It was really illuminating, actually. I found a level I didn’t know I had.

A few hours later my line for the night was: 3 plate appearances. 1 walk. 2 at-bats. 2 hits. 1 home run. 4 RBI. We won 6-5.

Those pitchers we faced that night, and many of the players in the field, would all be in the big leagues within a few years or less.

And by all rights, I shouldn’t have started if current performance, at the time, dictated who would play. That game caught me on fire. I hit rockets the rest of the season with the Wizards.

I Never Did Many Of Those “Normal” Things As A Kid

I had a charmed and wonderful life as a kid. You can’t ask for a better family or parents. I got to meet people and do things most other people can only dream of. But… I was never a Boy Scout, a crossing guard, or an altar boy, and I never “went away” to summer camp like a lot of my friends did. None of that. I just wanted to play baseball. Plus, the crossing guard thing was out because our folks sent us all to Mary Queen of Peace, in Webster Groves about 2.5 miles from home. To be a crossing guard, you needed to be able to walk or ride your bike home after you’d gotten all the kids safely across Lockwood Blvd. Same thing for the altar boy routine. I never really wanted to do it, and no one pushed me into it. As for the Boy Scout thing, I don’t know. My sisters were Brownies and then Girl Scouts, but when I was the age for Cub Scouts I just had no interest. Maybe my parents should have pushed harder, but they weren’t like that. It was up to us to decide what extracurricular stuff we wanted to do.

I did go to day camp for many summers, until I was 12. I liked that. I walked a few blocks to get there and back, and it ran from 9:00 am to 3:00 pm each day. And, we played baseball! Many of my best friends went away to a real summer camp out in the woods and in the country, just like in the movies. It was called Camp Zoe, and for a month after they’d get back I’d be regaled with stories of the campfires, the bunk beds, the canoes on the lakes, and the counselors. One year, I decided to do that. My mom somehow got me a spot, but a week before I was supposed to leave for a whole month, I got cold feet. I was way more comfortable walking up to Tillman School to go to day camp. And we played baseball there.

I Was David Clyde For A Night

When my dad was managing the Spokane Indians (the Triple-A team for the Texas Rangers) I spent the summer of 1973 out there with him. He had a great team, and some incredible future big league stars on the roster. Bill Madlock was one of those superstars. And he was a prankster.

So who is David Clyde? The Rangers had the number one pick in the entire 1973 draft, since they had finished dead last in MLB the year before. David Clyde was a consensus number one pick, coming out of high school. He was a terrific pitcher. Rangers’ owner Bob Short saw not only a great player, but a ticket-sales trigger as well. The Rangers drafted Clyde, signed him, and brought him straight to the big leagues just days after he’d graduated from high school. They originally planned to only keep him there for a couple of starts and then send him to the minors, but Short saw how the kid sold out the ballpark and he kept him there all summer. The overall feeling by baseball experts was this: Bob Short sold a lot of tickets, and he ruined the best prospect in baseball by having him in the big leagues too early.

So, out in Spokane that summer I was 17 years old. Too old to be a batboy like I’d been in Denver the two previous summers. In Spokane, I’d wear a uniform, take BP, shag fly balls, and then usually go hang out in the bullpen during the games. One night, later in the summer, a fan came down to the bullpen and Madlock was hanging out down there too. He must have been hurt at the time. When the fan asked for his autograph he signed the ball and said “You’ll want his autograph too,” while pointing at me. The kid asked who I was and Bill Madlock said, “That’s David Clyde! The number one draft pick this year. He just got here from the Texas Rangers.” And then “Mad Dog” winked at me. I shook the kid’s hand and signed the ball, making the autograph basically illegible. After another hour, I had to go hide in the dugout. A line of kids wanted David Clyde’s autograph.

So that’s it for the things you probably didn’t know. I’m sure there are 100 more, but at some point they’d get pretty mundane. Right?

Here on my other writing front, I hit a huge landmark yesterday. I finished the chapter that marks the end of the first part of the book, where my two main characters are growing up and living two vastly different lives. In the next chapter, which I may start right after I post this, they will meet. Then we move on to a whole new set of circumstances and tales of successes and failures.

Does that mean the book is half done? I don’t know. I never saw it that way. I had this feeling that the first part had to be very rich with details, because these two guys could hardly be any more different. To explain that without just listing personality traits, I needed to tell those stories of where they grew up, and how they grew up, and how they interacted with their parents, families, and friends. Those details seemed ultra-important to me. They create the characters and bring them to life.

From this point forward, it could move faster, or slower, or who knows? This writing process is really organic. I did character studies before I started, to help me understand the two main characters and what they were, and I had an outline in mind as well. But, in terms of writing it and coming up with various plot twists, a lot of that is happening on the fly. Now that I know these guys so well, certain plot twists just “have to happen, because that’s who he is…”

It’s a fascinating process, but I’m taking my time so that I enjoy it as much as possible. You only get to write these books once. I don’t want to feel like I’m under pressure because of it. I want to do it right and enjoy the ride. But, yesterday was a landmark day for “How Far?”

Thanks for reading. If any of this nonsense intrigued you at all, it would be awesome if you’d click on the “Like” button at the top. I’m not paranoid! People really are following me.

Bob Wilber, at your service and uncovering more tidbits.

PS: Yeah, I knew it would be hard to have any photos in this one. Not much of my childhood is documented that way. But I figured I could at least illustrate who David Clyde was. This is him, straight out of high school and in the big leagues.

And below, the 1973 Spokane Indians. Big Del Wilber front-and-center in the front row. Bill “Mad Dog” Madlock, the prankster, second from the left in the front row. No, I’m not in the photo, and wouldn’t have been even if I had been there for it the day it was taken. I was just “the manager’s kid.”

 

 

 

 

 

So we just got back from a wonderful trip to Colorado, where we met the newest addition to the extended Doyle family. Little Maci Novotny not only lived up to the reviews and hype we’d been hearing, she outperformed them all. One of the sweetest little girls I’ve ever seen or met, and by far the least fussy little baby I’ve ever been around. I don’t think she cried for a total of two minutes the entire time we were there, and that was Friday to Monday. Such a sweetie, and her “rookie” parents Erin and Eric have taken to the assignment like seasoned pros.

All in all, we got to spend some wonderful time with all the clan out there. We stayed with Jim and Deb (Barbara’s older brother and his wife) at their house in Berthoud, and as always they were incredible hosts. If their pad was an Airbnb you’d rate it 5 stars for both the accommodations and the hosts. Spent a lot of time with Erin and Eric of course, both at their house and out and about. Little Maci never complained once about the restaurants we went to or all the funny strange faces that kept appearing just an inch from her nose as she blinked and smiled. Nephew James and his girlfriend Rachel were with us a lot. James has been doing his best to transition away from JT, which everyone called him for years, so in honor of that I’m just going to dig my feet in and still call him JT. It’s only fair. And finally, niece Leah and her man Levi made wonderful appearances, despite the fact they work at the same place but on different shifts. It was awesome. As were the brats I grilled for dinner one night. My right shoulder is sore for patting myself on the back so vigorously.

Little Maci specializes in three things: Sleeping, eating, and that other thing that necessitates the changing of diapers. She’s a healthy little girl, for sure! And it wasn’t just our imagination that she grew and developed during the parts of four days we were there. Everyone agreed with that. By the time we left, she was masterfully holding her head up and focusing those little eyes on anyone who would hold her.

On Sunday, we met at a wonderful park and sculpture garden in Loveland (where Erin & Eric and Leah & Levi live) for a fun picnic and a walk through the sculptures. Bagels were consumed, and since I’m not sure of the exact park rules I will deny any mention of there being mimosas. Never happened. It was just orange juice, as far as you know.

Leah made it out to the park for a while, but had to get to work before I started clicking off pics, rapid-fire on our walk, with my phone. She and Levi, you might recall, were the ones who bought a house right before we moved home from Spokane, and they came out to our place to “go shopping” for furniture. We’d be downsizing again when we got back to Woodbury, and had some nice stuff that needed a new home. They obliged, then rented a truck and drove it all back to Colorado.

So where are Berthoud and Loveland? The town of Berthoud is north of Denver by about 45 miles, and just a little west of I-25. About twice as far north of Denver as Boulder. Loveland is another seven or eight miles north. Due west of Loveland is Rocky Mountain National Park and the great little village of Estes Park. Loveland is pretty big, and the downtown area is really cool, full of historic old buildings which now host restaurants, pubs, art galleries, and other fun shops. Neat place! Berthoud is smaller, but much to Jim Doyle’s chagrin it’s changing fast. A new TPC golf course just opened, and the town is booming. As David Bowie would say, “Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes!” and they’re not necessarily the kind of changes the longtime locals want.

As anyone from the Denver region knows, it’s one of the easiest places on Earth to figure out directions. The mountains are always to the west of you. If they’re not, we’re all in trouble.

Late in our walk through the Loveland sculpture park, we found this tree that begged for photos. It really did. You could almost hear it. Well, it just looked like a perfect photo op and I’m sure we weren’t the first to do it. No one was injured in the staging of this photograph, and no trees were harmed.

On Sunday night, we all gathered in Jim and Deb’s back yard to fight mosquitos and have a fun conversation. At some point, I don’t know why but Rachel asked me (knowing my background) “Hey Bob. Why are pro baseball fields so many different shapes and sizes? Shouldn’t they all be the same?”

My explanation was as follows. It’s mostly just tradition now, but for many early decades the ballparks had to be built to follow the contours of the city blocks upon which they were built. If the blocks weren’t square, the field shape wasn’t perfectly symmetrical. Think Fenway Park. Then, in the 1960s when the rage became a rash of “cookie cutter” circular stadiums with artificial turf, everything started to look the same, and no one really liked that. Yes, the stadiums could host the local NFL team as well as the MLB team, and the artificial turf allowed them to switch back and forth without ruining either field, but they were sterile and not very fun. So, when all the newest set of parks began to pop up, quirks and oddities were built in. Of course, every MLB field has the mound 60-feet 6-inches from the plate, and the bases are all 90-feet apart, but the outfields are unique, in most cases. And that’s a home field advantage.

That question led to a long series of questions from all around the table, and I had to be on my toes to have the right answers ready to go when I’d be asked about home runs, or team nicknames, or how ballparks were built. It was fun, and I hope I imparted at least a little knowledge. I got lucky when Levi asked me “Do you know why the Rockies mascot is a Triceratops dinosaur?” I wouldn’t have, if Jim hadn’t told me just the day before. It’s because they discovered Triceratops fossils at the site of Coors Field when they were preparing the ground for construction.

The one story that got the biggest “No way” responses and wide eyes was the one about former Oakland A’s owner Charley Finley hiring a young man he met in the Coliseum parking lot. The young entrepreneur had a boom box, and he was dancing for the incoming crowd as he sold baseballs he’d tracked down as foul balls. Finley liked his attitude and energy, so he hired him to be a batboy. His name was Stanley Burrell. They players liked him, and thought he looked like a young Hank Aaron, who was always known as Hammerin’ Hank. So, they called Stanley “Little Hammer” and the nickname stuck. That Little Hammer kid became pretty famous. You know him today as MC Hammer.

Here at the house, Erica stayed with the boyz while we were gone. What would we do without her? I’d alerted her to keep an eye on the front porch because I was expecting a package, and sure enough it showed up right after we left. I posted this on Facebook, but I’m aware my FB audience and blog audience are not necessarily identical, so I’ll mention it here, as well. At a recent silent auction, I had my eye on two items. One was a Team USA jersey with “Miracle On Ice” goalie Jim Craig’s name and number, and he autographed it. The jersey is a replica, of course. I’m not sure any of Jim Craig’s actual jerseys from the 1980 Lake Placid Olympics have ever been on the market, but if they have I certainly would not be able to afford them. I’m just happy to have the replica. Without Jim Craig’s “stand on your head” incredible performance against the Soviet Union, especially in the third period, the USA would not have won that game, and subsequently the Gold Medal game against Finland. He’s a hero in all of American sports. It would be an honor to meet him some day.

The only problem I have is that I really don’t have a way to display the jersey here. It begs to be framed, but then I’d have to frame it with the backside and his autograph showing, and that means I’d never see the USA on the front again. Some people display stuff like this on mannequin shells, but there’s no way I’m doing that and I wouldn’t have a place to put it. My so-called Man Cave is a functioning office and home theater, not a museum. So, I guess it will just go in the same closet with a lot of other jerseys I’ve collected, whether they be baseball, soccer, football, or drag racing. Or even softball plus drag racing. I still have my NHRA jersey from when I helped Bob Vandergriff run the NHRA team when we played the NASCAR boys near Charlotte a few years ago.

The other item I bid on was a Vikings football helmet, signed by quarterback Kirk Cousins. A) I’ve always wanted a meaningful football helmet, even if it is a replica. B) I’m as stickler for guys who take the time to sign a legible autograph. Kirk’s autograph is beautiful, and under his name he wrote “You Vike That!”  That was a nice touch.

That wall is the “entertainment” section of the cave. Original signed artwork by legendary cartoonist Chuck Jones, a “Jersey Boys” poster signed by the entire cast (thanks Buck!), a Rush limited-edition lithograph (it’s the cover of their album “Power Windows”) signed by Geddy, Alex and Neil, and the big screen itself. The cabinet below houses all the electronics for the system and a few books. The helmet just naturally fit there as a counter balance to the MISL soccer ball, from my days in indoor soccer. Yes, that soccer ball is on the cover of my book “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts.” Small world, eh?

So that’s about it. A fun trip to Colorado, great company with wonderful family, a sweet little angel of a baby, and some new memorabilia. I’m not a hoarder. I choose my stuff carefully, and about four times as much stuff as is on display is carefully sorted and stored in the utility room and an extra closet. It all means something to me, or it wouldn’t be shown or kept. Yes, I still have my Paintsville Hilanders jersey, with the number five on the back, the patch on the sleeve of a batter wearing a plaid kilt, and authentic pine tar stains on the shoulder, but it’s in a closet too. With the Jim Craig jersey going in there, the Paintsville jersey will have more good company.

See you next week, I assume. And as always I hope you’ll click on the “Like” button at the top if you did indeed enjoy this. Do it for Maci!

Bob Wilber, at your service after meeting a little angel.

 

I suspect the fact that I’m getting old (older?) is something I just have to deal with. Like when you have to insert your birth date within an online form using a drop-down menu for the years, and it takes forever to actually scroll all the way back to the dark ages (1956.) It’s all illustrated right before your eyes when you do that. But one of the joys of being my age is all the momentous stuff I lived through and still remember. I don’t know any of my passwords, but my brain retains specific details of events ranging from world-changing to mundane, as far back as when I was three years old. I will never forget July 20, 1969. This was a good week for those memories, and many others.

A bunch of us Wilbers, including cousins from Pennsylvania, were spending a few weeks at our rental cottage in Michigan. Wampler’s Lake (right outside of Brooklyn) was a summer magnet for us nearly every year. My sister Mary and I were automatic once we turned 10 or so, but my brother Del wasn’t there as much. By the time I started going to Wampler’s he was playing professional baseball during the summers, so it was rare to have him up there with us. By 1969, he was out of baseball and working in St. Louis for Procter & Gamble, so that’s why he and his wife Kay were along for the trip.

After our stay, I rode home to St. Louis with Del and Kay in their car. Moving the AM radio dial right and left, as we made the trip home from southern Michigan, we found radio stations that were providing “live” updates on the Apollo 11 mission. Finally, somewhere in Illinois I assume, we heard the unforgettable words “Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.” I was in the back seat, transfixed.

We got home to their apartment near the St. Louis airport, and all climbed onto their bed in the master bedroom, with a TV perched on a stand at the foot of the bed. I remember thinking it was REALLY late at night, but it probably just seemed that way after the long drive and a fun vacation. I was 13 years old.

It feels like I remember every second of it. I clearly recall that when the fixed mounted TV camera was deployed and turned on, the picture was terrible. It was full of contrast and nothing on the screen looked like an astronaut or the moon. Then NASA discovered the image was upside down, and the picture was so bad due to the bright contrast of the lunar surface. Mission Control adjusted some settings and finally there was Neil Armstrong, coming down the ladder instead of the reverse. These moments are seared into my memory. We watched every minute of the two and a half hours Neil and Buzz Aldrin were on the moon, so by then it actually was pretty late for young Bobby Joe Wilber. It was after midnight.

Of course we all know the words Armstrong spoke when he stepped off the landing pad to put his boot on the moon. Or at least we think we know. He had come up with the statement and practiced it regularly. What he wrote was “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.” For some reason, he either forgot to make it “for a man” or the “a” just didn’t get transmitted. What we all heard was “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind” which doesn’t make nearly as much sense as the written version. NASA later went in and edited the official transcript by adding the “a” to the statement.

All of the memorials, documentaries, and special shows about Apollo 11, these last few weeks, brought back tons of other memories. I was a certified space program geek from the earliest days. I rarely could focus on anything other than baseball (I’m sure I had A.D.D. back then but no one knew it) but when it came to the space program I had a laser-like focus for all the details.

I remember Project Mercury like it was yesterday, despite the fact I wasn’t yet five years old when it kicked off and Alan Shepard became the first American in space. His little rocket didn’t have enough oomph to put him into orbit, but he went up there and came back in that tiny little capsule. I heard, later in life, some of the Project Mercury astronauts say things like “You didn’t really get into the Mercury capsule, as much as you sort of put it on.” In addition, NASA originally didn’t have plans to put a window on the Mercury capsule. The astronauts were just seen as passengers. These former test pilots refused to do that. They insisted on a window and on operating systems during the flights.

Many people still think John Glenn was the first American in space, but he was second. He was the first American to orbit the Earth.

Scott Carpenter, Gus Grissom, Gordon Cooper, Wally Schirra, John Glenn, Alan Shepard, and Deke Slayton. That first group of seven Mercury astronauts were true American heroes. Getting into space was an easy concept, in theory. But someone had to strap into that thing and make it happen in reality. These guys are the reason the book and the movie “The Right Stuff” were written and made. Absolute heroes, and like movie stars to me.

Project Mercury was all about getting men up there and seeing what happened. And then getting them back down without burning them up. The USA and Soviet Union had sent animals into space, and they came back OK, so it was time to send men up there. Could you eat in space? Could you relieve yourself? Would you lose your mind in that tiny capsule? No one really knew until those guys went up.

Later in the 60s, Project Gemini took over with two-man capsules and much longer missions. Gemini was the practice field for just about everything we’d need to do in order to get men to the Moon. Long flights, docking and undocking, maneuvering the space craft. I had a front row seat for much of it.

One of my best friends, at the time, was Scott Youngstrom. We had met at day camp, and could ride our bikes to each other’s homes. Scott’s dad worked for McDonnell Aircraft (soon to merge with Douglas Aircraft to become McDonnell Douglas) which had its headquarters in St. Louis and was a major NASA contractor, and he worked on the Gemini program for the company. We got to see all sorts of cool renderings and even some material that came back to Earth on the flights. I don’t know how many St. Louisans worked at McDonnell back then, but it was a lot. It was a badge of pride for the city to have so many locals working in conjunction with NASA.

Also, at the time, my mother was working for KMOX Radio in St. Louis, one of the most powerful and respected A.M. stations in the country, with a signal that could nearly blanket the USA on a clear night. She normally did entertainment interviews, or other “light fluff” like that, but with the space program gaining so much traction during the “space race” against the Soviets, she often had assignments out at McDonnell, at its massive campus just across the main runways from Lambert Airport. I was lucky enough to go on a few of those assignments and see some really cool stuff.

With St. Louis being such a big part of the entire space program, NASA always seemed to be sending used capsules and other space stuff to town, usually displaying it all at the St. Louis Planetarium in Forest Park. Seeing those singed and burned heat shields brought to life what the TV analysts were talking about when they discussed the dangers of reentry. And even the Gemini capsule seemed absolutely tiny to me. How could two big strong men spend eight or nine days in there?

When the Apollo program began, the race was on for the Moon. And then we lost three courageous men in a horrifying fire inside the capsule during a test on the pad in Florida. Gus Grissom (yes, one of those original Mercury heroes), Ed White (the first American to walk in space), and Roger Chaffee were incinerated within seconds. It was a huge blow to the program, to the country, and to St. Louis. It was a tragedy, but NASA learned from it and nothing like it ever happened again.

Finally, nearly two years after the fire, Apollo 7 took three men into Earth orbit. It was a daring test of will to launch that rocket into space. The crew and everyone at NASA had lost dear friends in the fire. It was a successful flight, and it readied NASA to head for the moon. It readied me for a number of consecutive years when Apollo flights were the absolute highlight for me. I couldn’t “geek it up” enough.

Apollo 8 went to the moon, circled it, and came back. It was our first chance to see what the Earth looked like from that far away, and to see “Earthrise” over the Moon’s horizon. The TV was gripping, to see the “big blue marble” floating in space, with all of us on it.

I don’t know why, and it may not be true, but it always seems to me that these missions took place late at night, and it was one time when my mom and dad never had a problem with me staying up as late as I wanted to watch it all. Another such time was when my mom was working for the Cardinals and they’d be coming back to Lambert Airport in the middle of the night after winning a World Series or clinching a pennant. No questions asked. I got to go with her and try to stay up until the plane landed around 3:00 in the morning.

Apollo 9 just orbited the Earth, but it gave the crew the first chance to undock and extract the Lunar Excursion Module (otherwise known as the LEM or Lunar Module) so it was critical for the program.

Apollo 10 went to the moon and did a planned practice for landing, undocking the LEM but not landing it.

Apollo 11 made history. And I made history for “longest time spent in bed with Del and Kay at their apartment.”

Apollo 12 is memorable for me for one lousy reason. When they landed and descended the ladder to the surface, they set up the color TV camera on its tripod but something went haywire when it was inadvertently pointed at the sun. The camera never worked, and I was heartbroken. Apollo 12 was otherwise a brilliant success, and it even purposefully landed within walking distance of the Surveyor 3 Moon probe NASA had landed on the surface in 1967. The first time men from Earth had touched something on the moon that other humans had put there.

We know about Apollo 13. I was as riveted as everyone, as NASA and the crew struggled mightily to keep the three men alive and get them back home after an explosion vented nearly all their oxygen into space. When they did come back, I had to watch on TV from home. I was sick and not in school that day. My friends later told me how many of them were crying as they waited to see if the giant parachutes would ever blossom over the ocean.

And of course, the Ron Howard movie “Apollo 13” brought it all into gripping reality. Did you know that those scenes of Tom Hanks, Kevin Bacon, and Bill Paxton floating around weightless inside Apollo 13 were NOT special effects? They were very real, and done on a specialized airplane that flies enormous parabolic “up and down” loops to create weightlessness at the top of the parabola. If you’ve ever ridden a really fast elevator in a skyscraper, you know the feeling of rising up on your toes when it slows and stops at the top. The same concept works on the plane, but you don’t just rise up on your toes. They built an Apollo 13 set on the aircraft to shoot those scenes up there. That’s how astronauts get trained, but by all accounts it’s not a pleasant experience. That’s why they call it the Vomit Comet.

Apollo missions 14 through 17 went off without major hitches, and included such fun stuff as the Lunar Rover, a car they could drive around to get much further away from the LEM. But, the public was losing interest. I wasn’t, I watched every minute of TV provided to me, but by Apollo 17 it was time to wrap it up. I was crushed.

And here’s another “Did You Know?” factoid. Over the years the US and other countries have sent reconnaissance satellites to the moon, making low-level passes and taking photos. If you dig enough on the interwebs, you can see they’ve documented all of the Apollo landing sites. With no wind or atmosphere on the Moon, you can still see equipment and tests on the ground, as well as the LEM descent and landing stages, and tire tracks made by the Rovers. It’s absolutely fascinating to see those images. I believe there are still laser mirrors left on the Sea of Tranquility by Apollo 11, and NASA can still bounce beams off them to get an exact reading for how far the Moon is from Earth, at any given time. Here’s hoping that number never surprises them!

So July 20 was a full-on memory trigger for me. I’m not so happy about being 63 for a lot of reasons, but I’m thrilled it means I remember all of this amazing stuff. I lived through it. It had a huge impact on me, and still does. And it was all dreamt up, created, and performed by men who had “The Right Stuff” in spades. It was a fabulous time to be a space geek.

I hope we go back someday. If we’re serious about putting humans on Mars we’re going to need the Moon as part of that program.

So that’s it for this “space geek” week.

As always, if you enjoyed this trip through NASA history please hit the “Like” button at the top. Maybe that will earn me some sort of space geek merit badge for my “Members Only” jacket!

See you in a week.

Bob Wilber, at your service and about to blast off…

Greetings blog faithful, here on another Thursday Blog Day. This one just happens to fall on July 18, 2019. Summer took a long time to get here, in Minnesota (thanks to those April blizzards) but it’s not just here now, it’s going full blast. Not nearly as bad as in so many states south of us, but our humidity is rising, the temps are up around 90, and man we’ve had some rain. Tons of rain (although I don’t believe we typically measure rain by the ton.) It might be the wettest summer of all time here, and I think that’s the case for much of the country.

So, I’m pretty big into the social networking site LinkedIn.com and I use it a lot to promote various projects. I post updates on the new book, which continues to come along at a pace that ranges from a sprint to a snail’s best effort, and a couple of weeks ago I went ahead and posted a short story about the 30th anniversary of this particular bunch of bozos doing the nearly unthinkable, when the Sauget Wizards defeated the USA National Team 6-5 at their stadium near Memphis in June of 1989.

To be fair, we weren’t a bunch of random guys off the street. We’d all played a lot of baseball at very high levels. There are six ex-pros in this photo, and Neil Fiala played in the Big Leagues for the Reds and Cardinals. The rest were all solid former college players. We also had a couple of the guys on this team who were still in college (Jason Boehlow and Tim Black). We could play. Probably the most challenging part of our quest to beat the best amateur team in the country, full of the very best college players at the time, was our average age. Other than the two college guys, the rest of us were in our upper 20s, mid-30s, and even upper 30s. But we knew the game and we could play. Still, we probably had no business beating those guys.

I know I post this photo a lot, but it’s such a special group and we had a chemistry that was unlike any I’ve ever experienced at any other level. We did it for nothing more than the love of the game. We just loved the game so much we refused to quit, and as a group we were way greater than the sum of our parts.

Something else noteworthy about the photo is this: There were only 14 of us. That was it. No 10-man bullpen or third string catcher. Most of us could play multiple positions (I played all three outfield spots and at first base) and basically we all just wanted to play. We weren’t there to sit on the bench. Of this group, Jason Boehlow was the only guy to not play in the game versus Team USA. Not because he didn’t deserve to, but because of strategy. Jason was a big power hitter who played for St. Louis University, but he could also play just about anywhere and pitch if we needed him to. Coach Hughes decided it was too risky to just throw him in the game for an inning or two because we might need him in an emergency in the final innings.

Anyway, that post on LinkedIn was bizarre. Viral might be a better word. When you post something, you can click on a button to see how many members have viewed it, and then you can dig deeper to see some more analytics. I’m an analytics geek. I love seeing which viewers work for what companies, or what their professional titles are, or where they are located.

Typically, 500 views is a lot for anything I post. Even at 500, you can drill down into the analytics and learn a lot about who you are reaching. Throughout the first year “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” was on sale, I used LinkedIn a lot to promote it. Posts like that would make the sales needle move almost every time. This Sauget Wizards post didn’t just get 500 views. Or 1,000. Or even 2,000. It cleared 4,000 in less than a week. That’s FOUR THOUSAND VIEWS. I was stunned.

I’ve never seen anything like it, but the Wizards had that sort of impact on people. We did something we weren’t supposed to be able to do, and it wasn’t luck. We outplayed the USA team. We out-pitched them and we out-hit them. We earned every bit of that win, and big newspapers like the Memphis Commercial Appeal and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch took notice with large stories about us.

It’s crazy how many LinkedIn members stopped to read that short post and look at the photo of 14 dedicated ballplayers. I’m still scratching my head, but I’m thrilled by the continued response to what this group did 30 years ago.

Here at the house, we have yet another project going in the backyard, and it’s directly related to the patio project we did last year. The guys from Willow River Company take great pride in their work, and they stand by it. We thought (or at least hoped) that we’d solved a lot of ground water issues last year when we replaced the concrete patio with pavers and added some new drain tiles. The ground water issue is what causes the frost heave in the winter, and although it was better this year, it wasn’t totally solved. So they put us on the schedule and came back to try to improve what they’d done.

The first thing was to add a third east/west drain tile to pull water away from the house and from under the patio. That entailed taking up pavers, digging a trench, tying the new drain into the main line that runs down to a retention pond, and putting it all back together. While doing that, they took apart a section of the decorative curved block wall we have back there, and saw why it had heaved a bunch last winter. When they dug out the pillar near the house, ground water immediately began to appear at the bottom of it. So after this third drain is done, a fourth one will be added to collect and move water from under the wall. They’re great guys and such hard workers, but what I respect the most is how much they stand by their work. There was instant agreement from them that they’d be back to make it right. No matter how many times they have to come back.

On a totally different subject, I saw a post on Facebook the other day that asked the question “Who is your all-time favorite NFL quarterback? Not the one you think is the best, but the one you liked the most for any reason.”

That was easy. It’s this guy.

My oldest brother Del went to Purdue on a football scholarship and he pledged the Sigma Chi fraternity. His roommate there was Bob Griese, and Del was his backup QB. They became great friends, and are still close to this day. Del didn’t get to play too much football as a Boilermaker, because his roomie rarely missed a play, but he also played shortstop on the Purdue baseball team and during the first-ever Major League draft the Philadelphia Phillies took him in the 8th round. His roomie went on to play for the Dolphins. He was a terrific QB, and he ended up being enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. But none of that has to do with why he’s my favorite quarterback of all time.

Bob Griese was one of the nicest, most gracious, and wonderful men my brother Del and I have ever known. When they were roomies, I was seven or eight years old. I followed his career with the Dolphins as closely as I could in an era when one or two football games a week managed to show up on our TV.

This is the truth: When I was that young, and very much “Del’s little brother,” Bob Griese would sometimes call our house and ask if Bobby Joe was available. He’d just call to say hi and see how I was doing. I’m not kidding.

He also sent me a practice t-shirt from preseason camp. It was just a white t-shirt, with MIAMI DOLPHINS silk-screened on the front in that aqua blue color they used. It was huge on me, too. I wore that t-shirt for years. I was so proud of it. I literally wore it until the cotton disintegrated and it fell off of me.

When “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” was about to be published, Bob read sections of it and was one of the first celebrity endorsers to send me a blurb for the back cover. And he signed this copy of his book “To Bob – (Del’s Little Brother.) Enjoy the memories! Bob Griese  HOF 1990”

Bob Griese was my all-time favorite quarterback. And it’s not even close.

So that’s about it for today. Barbara and I are busily making some travel plans for the coming weeks. A couple of quick weekend getaways and another much longer trip to a far off island. More about that next week. Still formulating those plans. Aloha! (That’s what we call a hint).

As always, if this blog brought even the slightest smile to your face, clicking on the “Like” button at the top would bring one to mine. Almost like 4,000 views on LinkedIn.

Bob Wilber, at your service and wishing I still had that Dolphins t-shirt.

I knew there were plenty of good reasons to take last week off, in terms of this blog. Not the least of which was that it was July 4th and there were more important things to care about. And, without really thinking about it a week ago, I believe I subconsciously understood that there would be a lot more material to mine if I skipped a week. Oh boy was there!

So, looking back to July 4th, it all kinda goes like this…

Barbara’s sister Kitty agreed to come up to Minnesota to enjoy the 4th and the weekend with us. And, to escape the summer heat and humidity in Orlando. Our 79-degrees and 30% humidity was pretty much heaven for her. We thought it was July 4th hot. Kitty wasn’t so sure she didn’t need a sweater. It’s all perspective.

After Barbara picked her up at the airport, we quickly made ourselves some pizzas for a pre-fireworks dinner. And I don’t mean we threw a frozen pizza in the oven. We enjoy buying ready-to-go thin pizza crusts and then adding our own sauce and toppings. On the pizza stone we have, and with the oven at 450, our little creations are piping hot, bubbly, and ready to go in 10-12 minutes. Yum. Oh, and a key is to slice your own pepperoni from a full stick of it. The pre-sliced stuff isn’t as good.

Sometime around 8:00 we drove over to the little park in Marsh Creek, our old neighborhood, where we hooked up with most of the gang for yet another unofficial off-site viewing party for the Woodbury fireworks show. Back when the fireworks were launched from Ojibway Park, we could sit in Neighbor Dave’s  driveway (or ours) in our lawn chairs and freeload the show from there. Once they moved it to Bielenberg Sports Complex, on the other side of town, we were actually closer to it and the little park near Marsh Creek made for a perfect viewing spot. Other residents have figured this out, and it’s a fun little crowd of a couple dozen or so now. The show was great, the gang was fun, and there was one other important thing that happened.

Terry Blake asked us to bring baseball gloves, and he also brought a football. I was still a little frustrated by the bit of “catch” we played a week or so before, because I was so timid about letting the ball go naturally. 20 years without throwing is a long time. But with a football, I have no such issue. It’s like I had “the yips” throwing the baseball, but no problem throwing spirals. With a football, I have this tendency to try to always throw it on a flat line, as hard as I can. Usually, it does just that. So we tossed the football around for a while, with Neighbor Dave, and then put the gloves on to play catch. The improvement was radical. Just throwing so free and easy with the football gave my arm some muscle memory. I wasn’t perfect, and I’m still looking forward to throwing the ball around some more with Terry, but it was way better. It felt natural. One of these days I wouldn’t mind finding a mound somewhere to see if I can get the old sidearm sinker over the plate. Too much too soon? Yeah, probably.

With Kitty, over the next few days, we jammed in as much as we could. Lots of good food, lots of touring around, a Twins game on Friday night, and then on Saturday we did a big tour of both sides of the Mississippi, heading south on the Wisconsin side for about 30 miles, and then coming back up the Minnesota side. It was awesome.

On the way down, we stopped more than a few times. This photo of is of Lake Pepin. It’s a wide clean lake not too far south of us. It’s a boater’s haven. Its banks are home to many Bald Eagles. And it’s not a real lake. You know, the kind surrounded by land on all sides. It’s not a man-made lake either, caused by a dam. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s a fully natural wide spot in the Mississippi, created by the confluence of the Mississippi and the Chippewa rivers. It’s impossible to equate this beautiful body of water to the same river that rolls by the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. But it is, indeed, that same body of water.

Wisconsin Route 35, the two-lane highway that runs down the Wisconsin side, is a fun drive with all sorts of vistas. And keep your eye out for Bald Eagles! They love Lake Pepin as much as the humans do.

With the great scenery and the gentle turns and slopes, this same “loop” trip we were on is a favorite for groups of motorcyclists as well. One needs to keep an eye on the mirrors to keep everybody safe.

Along the way, before we got to Nelson, Wisc. where the bridge crosses over the Mississippi to access Wabasha, Minn., we came upon the tiny little town of Stockholm. Yes, it was settled by Swedes. It’s truly tiny, with a population officially listed at 66 residents, but they’ve kept the charm of the place fully intact and have found their niche by being a fun stop on Route 35 for people just like us.

The whole place is no more than a couple of blocks long, with one little side street that’s full of fun things to see and wonderful things to eat. Chocolates and pies are often on the menu.

We hung out in Stockholm for about an hour, and ended up going home with a few things, including a handmade Amish rug for the garage entry into our house. We walked up and down the side street, stopping in shops and meeting the locals. I got a kick out of the fact the minutes of the latest “town meeting” were posted publicly outside the tiny Town Hall. When there are that few residents, and they’re all “in it together” to keep the town going, I suspect town meetings are pretty important.

We headed on down to Nelson, crossed the Mississippi bridge, and found a place to park in Wabasha. It’s a nice little river town, with a decent sized downtown area full of diners, restaurants, and shops. Definitely a fun place to stop in and walk around.

But, it’s got one attraction that’s more important and more interesting than the rest of it. It’s the National Eagle Center and Barbara and I had been there before. We wanted Kitty to see it, too.

The Eagle Center is located in the right place. There are hundreds of Bald Eagles who nest in the trees on both sides of the river, and spotting them is usually not a hard thing. Within the Eagle Center, they have some great exhibits and more than a few telescopes and binoculars for visitor’s to use. It’s worth a visit if you’re ever in Minnesota. US 61 is the route that runs up the Minnesota side. Find your way there, some day, and you’ll be glad you did.

The Center also takes care of a number of injured Bald Eagles. Some are maliciously shot by jerks (who deserve whatever bad Karma comes there way, times ten) but others are unfortunately struck by cars. With broken wings, they are doomed to die. When the Center gets them, they help them mend enough to survive and then they give them a home with a view, along with great care for the rest of their time. These birds may miss the great outdoors, but they are very lucky to be alive.

After admiring the big birds, we headed north up 61, through Lake City, Red Wing, and up toward Hastings, Minn. But, by then we were all pretty hungry, and little Miesville, Minnesota was on the way. Yes, home of the Mudhens; the Town Ball team Dylan Blake plays for. And not far from their fantastic ballpark is that wonderful supper club we discovered when joining Lynn and Terry Blake for a ballgame.

So, Barb got on the phone and called Wierderholt’s Supper Club for reservations. It was fantastic, from the food to the staff, and the other customers, many of whom are locals or nearby farmers. The fact such a fantastic restaurant can be located in such a tiny town, and be so enormously successful (it was packed once again while we enjoyed dinner) is mind-boggling to me. And I can’t believe we just now have discovered this treasure.

On Sunday, we had an ambitious plan. In the interest of fair reporting, I’m going to have to admit that we ran out of energy and didn’t quite complete the mission. We did, indeed, head over to Stillwater, Minn. on the St. Croix River, as planned, for a 10:30 am “brunch cruise” on one of the river boats that are so fun. And it was fun! The brunch food was actually terrific, and the mimosas weren’t so bad either. It was a two-hour trip down the St. Croix for a number of miles, and then back up to Stillwater again. We had a great time. And, we saw some Bald Eagles soaring above us.

Once we got home, after a few other short stops to do some shopping in Hudson, Wisc., we all needed naps. Our original plan was to head all the way over to Minneapolis for dinner and a show, at the Dakota Club, but it didn’t take too long for each of us to float some trial balloons with lines like “It wouldn’t kill me if we didn’t go” or “I’m fine with just staying home.” We didn’t go. And I think we were all happy it turned out that way. We’d packed a lot into just a couple of days, and as I told Barbara after we made the decision, “I can’t believe it sounded like a good idea to go to Minneapolis and see a concert on Sunday night after all we had planned before then.” Oh well…

On Monday, the whirlwind kicked into a new gear. We all headed to the airport together, since Kitty had a flight to Orlando that left just about the same time as the flight Barbara and I had to a different location. We were heading to New York City!

Barbara had a full day of meetings in Manhattan booked, for Tuesday, so I tagged along on Monday afternoon. It was a beautiful day in NYC, and we were lucky enough to have Air Traffic Control give us the approach into LaGuardia that comes up from the south on the west side of Manhattan. I was lucky enough to have a window seat on the right side of the cabin. What a view!

We were about an hour late arriving, which is pretty good actually for LaGuardia. We got our bags and headed for the Uber pick-up zone, which they have laid out pretty smartly. Only took about 10 minutes for our guy to find us, but then we discovered the not so good way the airport has the Uber/Lyft area positioned. It’s congested enough, with about 100 drivers to find their passengers at any time, but then when that happens you have to actually leave the airport. Yeah, good luck with that! You immediately have to merge about seven lanes of Uber cars, huge buses, and other airport vehicles down to basically one lane. It took us one full hour just to get out of the airport. Not exaggerating. Lots of honking going on, as well. As if that’s going to help. It was nuts.

We finally got out of there and headed through the Midtown Tunnel to get to Manhattan. And then that bumper cars experience took over again. Much more honking, many more close calls, and near gridlock, but somehow our guy got us to the Marriott Courtyard and Residence Inn at 54th and Broadway. We had a beautiful corner room on the 24th floor.

It was pretty spectacular, and a fine reward for the hassle of getting into town from the airport. We had wrap-around views of Broadway, and you could see Times Square a few blocks away, as well as other amazing NYC skyscraper views, and even a few sliver-sized views of the Hudson River, if you knew where to look.

We had a lot on our agenda, but first we needed dinner. Our plan was mostly to not have plans, although a few things did need to be prioritized. What we never planned were our meals. In New York, your dining options are basically limitless, ranging from 5-star cuisine to pizza. We spotted a cool Italian place just across Broadway and headed there. It was (you’re not going to believe this) amazing. My Rigatoni Bolognese was about as good as I’ve ever experienced.

After that, a quick walk up toward Central Park, just a few blocks away. We kept it short, just to work off a little of that rich Italian food and the wine we had, and by then it was just starting to turn to dusk, but New York was still at full throttle. It’s truly the city that never sleeps, and it’s on the go constantly. It’s pretty crazy that an area the size of Manhattan, which is about 150 blocks long and 12 blocks wide (depending on where you are on the island) can be so incredibly high-energy all the time. You really have to ramp up your metabolism to keep up with New Yorkers. The only thing that happens slowly is the traffic, but of course with that you have the honking, the weaving, and the object of just “getting a nose” on the next car to establish position. It’s not for the timid, even if you’re safely strapped into the back seat while a local expert does the driving.

On Tuesday, Barbara headed off early for her meetings, all around Manhattan. She had a full agenda that wouldn’t end until around 5:15. Just constantly on the go with her boss to meet with investors and analysts in the biggest of all the “big business” cities. There’s no shortage of meetings to have in New York.

I did a little writing, up in our fancy room, and then went for a midday walk. Up to Central Park, through it a little bit, then over to 7th and down to about 50th, than back up to our hotel. It was easy to work up a sweat. And as big as New York is, it’s stunning to see how much construction is going on. This city has been “full” forever, but they keep finding places to renovate, or tear down, or build new. The latest trend is to build the tallest and skinniest buildings they can. It’s really startling to see. Imagine an 80-story building that is square, but only has about 10 windows on each side. Some of them look impossible. And on my walk, at noon time, I realized all those construction workers were on their lunch breaks. Interesting to eavesdrop a little as I passed by small gaggles of them sitting on the sidewalk or on scaffolding eating their sandwiches. It’s pretty much like the movies, except it’s real life.

That night, we had huge plans and we had to logistically overcome the fact that both Barbara and I were going to have to meet up on 43rd Street in the Broadway theater district, because her meetings weren’t going to allow her to get back to the hotel. We needed to find a place to eat before seeing a 7:00 show at the Stephen Sondheim Theater. I used Uber and she walked a few blocks after her final meeting ended at 5:15. Somehow, it worked like a charm, and we met at the corner despite the fact about a million people were all going in a million directions. Imagine that. We both laughed a little, and she said “Can you imagine how hard that was but how easy we made it look?”

We found a place across from the theater called The Brooklyn Diner, despite the fact it was in Manhattan, and we had a great dinner at the bar. The bartender did a terrific job of getting us our food in time so that we wouldn’t be late for the show. And that show? It was “Beautiful – The Carole King Musical” which is good enough (it’s a huge hit on Broadway) but what made it better was the fact Nathan Scherich is in it. I met Nathan at the NHRA race in St. Louis (I’m thinking this was 2008) when both he and Buck Hujabre were in “Jersey Boys” on the national tour. Buck brought him along for his first taste of Nitro and he was hooked. Plus, he’s a great dude and we got along great from the moment we met.

We stayed in touch and Nathan, who had then gotten off the tour and was doing shows on Broadway, came out to Englishtown a few consecutive years when we were racing there. The Wilkersons rolled out the red carpet and he was eager to get back to the Nitro as often as possible. I followed his career from afar.

The show was amazing. It’s a great story, about Carole King’s career, and the singing and playing are both off the charts. Nathan is listed as being an “Ensemble” performer in the show, which means he’s in numerous scenes playing different background parts in a number of costumes, but he has two roles that are truly front and center.

Carole King and Gerry Goffin were songwriting partners, who later married, back when the “hit makers” hired talent like them to crank out hit songs for the big stars. They wrote so many hits back then it’s hard to count them all. They were friends and rivals with another songwriting duo, Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, and the two pairs went back and forth writing songs that went to the top of the charts. One of those Mann/Weil songs was “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” which was recorded by the Righteous Brothers. Nathan plays the Bill Medley role, and sings the lead in the show. He absolutely blew the crowd away. Roars of cheers and huge applause after the performance. It was really impressive.

He also plays the role of Nick, a sort of hippie dude who basically has a crush on Carol, and he’s wonderful and hilarious. The long wig he wears is also pretty hippie classic. All in all, the show is as spectacular as I’d always heard. We were so glad we went. What a phenomenal cast, and Nathan just nails it.

After the show, we met and he gave us a fantastic backstage tour. As you can see in this photo, the set on stage is amazing, and the way all the parts and pieces move around to create new looks and sets is technologically stunning. The set switches from home interiors, to offices, to the writing room, to live performances minute by minute. See the show, if you can.

We were pretty bushed by the end of the night, but we had a big morning planned for the next day. No rest for the weary!

We dragged ourselves out of bed by 7:45 or so, and the word “dragged” is accurate. Remember, this whirlwind had been going on nonstop since Kitty arrived the prior Thursday. It was a full week of cramming in as much action as we could. We were running on fumes, but we had firm plans set for that morning, all the way down at the tip of Manhattan near the World Trade Center. No Uber for that trip, which would’ve been about 40 blocks of Manhattan traffic. We took the subway, once we groggily got showered and dressed. We got down to Broadway right by the Trade Center at about 9:15, and our big event was just about to happen.

We’d followed along as the US women kept winning, game after game, in the World Cup. Once they capped it off by defeating The Netherlands for the trophy, New York sprang into action. Only a place like New York City could put a massive parade together in just a few days. We were determined to be there.

I’ll start off with this. The parade route is about a mile long. It’s on a part of Broadway that is officially known as the Canyon of Heroes for a reason. From astronauts to sports teams, this is the place New York rolls out the big parades. I haven’t heard the official attendance estimate yet, but the entire parade route was absolutely packed (not a fun place for any chronic claustrophobics, I’m sure) and we managed to wedge ourselves onto the jammed sidewalks. If 100,000 is the total number, I would not be surprised but I also wouldn’t be shocked if it was more like 200,000. It was the wildest thing ever, to be a part of.

Helicopters were circling and hovering, and that was how we finally got an idea of where the USA team was in terms of the route. All you had to do was see where all the helicopters were located in the sky. A mile away, at first.

There were bands, police motorcycle brigades, and tons of buses and open flatbeds featuring the USA staff and supporters. It was technically a “ticker tape” parade but there’s no such thing as ticker tape anymore. So the folks in the high rise buildings that create the look of an urban canyon dropped shredded paper and confetti. It was really cool.

Finally, the float that featured the team came by and the cheers of “USA, USA!” were deafening. It was a goosebumps moment, no doubt about it. It was a big effort to get there, and a bigger effort to get anywhere near the street, but we were so glad we’d done it. And so proud of those women. World Cup champs for the fourth time. They earned every bit of it.

We weren’t going to try to bust through that crowd to immediately get right back on the subway, so we headed over to the new World Trade Center and the memorial site for the original. It’s a very moving place, and such a juxtaposition of realities. The new Trade Center soars above, as a striking symbol of America and a modern piece of visual architecture. It’s massive, but it’s almost delicate. The new museum and transportation center are just as modern and elegantly built.

The two “footprint” fountains are also modern and beautiful, but they are grim and emotional as well. Anyone old enough to remember that day knows just how those two buildings looked, rising side by side. Now they are forever memorialized by the two sunken sculptures, placed exactly where they stood, with the names of all the victims carved into the railings around the sites.

To go from the joy of the parade, to the pride of seeing the new World Trade Center rising into the sky, to the somber place that marks the location of the former North and South towers, is an emotional roller coaster ride. And I was happy to see so many of the parade goers make the short walk over like we did. The whole place was packed.

We finally got back on the subway, both exhausted not only from the day but from the entire week. We had some plans tentatively in our heads, but all we could do was go back to the hotel (where Barbara’s elite Marriott status allowed us a late check-out) to finish packing, get cleaned up (I almost ran out of clean clothes but it worked out just right) and then we headed down to the street, pulling our bags, at 2:00. Our flight was at 4:40, but our arrival memories gave us both the incentive to make sure we weren’t sitting in New York traffic when our plane was pushed back.

As it turned out, we grabbed a taxi instead of ordering an Uber car, and the driver had some tricks up his sleeve. He drove up the west side of Central Park, then cut through the park around 81st to get to the east side, then over the bridge to Randall’s Island and then into Queens and straight to LaGuardia. It wasn’t a painless drive, but it got us there at 3:00 for our 4:40 departure. Good thing we’re both Delta Sky Club members. That came in handy. And when the Sky Club attendant got on the PA and said, “Delta Sky Club members, we’re happy to let you know we have a hot dog stand set up, and we’re pleased to provide free Nathan’s All-Beef hot dogs at this time.” The line formed immediately. We just had to. I mean, when they offer them for free, it wouldn’t be polite to say no. Right?

Once we were on the plane and in our seats, the energy finally drained out of us. I rarely sleep on planes, but I was long gone by the time the flight attendant came by to ask if we wanted anything to drink before take-off! That’s a record for me.

By the time we got home, around 7:00-ish I guess (hard to remember now) it was all we could do to get a bit unpacked and watch some TV.

A whirlwind? Yeah, I’d call it that. We jammed so much into a week it seems nuts now. Somehow, we ramped up the energy to get us all the way through it and home. And then the tank was empty.

But what fun we had! What memories we created! And I’ll never forget being right in the middle of that massive adoring crowd, joining in as we all shouted “USA, USA, USA, USA!!!”

I guess I’ll see you next week. I can’t imagine the material being anything like this but we’ve always managed to figure something out.

And please, if this was a blog you enjoyed, clicking on the “Like” button at the top would be like getting a free hot dog for me.

Bob Wilber, at your service and still running on fumes.

There are certain weeks when it seems unreasonable to hit the Thursday target for a new weekly blog. Thanksgiving week instantly comes to mind, as do other floating holidays that happen to land on Thursday any given year. In 2019, Independence Day just happened to be one of those holidays, and in respect for such an important national event, we’ll skip the blog. Happy 4th of July, everyone. See you next week!

Bob Wilber, at your service and enjoying the long holiday weekend.

Here we are on June 27 and I think I can classify the local Minnesota weather to this point as “quite nice” especially in comparison to other parts of the country. I have a lot of friends in Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio and from what I’m consistently hearing they’ve just been getting pounded by heavy rain for the whole month, if not longer. Up here in the Land of 10,000 Lakes, we’ve had it easy. Not a lot of rain, and when we’ve had some it has generally come down as if there’s a giant watering can up above. Small drops coming down gently. The flowers have loved it.

Today, not so much but I knew it was coming. For the first time this season the forecast called for severe storms and heavy rain. When I went out to get the paper (yes, I read much of my news online but I still like to start the day with the newspaper in my hands) it was just starting, and it was doing so in big fat drops. As I walked back into the house, facing west, I could see the sky was a variety of colors, ranging from near black to greenish yellow.

Boofus and Buster both thought they’d like to be out on the porch, though, so I let them out and set my mental timer for one minute. They didn’t make it that long. When the first clap of loud thunder rattled the house, I saw two streaks of black fur race through the sliding door. They’ve come out from under the bed now, but both are hunkered down in the living room.

The Twins are supposed to be playing the final game of a three-game series with the Tampa Bay Rays today, at Target Field, and from what I’m hearing they think they will start late but they see a window in the rain that should (hopefully) allow them to get the game in. My personal baseball activities today were not so fortunate.

Terry Blake and I had set 1:00 today for our second effort at playing catch and otherwise goofing off by throwing a baseball around, at a small park near both of our homes. The same downpour and clap of thunder that sent two cats fleeing caused me to pick up my phone and text this to Terry: “Looks like we picked the wrong day to quit sniffing glue. Or to play catch.” You have to be of a certain age to understand that movie reference and quote. Even if it does stop raining, playing catch on wet grass, in sneakers, would not be conducive to getting my throwing mechanics sorted out, and most of those flawed mechanics are based on the fear of my arm becoming unattached at the shoulder. So we’ve postponed our efforts until next week.

And yes, there are other baseball references to be shared in this week’s blog. It’s that time of year!

For instance, one of my former Sauget Wizards teammates, Dan Nicholson, sent me a note to let me know that our former player/manager Bob Hughes wanted to talk with me. Dan sent me his number. You’ll remember Coach Hughes from the recent blog about people who had enormous influence on me, as well as the many mentions I gave him in my book “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts.”

It took us a few days to connect, but yesterday afternoon he gave me a call and we had a rollicking wonderful conversation for at least 20 minutes. Bobby was always important to me, and because of that I took the time to inscribe a note to him in a copy of “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” when I sent him the book a few months back. The reason he wanted to talk with me was partly just to say hi and catch up, but mostly to tell me how much he loved the book. He raved about it. Said he couldn’t put it down, and that he read every word. That’s always wonderful to hear, and I’m grateful every time I hear anything sounding even close to being that complimentary. But to hear that from Bob Hughes, well…  That was really something special. He’s one of a kind, and he made a huge impact on me and my playing career.

He also told me “I don’t do the whole social media thing. Too many people have told me that Facebook is just a giant black hole you can never get out of” and I understood that. It can be that way, and I was truthful when I said “You just have to avoid all that nonsense. I’m never shy about blocking people who cross the line.” Then, Bobby was pretty amazed when I told him how many former teammates I’ve connected with on Facebook, rekindling friendships from decades ago. Whether it’s SIUE, the Wizards, or pro ball, I’m in touch with at least 50 former teammates and it’s great to interact with them and see what they’re up to. I brought him up to date on what a lot of those guys are doing these days.

On a different baseball subject, there’s a two-game series between the Yankees and the Red Sox going on this weekend. Not at Fenway Park and not at Yankee Stadium. It will be the first time ever that those two storied franchises have played regular season games on artificial turf, and the first time they’ve played in London. It should be “interesting” to say the least.

The stadium, home of West Ham United of the Premier League, had to be radically transformed for baseball. The turf was imported from France, and laid over the soccer field. The dirt and clay was all brought in from the United States, mostly from Pennsylvania I believe. And to fit the ball field into the soccer stadium, they had to make a few concessions. The outfield dimensions were the most obvious.

The outfield wall is 330 feet down each line, which is pretty standard for big league parks. But… Out in centerfield it’s only about 380 feet, with a 16-foot high wall. That’s about 25 feet shorter than any other Major League Park. Also, a quick look at the photo shows how much foul territory there is. It’s more than just possible that someone will hit a foul pop-up that’s so far from the infield no player will be able to get to it before it hits the ground. Again, should be interesting to say the least, and the games totally sold out in 45 minutes so it ought to be quite an experience for the two arch-rival teams.

As for my former SIUE roomies and me, we’ve already started talking about our reunion for next year, even when we were down in Florida for Spring Training a few months back. One option, from the start, was to go to London next year, when MLB will put on another two-game series. The more we talked about it the more it seemed unlikely. Too complicated, too far, and too expensive. And then MLB announced the two teams for next summer. It’s the Cardinals and the Cubs. That rekindled the talks, but in the end we just shelved it. Again, too complicated, too far, and too expensive. Plus, Radar and Oscar actually like to drive to our reunions, and that drive across the Atlantic to England is a tough one. So, as of right now we’re undecided, but Toronto is an early leader in the sweepstakes. Lance is up for international travel whenever I want to go, so we may plot our own trip to Amsterdam or some other European destination at some point. He’s actually never been to Amsterdam, which is hard to believe when taking into account the fact he worked and lived in Paris for three years.

This next photo has nothing at all to do with this blog, other than the fact it’s a picture of me from 1979, after the A’s had turned me into a relief pitcher. So it’s one of only a few photos of me actually on the mound, except I’m not pitching. I’m posing. It was a scheduled photo shoot. But I don’t look too out of place, I don’t think. I actually uploaded this shot for the last blog, but basically ran out of room to post it, so here it is this week.

The whole pitching experience was, in itself, a perfect example of the overall theme of “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts.” Plow forward! Just imagine being 23 years old and having played in the outfield since freshman year in high school. And then having your manager in professional baseball ask if you’d ever pitched before. What would you do? What would you say?

Had I been a reasonable sort of person, one who might analyze and think deeply about the million things that could go wrong, I probably would’ve said “Not since fourth grade” but no. That wasn’t me. Why worry? Just say yes and see what happens. Basically, it wasn’t going to be completely impossible for me to take the mound and get professional hitters out, it was just going to be ridiculously improbable. I literally had no clue.

I didn’t even know the actual baseball rules for checking runners at first base when in the stretch position on the mound. The first time I turned my head and my shoulders to check on a runner, the umpire didn’t say anything until after the pitch, when he walked to the mound and softly said “That’s a balk. I know you’re not a pitcher, but you can only turn your head. Once you’re set, you can’t turn your upper body. OK?” I said thank you. That was kind of him.

The first time my catcher put down two fingers for a curveball, I was standing on a minor league mound with paying customers (including my mom) watching me and I really didn’t have a good idea about how to throw one of those from the submarine arm slot I was using. So I slung it up there kind of like a frisbee and the hitter swung and missed. I will never forget how stunned and amazed I was when I struck out my first batter. I couldn’t believe any professional hitter (other than maybe me) would be so inept that my slop would strike him out. It was nuts. Just plow forward, though, right? If you just go for it, sometimes good things happen. Weird. Final line as a pitcher, for all eternity…  10 innings pitched. 12 hits. 4 earned runs allowed. 6 strikeouts. 3.60 ERA. Pitching must be easy!

And here’s something delightful that is, believe it or not, baseball connected. A few blogs back I included the fun story of going down to tiny Miesville, Minnesota to watch Terry and Lynn Blake’s son Dylan play Town Ball for the Miesville Mudhens. That was fun, but what we did before the game was equally memorable. In tiny Miesville, there’s one bar that serves burgers and another place called Wiederholt’s Supper Club. Lynn and Terry had been to the bar, which was OK they said, but they really wanted to scope out the Supper Club to see what it was like. So that’s where we went to eat dinner before the game. I mean, how good could an old-school Supper Club in an “out in the middle of nowhere” town of less than 200 people be? Turned out it was great!

It’s a big place, with a lot of seating capacity and tables they can move around to adjust to the size of your party. And it was packed. There is no doubt in my mind that a lot of the people eating there had driven quite a distance to get there, just like we did. I mean, there were more people in Wiederholt’s than there are in Miesville. And the food was spectacular! What a gem of a place to discover. We’re looking forward to seeing Dylan and his team play again, and Wiederholt’s will be on the agenda. I had the Walleye sandwich and it was great.

Once again, I started this blog with no idea what I’d write about. Zero. And then I looked outside and pondered the weather. It all just happened from there. From rain, to playing catch, to Coach Bobby Hughes, to Wiederholt’s Supper Club. See? Pitching must be easy…

See you next week. Hopefully something will happen between now and then to give me some material. Now, I have to get back to writing my new book so I can finish the chapter I’m almost done with. It’s flying along pretty well right now, and it’s a joy to immerse myself in the characters and stories.

If you just read this nonsense and found it enjoyable, you know the drill. Click on that snazzy “Like” button at the top. That’s easier to do than striking out a hitter.

Bob Wilber, at your service and still wondering how to throw a curve as a submarine pitcher. Strike three!

 

Yesterday was my birthday. My 63rd birthday, for the record, although that number seems made up and random to me. I mean, it can’t really be my age, right? When I close my eyes and picture myself I’m about 35, I think. That’s probably why I am quite often rudely stunned when I look in the mirror in the morning. The concept and the reality are often quite different.

Birthdays have a way of making a person reflect on the big picture, and that’s how I spent much of yesterday. I was just trying to digest it, make sense of it, and look back over all six decades plus three years. What did it all mean? What have I accomplished beyond simply making it this far into my 60s? What are the threads that bind the whole story together?

Well, for 20+ years I was in professional drag racing. I never expected to be there and certainly didn’t plan it from an early age. It just happened sort of organically. You know, one thing leads to another, and another, and then you’re standing 10 feet behind a Nitro Funny Car as it leaves the starting line and 11,000 horsepower shakes your entire body. I loved it. I needed to, because 20+ years of the travel and the stress would make it untenable if it was just a job or just a way to make a living. I loved it.

As my book “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” detailed (probably in too much detail, actually) there were those years in soccer. I’d fallen in love with the indoor game just after that Americanized version of the sport was invented and presented to the public. Somehow, some way, I managed to go from being a fan in the stands to being a front office executive for three different franchises. I just made it happen. I willed it to happen. I loved it. Every minute of it. Well, except that moment when the Indianapolis Twisters owner stood at the podium in my office and folded the franchise in front of a room full of reporters and TV camera crews. He was the only one in the room who knew what he was about to do. Didn’t love that too much, and it marked the end of my indoor soccer “career.”

There were other ventures in the sports marketing world, which provided trips to foreign lands, introductions to famous athletes, and other VIP sorts of escapades. It all seems surreal now. So wait, I sat in a room with Magic Johnson and we just chatted like two guys who did stuff like that all the time? Really? Did that actually happen? It did. There are too many of those sorts of stories to document, although I did my best with the book.

What’s the one thread, though, that runs through all of this? From birth to the 63rd birthday I celebrated yesterday? Oh, and by the way, we capped off the day-long celebration with a stunningly wonderful dinner at St. Paul Grill, inside the St. Paul Hotel, which is located guess where. Downtown St. Paul, of course. Almost certainly a tie for “Best Filet Mignon” ever for me. There can’t be just one, but all those that tie for best-ever come from a very short list of world-class restaurants. It was sublime.

So back to the question I started that last paragraph with, before my digression about food. What’s that one thread? What connects all the dots? You know what it is. It’s baseball.

Every single day of my life has been centered around or directly tied to baseball. It’s in my blood, it’s in my DNA, and it seems to be in a vast amount of my life’s memories. Baseball.

I have never discovered a single photo of me playing the game in grade school. None exist, as far as I can tell. The earliest photo of me in a uniform is found in my St. Louis U. High yearbook, from my senior season. It’s so grainy, out of focus, and harshly full of shadows it looks like it might have been shot with a Kodak Instamatic (without the rotating flash cube.) We are a motley crew, and in the full photo half the team is looking elsewhere. Others look sloppy or disinterested. I look like a baseball player.

I was the son of a former big league catcher. I was supposed to be a baseball player. I spent many consecutive summers with Dad in ballparks ranging from RFK Stadium in DC, to Mile-High Stadium in Denver, to Fairgrounds Park in Spokane. All the while, thanks to those ballpark experiences shagging fly balls during batting practice, I became a hell of an outfielder who couldn’t much hit his way out of a wet paper sack. I had a lot of development ahead of me. It would take a while.

And I didn’t just live for playing the game on the field. I’ve been a fan since Day 1. I’m still a fan. I love the fact that baseball is nearly a daily companion from the start of Spring Training in March, to the end of the World Series in October or November. I get through the winter on hockey, football, and basketball, but I live and breathe baseball. I truly miss it during the offseason.

Cardinal fan? Of course. You don’t grow up in St. Louis as the son of a former Cardinal without being directly tied to it. I’ve watched the Red Birds play in old Sportsman’s Park on Grand Avenue, to the circular Busch Stadium in downtown, to the new Busch Stadium, which was being built during the last season in old Busch. The footprints overlapped, though, so the minute the 2005 season ended the construction crews had to race to be ready, tearing down the old park to finish the new one. They didn’t quite make it. The multi-decked seats in left field were not done in time, and the park opened with many sections still closed and under construction.

Twins fan? Of course. You don’t grow up in St. Louis as the son of the Twins top scout and Fall Instructional League manager without becoming devoted to the team I never thought I’d be able to root for in person. And then in 2002 we moved here. Took a long time to close that loop, but now I’m “home” in Minnesota while I pay attention to the Cardinals from a distance. Full circle.

I was extremely fortunate to earn a scholarship to Southern Illinois University – Edwardsville, where I’d spend four years getting a great education while the one-and-only Coach Roy Lee pushed, prodded, pulled, and otherwise did all he could to make me the best hitter I could be before it was time to graduate. I had my moments. I would have had no moments at all without Coach Lee.

I made friends at SIUE on those teams that I still stay in near constant contact with today. Social media makes that much easier. Those are the kinds of friendships that last forever. Roommates. Teammates. Friends. We’ll always be Cougar brothers. I cherish every memory.

It didn’t matter what academic quarter it was, or what season of the year, or what the weather was like. We were Cougar Baseball brothers. It’s why we were there. It provided us with bachelor’s degrees we have used to make our marks elsewhere in life, but it was baseball that tied it all together. It was a wonderful place to go to school, and it was an even better place to play ball. Our two NCAA Div. II World Series appearances, and the induction of both of those teams into the school’s Hall of Fame, are indicative of just how amazing it all was, even if we didn’t know it at the time.

Today, the much-improved and upgraded ballpark at SIUE is name Roy E. Lee Field.

And then baseball fate intervened again, when the Detroit Tigers were either smart enough or silly enough to offer me a contract to play professionally, for the incredible sum of $500 per month. And that doesn’t even include the $500 “bonus” I got for signing, as if I needed a little more incentive to put my autograph at the bottom of that lengthy official document.

Of course, the Tigers then found a way to demote Dan O’Connor, Buddy Slemp, and me from the Bristol team, despite the fact it was their Rookie League club. They shipped us all the way up the road to Paintsville, Kentucky. That was a move that created one of the best summers of my life.

We, of course, had no idea what we were in for. We didn’t even know where Paintsville was. Heck, we’d only known each other for about four days. As it turned out, Paintsville was baseball heaven. We were enormous fish in a little tiny pond, but we were Paintsville’s fish and they took incredible care of us. And I started hitting a little better. Long days and bus rides with Vince “The Bronze Fox” Bienek, Eddie “Boxhead” Gates and the rest of the Hilanders were priceless.

Baseball took me from grade school, to high school, to college and then to pro ball. If given the opportunity to go back and change any of it, I would respectfully decline. I wouldn’t change a thing.

I got to go to Spring Training as a professional baseball player. I was in uniform at Tiger Town, with a whole bunch of outstanding players. And I didn’t look out of place. I’d lived my entire life dreaming of being in such a place. And there I was. That’s why Marchant Stadium in Lakeland had to be on our “SIUE Roomies Reunion” itinerary this past spring, when Lance, Radar, Oscar and I ventured down to Florida.

And then, out of the blue, my life instantly changed from hot and steamy central Florida to the beauty of the Great Northwest. Here you go kid. Drive 1,000 miles home to St. Louis and get right on a plane bound for Medford, Oregon. You’ll figure it out. You’ll make friends. You’ll get hurt and it will be bloody. And then you’ll pitch!

Go figure. I couldn’t have written the script if I tried. And I did figure it out. And I did make friends. Dear close ones, at that. And I still have the scar and the caps on my teeth. And, yes, I pitched. After Oakland A’s catcher Mike Heath caught me in the bullpen at Royals Stadium so that A’s pitching coach Lee Stange could evaluate this 23-year-old outfielder turned reliever, it was all “that close” to happening for real. But “that close” doesn’t cut it. Still, wonderful memories and an incredible experience. Even the 15-hour bus rides.

When the spikes were hung up, it was time for baseball to intervene once again. That thread that ties it all together. It was surely a strong one.

Rather than work in a salt mine, or even a broadcast booth, I went to work for the Toronto Blue Jays. For parts of four years I watched baseball for a living. Just like my dad before me, I became a scout. It was in my blood.

When it was time to move on, my sports marketing career took over but baseball re-entered my life back out on the playing field. For a decade I played with the best bunch of goofballs you could ever meet, on the incredible Sauget Wizards semipro team. Were we good? It was the best overall talent I ever shared a dugout with. Sometimes I forget just how good we were. You don’t beat the USA National Team, fully stocked with future big leaguers, and become the only American-based team to ever beat them, without being pretty good. And I went deep to cap it off.

After all that time, I had finally become a hitter. I don’t profess to fully understand it, but I assume it was just a late spurt in size and strength. Plus a little knowledge and a lot of dedication. In all regards, I was a late bloomer.

Let me try to explain this, especially for those of you who never played the game or at least didn’t keep playing once Little League was over.

There is NO SENSATION in the world that matches the feeling in your hands when you hit a moving baseball so hard it’s a foregone conclusion that it’s going over the fence. It’s the sweetest feeling in the world, but it’s hardly a feeling at all! Most of the time you contact a pitched ball, there’s a little tug, or a push, or a vibration, or even a sting involved with it. You feel the bat hit the ball. Sometimes it feels pretty good, and sometimes it feels like you have a handful of angry bees. But you feel it.

When you absolutely crush one, it’s as if the bat went right through the ball and just vaporized it. You see it, of course, but you don’t feel it. If you’ve mashed it hard enough and gotten it up in the air (everyone talks about “launch angle” these days) you know it’s gone. By the time I was a Wizard, I could finally do that and do it quite often. Hitting .380 with 15 to 20 bombs a season got to be routine. And the joy of it never left me.

I clearly remember how my game totally changed. I was in my late 20s entering my 30s and I was a different player. I was as focused as I’d ever been, as well. I remember never taking a pitch off when I played in the outfield. Guys like Robert Giegling, Jim Greenwald, Gerry Pitchford, Dan Nicholson, and I stayed focused on every pitch. We communicated and backed each other up like we were in the big leagues and 40,000 people were watching. It was the greatest fun I ever had playing the game. And we won a lot, which made it even better.

In the decade or so where I was working for a living but playing semipro ball, I did spend two seasons playing for teams other than the Wizards. When I was living in suburban Washington, DC I played for a team in Fairfax. Again, didn’t know a soul the day I showed up but that summer was fantastic and the guys were great. Mark Siciliano, Richie Gill, Bill Harris, and all these guys, were just great. Baseball does that. The same thread that ran through my life ran through theirs. It’s a strong thread. It binds ballplayers together.

The highlight, of course, was the day we beat the Korean National team and yours truly hit a no-doubter about a mile. Or 400 feet. Felt like a mile, and I even got to stand there and admire it for a split second. Then we won the Eastern Seaboard Championship and off I went back to St. Louis and the Wizards.

In 1995 I was somehow wrangled into being the player/manager for what was supposed to be a fun “front office” team for the Kansas City Attack indoor soccer club. It was hardly that. Most of the guys who wanted to play wouldn’t have made even decent slow-pitch softball players, so I scrambled to find some former high-level college guys who wanted to play. It was fun, we won the championship, I loved the managing side of it (again, following the DNA I got from my dad), and I “raked” as we say when you’re hitting well for a long period of time. It wasn’t the Wizards or Fairfax, but it was good college-level baseball. It’s baseball. It’s in my blood, but it wasn’t necessarily in my shoulder or hamstrings. That year in KC was the last I played. I was about to turn 40.  That’s what you call “milking all you can out of the game.”

Since then, from Indianapolis, to Chapel Hill, to Austin, to Woodbury, to Spokane, and back to Woodbury, I’ve just been a fan. I’m still a student of the game, and that’s a good new trick for this old dog. The science of the game, from launch angles, to spin rates, to shifts, and analytics are mostly far newer than the last game I played. There’s a lot to learn. And here we are in June and I’m once again loving the chance to enjoy the game almost every single day. When Roy Smalley or Justin Morneau are in the Twins broadcast booth with play-by-play announcer Dick Bremer, I learn something every night. I’m too old to play, but I hope I’m never to old to learn.

There’s also this thing in Minnesota. It’s called “Town Ball” and it goes on all over the state. It’s really unique, and it’s legendary up here. It’s good baseball with a lot of current or former college guys thrown in with a few ex-pros and some “slightly more mature” locals. So, it sounds like the baseball the Wizards or Fairfax played, but it’s different. It’s about the towns. It’s about lovely ballparks and avid fans, who treat their local Town Ball team as their own franchise.

Our friends Terry and Lynn Blake have a son named Dylan who is a heck of a college player at St. Olaf, here in the Twin Cities. Dylan plays Town Ball during the summers (he’ll be a senior this fall) and this year he’s playing for the Miesville Mudhens. To find Miesville on a map you’ll have to find the road that connects St. Paul to Red Wing, down on the Mississippi south of here. Then you’ll need to zoom in quite a bit. I don’t believe there are 200 residents in Miesville, but the atmosphere at their wonderful ballpark is fantastic. I know this because Barbara and I joined Terry and Lynn last Friday night, to watch Dylan and his team play. They demolished a team that wasn’t very good. Dylan was great. The experience was priceless.

There is such local pride in these Town Ball places and parks. I hope the guys who get to play in these little burghs, country villages, or midsize suburbs appreciate what they have and what they get to do. And they need to stop worrying about spin rates and launch angles, at least for a while. Just hit the ball as hard as you can and run everything out. Love the game. Focus on every pitch.

During the game, Terry and I talked about something I wanted to do for my 63rd birthday. I wanted to dig one of my old gloves out of a duffle bag and play catch. Just me and him on any open field we could find. I wanted to feel the ball in my hand again, and hope to high-heaven that my right shoulder wouldn’t disintegrate on the first soft toss.

Yesterday, we did that. It was simultaneously wonderful and frustrating. It’s been about 20 years since I put the glove on, held a baseball, and threw it to another guy. A few recreational softball games over the drag racing years, and one day of batting practice for ESPN when we were racing in St. Louis and we could head over the SIUE to do that. But to stand 20 or 30 feet apart and play catch? It was time to do that.

Here’s what I learned. I have great mental memories, but the muscle memory of throwing a ball is pretty dim. I’ll need to get together with Terry quite a few more times to get that back. I also wear glasses now, all the time. They have a progressive prescription, and there are three blended zones in each lens. The bottom part is for reading, the middle for computer work, and the top for distance. Well…  The first ball Terry threw to me went into and back out of focus multiple times on its short trip to me. It was like trying to play catch with one eye closed and the other one out of focus. It was really frustrating, and only a little dangerous. Fortunately, I didn’t take one off the nose.

We’ll figure that out. And we’ll do it again. And I’ll build up some morsel of arm strength and rekindle some of that muscle memory.

After all. It’s baseball. I’ve been on this planet for exactly 63 years and one day. There has been baseball for every day of it. It’s in my blood and my DNA. It represents my roots and my foundation. It’s in me. I love the game.

And I leave you with photographic evidence of how the game impacts your life in so many wonderful ways. It’s Radar, Lance, and me around 1980. We had reconvened at SIUE as alumni players, there to take on the varsity. It wasn’t pretty, but it made clear to me that these friendships, this brotherhood, was deeper and more lasting than I may have ever anticipated.

And that’s the game.

I love it. I do so deeply love it.

I’ll see you all next week. I promise the whole damn thing won’t be about baseball, but this one just needed to get from my brain and my heart onto the blog page.

If you enjoyed it, please click on the “Like” button at the top. “Likes” are the equivalent of solidly struck line drives.

Bob Wilber, at your service and still loving the game.

 

 

It only took something like 52 years. In the fall of 1967, just after the St. Louis Cardinals cemented themselves as the sports anchor for a great sports city by winning the World Series (over the Boston Red Sox, by the way) the St. Louis Blues took the ice at the old (and classic) St. Louis Arena. They were part of a six-team expansion of the historic but quaint National Hockey League. It wasn’t a bad plan by the NHL. Expansion teams are almost always terrible, so if six new teams were added to double the size of the league, why not put them all in one division together? Parity is better than disparity.

The Blues somehow managed to win their side of the ladder that first year, beating fellow rookie franchises the Minnesota North Stars and the Philadelphia Flyers to advance all the way to the Stanley Cup Finals, where they would play the Montreal Canadiens. That’s a bit like a World Series between the Toledo Mud Hens and the New York Yankees. The Canadiens swept the series 4-0, and it wasn’t that close. The next year, in ’69, the Blues made it back again but once more fell in four straight to Montreal. Another year later, it was their third trip to the Cup Finals and it was the Boston Bruins turn to sweep them. And that was it.

The team with the charming “blue note” logo on their chest would have their ups and downs. Stars came and went, wins and losses generally lined up with more of the “L’s” than “W’s” but there were good teams in there, and some great players. The franchise reached its low point in the mid-70s, when on the verge of financial collapse the original owners, the Salomon brothers, sold the team and the building to Ralston Purina, a St. Louis-based giant in the pet food industry. Ralston bought the club out of sense of local loyalty. They basically just saved the franchise. They also changed the name of the Arena to the Checkerdome. Anyone around at that time will never forget that. By the early 80s, the team was again bleeding money and Ralston wanted out. When the proposed sale of the team to a group that would relocate it to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan was announced, the NHL put up a stop sign. They would not approve that deal. So, Ralston basically handed the team to the NHL and said “We’re done.”

Only at the last minute did the NHL find a buyer, a guy named Harry Ornest who had made his “fortune” in the vending machine business. You can’t make this stuff up. Though they ran on a shoestring and plodded along for years, the franchise was finally safe and viable. Then, through the 80s, 90s, 00’s and teens, the Blues played hockey. Sometimes very well. Sometimes not so. They never sniffed the Cup through all those years. They never got back to another Stanley Cup Finals.

In 1994 they finally moved out of the Arena and into a new downtown building. That was a sad day for many of us. The Arena had been built in the late 1920s as the home of the National Dairy Show (again, can’t make this up) and it too had seen its better days. “The Old Barn” was continually being renovated, once the Blues moved in, but it finally got to a point where nothing much more could be done. What could never be taken away from it, though, was the atmosphere in there. They probably would not allow a builder to replicate it, today. It was one large bowl of seating for 18,000, and the angle of the grandstands was enormously steep. In any location, the person sitting directly one row ahead of you would never block your view. Their head would be somewhere near your knees.

It was loud. For many years it was smoky. The place rocked. I saw too many concerts there to count, and my ears are still ringing from a few of those shows by The Who, Led Zeppelin, and Rush.

Around 1980 a new sports franchise came to town, and they shared the Arena with the Blues. They were the St. Louis Steamers of the new Major Indoor Soccer League. If you’ve read my book “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” you know that team changed my life. There was a point there, in the early to mid-80s, when the Steamers packed standing-room-only crowds into the Arena regularly, playing those fierce New York Arrows, or Kansas City Comets. And let’s not forget the Wichita Wings and the Hartford Hellions. Or the Cleveland Force, for that matter. Meanwhile, the Blues were again struggling to find their footing in the St. Louis sports landscape. It was just never easy for the Blues.

As for The Old Barn, I was lucky enough to finally work there in two different capacities. First, as an usher during my first couple of years of college at SIU-Edwardsville. My apartment at SIUE was approximately 25 minutes from the Arena. I tested that timing pretty regularly, just getting to the ushers check-in vestibule inside the back entrance with a minute or two to spare, on many nights. I saw an awful lot of Blues games that way, although technically speaking we weren’t supposed to watch the games, we were supposed to face the fans in our sections. But hey…  Then later, after the Steamers died and the St. Louis Storm came to town in 1989, I was hired as Vice President – Sales and Marketing. Our offices were in the tower on the left side of the photo above, on the third and fourth floors. To work for a franchise there, even if it was indoor soccer, was an honor and a thrill. Learning the hidden passageways and secret hallways deep within the bowels of the place was sort of like earning your Arena brotherhood badge.

Now, about my personal Blues fandom. I was a huge fan when they came to town. I was also 11 years old. My dad bought two season tickets behind one of the goals, in the Arena Circle sections. The seats in the Arena were blue nearest the ice (the section known as the Parquet) then a wide band of yellow seats around the middle of the building (Arena Circle) then another section of blue seats all around the top (Upper Circle). Our season tickets were in the top row of the yellow seats.

My dad and I went to a lot of games. It was electrifying, and it helped that the NHL did that expansion the way they did. When the Blues played the North Stars, Flyers, Los Angeles Kings, Pittsburgh Penguins, or California Seals, the games were competitive and the Blues looked pretty good. The “proof in the pudding” always showed up in the Finals.

My dad also worked a winter job in those days. Baseball scouts did not make much money, and as great as his playing career had been he was never paid enough to fully retire and relax. Most winters, he worked at Casey’s Sporting Goods in downtown Kirkwood, where we lived. I’d often go back to work with him after dinner, and I clearly remember how the Blues and hockey in general had exploded in popularity then. It seemed the whole store was full of pucks and sticks. I can close my eyes and see nearly every inch of that store. And I can still smell it.

I stayed a huge fan for a few more years, but there often seemed to be a kind of division in my town. St. Louis was, is, and always will be a baseball town. Over the course of my lifetime the Gateway City has lost two NFL teams; the original Cardinals (aka The Big Red) and the Rams. St. Louis couldn’t or wouldn’t support the NBA (the Hawks) or the ABA (the Spirits). The Steamers came in with a bang and for a while a lot of people thought indoor soccer was going to be around forever. It wasn’t. The Blues, meanwhile, had an avid core fan base but couldn’t seem to get over the hump. And in suburban St. Louis, where I grew up, there seemed to be a slightly perceptible line between baseball and hockey fans. The Cardinals were everyone’s team, but kind of in a heartfelt blue-collar way. The Blues played to a slightly more affluent suburban audience, or at least it seemed that way at the time. It wasn’t a conscious decision on my part. I didn’t sit down and analyze it, but my heart was always with baseball. I’m a baseball guy first, by birth. That doesn’t mean I stopped being a Blues fan. I’ve been a Blues fan since Day 1, although much of it, basically the last 30 years, has been from afar.

I still paid close attention when I was living in St. Louis, and I still went to a number of Blues games each winter. But baseball would always be my first love. That’s just how it was. So on and on it went. For decades. There were some great Blues teams, and I’d always follow along and watch them on TV. I probably ventured down to the Arena, just across Highway 40 from Forest Park, for four or five games a year then, as well. My gosh, there was nothing like hockey in the old Arena. There was also nothing like making the trek in from the huge parking lots surrounding the building, on a windy and frigid January night, just trying to survive until the interior warmth of The Old Barn welcomed you like a warm cup of hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

Over those decades, the Blues’ old expansion brethren found their legs and didn’t seem so much like expansion teams anymore. OK, well not the California/Oakland Seals. That franchise never worked. The Seals ended up moving to Cleveland to become the Cleveland Barons. See? It didn’t work. The Barons lasted only two seasons before merging (seriously) with the Minnesota North Stars in 1978. It’s amazing to think that as recently as my senior year in college the NHL was still in such flux. But the Flyers, Penguins, and Kings, all became solid NHL fixtures. When the Penguins win a Cup these days, it’s as if one of the oldest, most historic, and storied franchises in league history has done it. They’ve only been in the league since the Blues joined. The histories are just a little different. As for the North Stars, they got to a couple of Finals but they never won the Cup in Minnesota, and they moved to Dallas in 1993. Doors close and doors open. The North Stars’ move opened the door for the arrival of my current “home town” team, the Minnesota Wild.

St. Louis certainly gets spoiled by the Cardinals. So much so, that when the Red Birds are just “good” but not “great” there is a general feeling of frustration, but it is always tempered with hope. 19 National League pennants and 11 World Series championships will absolutely give fans hope. It’s one of the greatest franchises in baseball history, and I’m proud to be the son of a Cardinal and part of the Cardinal family. Yes, it’s a bit cliche and maybe even tiresome, but Cardinal fans are often referred to as the best fans in baseball. That’s a partisan statement that would be disputed by fans of many other teams. And that’s a good thing. Everyone should have that passion. There’s enough of it to go around.

Blues fans have recently been dubbed things like “long suffering” but I don’t see it that way. Long suffering would indicate the team has rarely been competitive. They’ve often been very competitive. And the atmosphere at Blues games continues to be fantastic, year in and year out. Their fan base is loyal and large. They’re passionate. There’s no “suffering” in being a Blues fan. Until last night, the overall mission was just incomplete. It had been incomplete for most of my life.

I’ll admit I wasn’t paying attention when, at midseason this year, the Blues had the worst record in the NHL. I was focused on the disappointment of our local team, the Wild. I wasn’t exactly dialed in when the Blues went on some long winning streaks to get back into contention. They make the playoffs a lot, so when they did that and the Wild did not, it wasn’t news to me. I obviously knew the Blues had never won the Cup because I lived through even the earliest seasons, but my brain voted against doing the math to come up with the 52 years part of the equation. And then they started winning round after round.

The Blues bandwagon is a big one, and it’s very welcoming. I didn’t feel out of place during the second and third rounds when my original hometown team started to look for real. I was fully onboard the mythical bandwagon, standing and waving, by the time they got to the Finals against the Boston Bruins, the last team to beat them in the final round back when I was about to turn 14. Beginning the series, the Blues’ entire record in the Stanley Cup Finals was 0-12. Three straight sweeps.

When they stunned the Bruins in Boston, by winning in overtime in Game 2, they not only notched their first Finals win, they broke the barrier.

It was a very hard fought series, and as is often the case during the Stanley Cup Finals that’s an understatement. When two physical teams go at it at 100% for every second of every game, there seems to be no space out on the ice. Big bodies are everywhere. Hits are delivered, passes can’t get through, sticks are always in the way. For even a first-time viewer, it doesn’t take more than a minute to realize why winning the Stanley Cup is roundly considered the most difficult feat in sports. It’s phenomenal what these athletes put themselves through just to hoist that big silver trophy.

And that’s how it went for seven games. Game seven just happened to be in Boston. Winning a Finals game (three of them to that point) had been accomplished. Could actually winning the Cup be possible?

We had a dinner get-together with one of Barbara’s former colleagues last night, at Mall of America. It was wonderful and the company was stellar. I was trying not to think of the game.

We got home during the first intermission. By the time I turned the TV on and got settled, the Blues were up 2-0 with about 15 minutes to play in the second period. I had no idea who had scored for them or how. I didn’t care. The freaking St. Louis Blues were up 2-0 in the seventh game of Lord Stanley’s playoffs. I was glued to the TV while sitting on a sofa in Minnesota. The second intermission seemed to last about an hour.

When the third period started, I couldn’t help but join millions of Blues fans by mentally mapping out how this all could end. If they gave up three and lost, it would be heartbreaking. But, at least your mind has the ability to chant the old “They have so much to be proud of” mantra.

And then they scored a third. And a fourth. And the clock was ticking down. The Bruins got one late, but there wasn’t enough clock left. The final minute was a pre-celebration celebration. When the horn went off, I had tears in my eyes.

My brain was instantly flooded with memories of sitting next to my dad at the Arena, of the smell and look of the building, of the Blues streaming out of their locker room to take the ice in front of another standing ovation. These were overlapped with visions of Casey’s Sporting Goods, of shooting rubber pucks at my dad’s unprotected legs in our garage, and of the absolutely unabashed purity of being a fan at such a young age, with my father so often by my side. Family. Hockey. Blues hockey.

52 years. A franchise that has seen more highs and lows than most. A franchise that literally escaped moving to Saskatoon by the width of a stick blade. Fans who have put up with it all and cheered lustily all along the way. The Stanley Cup is coming home to St. Louis. It’s hard to fathom.

How did my hometown follow along during Game 7? All at home on their sofas, like me? Well, no.

More than 18,000 showed up the Blues home arena in downtown, to watch on the big screen and have their own “home game” while their team was in Boston.

The Cardinals were on the road, but they opened Busch Stadium for Blues fans in a great show of “we’re all one big St. Louis sports family” and around 19,000 more went there, watching Game 7 of the Stanley Cup playoffs in a beautiful ballpark built specifically for that other sport in town. Others just wandered around downtown, or packed local bars. Somehow, after all that celebrating, thousands more were out at Lambert International Airport to welcome the Blues’ team charter when it landed during the wee hours. The players brought the Cup to the fans, allowing them to reach out and touch it.

This was for the Salomon brothers, who brought the team to St. Louis and who resurrected an ancient but iconic building for them to play in. It’s for the greats who came before this group. It’s for Red Berenson, Al Arbour, Noel Picard, Glenn Hall, Bobby Plager, and Jacques Plante. It’s for Garry Unger, Bernie Federko, Brian Sutter, and Mike Liut. It’s for Brett Hull, Brendan Shanahan, Adam Oates and even Wayne Gretzky. Yes, Wayne Gretzky played for the Blues for a little while, in ’95-’96. It’s for all the guys who have worn the blue note proudly.

It’s for the fans. The passionate and loyal fans. During this improbable run, they never stopped believing. Against all odds, they always had their team in their hearts.

It’s for St. Louis. I am so proud to be a St. Louisan.

Way to go Blues!

I’ll see you all next week. As always, if you just read this blog and enjoyed it, please take the time to click on the “Like” button at the top.

 

Greetings blog faithful. I am, indeed, a day late and 72-cents short, but I’m here and that’s what counts. It has not been what I would refer to as “a fun week” for me, but it’s all part of life. The short and not-too-graphic version of it is this: We had a great day last Sunday, finishing it up with a wonderful dinner at Lakes Grill, here in Woodbury, before coming home to watch the new HBO “Deadwood” movie on our big screen. It was a terrific day.

A quick diversion, though, before I get into the “not-too-graphic” stuff… If you were a fan of “Deadwood” the HBO series, you absolutely must watch the new movie. I’m not kidding. It’s required. It’s almost some sort of law. If you never watched the series back when it was on from 2004 through 2006, the long-awaited movie may make no pertinent sense to you, but I’d still advise watching it just to see brilliance on display in terms of sets, scripts, costumes, and language. OK, maybe you better just spend most of this weekend binge-watching the series. Then, you’ll be good to go for the feature film.

The movie takes place 10 years after the series ended. That’s a noteworthy thing because South Dakota was going through a lot of changes then. Also, since all the surviving actors came back to be in the new movie, it fits perfectly in terms of how they look and act. It’s genius. I was just checking Wikipedia to make sure I had the years right for the series, and I followed a few links to various publications who now consider it one of the greatest series of all time. It grabbed you, held you, scared you, challenged you, and made you laugh. And I always say, it’s the only TV series I ever watched that I swore I could smell. The movie is all of that squared. It’s two hours of cinematic master work.

OK, back to the subject at hand today. After that great dinner and the movie, we went to bed and slept like bricks. But when I woke up on Monday morning I could tell things weren’t right. We’d both eaten the same thing at dinner, so it wasn’t that. My stomach, instead, felt as if some evil alien was inside it, trying to drill and bite its way out. I wasn’t too eager to see the special effects. To sum it up, let’s just say the next 48 hours were suboptimal.

To make it worse, I slept zero minutes on Monday night. Then on Tuesday, I might have fallen asleep five or six times, but only for little 10 minute increments.

And even when 48-hours of gross stuff was over, there were side-effects to deal with. My back muscles and stomach muscles (I hesitate to classify what I have as “abs”) were so sore I could barely stand even the slightest cough.

But now it’s Friday, and I’m ready to go. Still feels like I’m running on about five or six cylinders, but the truly bad stuff is behind me. So let’s get to the subject at hand…

I realize I’ve been introspectively writing a lot about things that have influenced me recently, such as books or music or momentous occasions. Today, it’s people. This list is just going to scratch the surface, and it’s not really in any specific order, although I’ll admit I’m leaving the two most obvious listings for last. These are people who showed me something, whether overtly or not. People who inspired me. Colleagues who led by example until I finally came to the realization of “Well, gosh, that’s what life is about.” They are not the types who shout opinions from a soapbox or feel they are the only smart person in the room. They are all influencers. Mentors. Leaders. I will always be thankful for having crossed paths with each of them and for what they’ve meant to me, and I’ll feel the same way about the hundreds of others who aren’t on this list but didn’t make this particular blog only because I can’t type that much. I hope you all know who you are and why you’ve impacted my life so much.

There is an old saying about leopards and their spots. Basically it means, you are what you are. Those spots will never move around or change. I detest that saying. It’s incorrect.

We are influenced by others in many ways. During our early years, it’s mostly by osmosis. We absorb what our parents impart to us. That’s why so many of us grow up as the next image of our folks. At some point, a lot of people put their foot down and say “This is what I am. This is how I was raised! Don’t try to change me.” I sigh when I hear that. I’m living proof it’s not true and it can be enormously unhealthy. There are many people who are influencing me right now, and yet they may not even know it.

Here we go…

Elon Werner and Dave Densmore

If you’ve spent more than just a few minutes within the sphere of NHRA Drag Racing and have been even a peripheral part of the Media Relations and Public Relations effort, you likely feel just like I do about these two gentlemen. They are “pro’s pros” who represent the height of what can be done in terms of promotions and publicity. They are also platinum-grade people. They both inspired me from the first moment I met them, and much of that time had them working side-by-side to promote John Force Racing and (at the time) Ford.

They’re very different, but very much the same. Elon is the type of PR rep who loves the thrill of the sales pitch. He’ll work and prod a major national publication for weeks or months on end, in order to finally get a story placed. Then he’ll bust his butt to make sure the entire thing comes off without a hitch. Densie is a numbers guy, and not just for Force. If you need to know who won the NHRA Finals in 1988, in the Funny Car class, just ask him. He’ll know. It’s a cliche to say this, but it’s true. He’s forgotten more stuff than I’ve ever known. So who won the FC title in 1988 at the Finals? I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Densie.

Most importantly, they have always led by example. Can you have fun while working at a job like this? Of course you can. It can be riotous fun. We’ve all had each other in tears on too many occasions to count. But when it’s time to get to work can you block out all the distractions to get it done? Of course you can. Just by watching these two, I became the PR person I finally ended up being.

Gary Gerould

There is really no-one like Gary. During his long stint as the top-end reporter for the NHRA TV broadcasts, I actually didn’t interact with him all that much on an official basis. At Worsham Racing and Team Wilkerson, we didn’t have the staff to have a PR person in the Media Center and another person at the top end, handling hats and getting drivers into place. Yet somehow, Gary befriended me. He’d make a point of stopping by to say hi and share long conversations before we both had to get to our assigned stations. From the first time we spoke, I knew I’d met a very special person.

I remembered Gary from his many years as a TV pit reporter for the Indy 500. He’s more than just a little bit of a legend in that regard. What I wasn’t fully versed in was his incredible career as a basketball play-by-play announcer. He’s held that role, with the Sacramento Kings, since 1985. Gary Gerould is a truly famous and talented man. He’d have every right to pick and choose which important people he’d even consider as friends. He had no need to do that with me.

And yet… I think you know where I’m going with this. The influence Gary had on me was stark and obvious. We all have our talents, but none of our are skills make us any better or put us in some sort of higher place than anyone else. Gary’s graciousness and friendliness makes you feel as if you’ve been “best buddies” since childhood. It’s always an honor to head down to Target Center when the Timberwolves are playing the Kings, just to have a few moments with him before he goes on the air to weave his magic. You can’t be around Gary and not be touched and influenced by him. I know I have been. If you go through life treating everyone like Gary Gerould does, you’ll be in a very fine place. Be like Gary!

Greg Halling

This one should come as no surprise to anyone who read “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts.” Greg has been my mentor, my guiding light, my tour guide, and my inspiration since Day 1. I couldn’t have done it without him.

Neither one of us had ever really done anything like our partnership when we kicked it off in January of 2016. When I began writing, my confidence level was somewhere in the basement. At first, he acted like more of a professorial teacher, making changes and explaining them to me. I soaked it all up like a sponge.

Once he’d taught me those lessons, and I grew as a writer, he almost imperceptibly shifted into more of a motivator and guide. He’d still fix clunky parts, but he began to revel in giving me sincere compliments when what I’d just given him hit the mark purely and squarely on target.

Greg Halling has more to do with my writing style today, and much more to do with my confidence and self-worth, than he will ever know. And even though he has a backbreaking workload at his “real job” as an executive editor with a newspaper, he’s always stayed right with me in terms of my writing and his editing input. Currently, for the new book “How Far?” he’s actually waiting for me to catch up to him.

And, in the beginning when I famously asked him “How do I compensate you for this?” his answer was, “Just let me do it. I want to be a part of it. That’s all I need.”

Leah Vaughn and Kelly Wade

This shout-out is unique, because I’m older and more experienced than either of these two, but they had their impact on me in obvious ways. I’m an old guy. I started out writing press releases on a typewriter. As an old dog, I’m often dragged kicking and screaming into the land of new tricks. During my long run in the NHRA realm, new things happened fast, and it was at times a struggle for this old pooch to keep up with the rapid fire pace of the explosion we refer to as social media. These two led by example, and by sheer determination. They are two totally self-made superstars. No luck of the draw. No easy path to stardom. Just hard work and a ceaseless ability to want to keep learning and keep getting better. Yes, they motivated me and influenced me.

They’re both very smart. They have great ideas. They’re not about to shy away from trying something not just “outside the box” but from a different box altogether. As I watched them develop and become ultimate pros, I was eager to learn and adapt. And, they’re great women who wouldn’t slow down for a glass ceiling if it tried to hit them on the head to stop their progress. They’ve smashed too many to count. And, they love what they do. You can’t be around Leah and Kelly without feeling that.

I met Leah when she was still in college, just a kid looking for a mentor. I gave her a few sincere words of advice and she’s never slowed down. Today, she works for Dale Earnhardt Jr. and is becoming a superstar on his hilarious streaming show “Dale Jr. Download.” She’s earned every bit of it.

I met Kelly when she joined the NHRA Media Relations Department, as a shy newbie who wanted to make it big in PR. As it turned out, she made it huge, but it was on the team side where she had her massive impact. She loves Pro Stock, and Summit Racing Equipment made the wise choice of retaining her for their effort in that class. And when that Wilber guy departed, and Tim Wilkerson needed a new PR rep, he finally worked it out so that Kelly could couple her Summit efforts with Team Wilk’s endeavors. Magic was made. When that was announced, I called Tim and Krista and said “You just struck gold!”

Jeff Romack

You may not have ever heard of Jeff. He was contracted to do the PR for Pontiac for many years when I was working for the Worshams and we ran Firebird bodies, and he was a real behind-the-scenes guy. He worked hand-in-hand with Fred Simmonds, who ran the NHRA program for Pontiac, so I interacted with both of them a lot.

I can explain Jeff as follows. The ultimate pro. A serious but wonderful guy. A person who would not just give you the shirt off his back but would then ask you if it fit. Pontiac was fortunate to have him. I was fortunate to get to know him and work closely with him.

Jeff can do it all. He can write, he is creative, he is alway willing to take risks and chances, and throughout the time we worked together he always embraced change. But, most importantly, what I saw in Jeff that impacted me the most was his enormous integrity. If any single person taught me the most about treating everyone with respect,  and treating the sport with respect, it was Jeff.

The bottom line with Mr. Romack was this. Whenever confronted by a choice that may or may not have created a positive result for me, personally, I could always just ask myself “What would Jeff Romack do?” And that would be your answer.

Phil Burgess

It’s not at all inconceivable that I would not be writing this blog, today, without the impact Phil Burgess made on my life and career. That is not hyperbole.

Phil has been the editor of National Dragster since the day I met him. When the internet took over the world, his responsibilities expanded into overseeing NHRA.com and its many phases of growth. On a daily basis, he deals with business issues, tight deadlines, a staff of reporters and photographers, and a bevy of team PR reps who all want the cover or a main feature story. He handles all of it with professionalism and class.

I don’t remember when he first saw something in me that he liked, but it would’ve been very early on in my career when I wasn’t even half-sure what I was doing. Like a baseball scout who can see a “rough around the edges” prospect and then be able to project into the future to see what that player could possibly become if he was led the right way and taught the finer skills, he saw something.

He never really “coached” me in terms of style, but he gently pushed me away from a lot of the overly flowery stuff I tended to write. I’m sure I did that in a sort of peacock effort to show how impressive I was. His guidance was subtle, but every time he made a comment or a change, I absorbed it.

And of course, in August of 2005 he put the biggest challenge yet right in front of me. It was the blog. I wasn’t intimidated but I had no clue what I was doing. It took a while for me to settle in, but it wasn’t long before my goofy inane stuff was the leading blog, in terms of readers, on the NHRA.com page. And here I am still, on a different site but still writing the “stream of consciousness” nonsense that got me here.

When he challenged me to write a column for the magazine, that was once again him pushing me outside my limits. Writing press releases is one thing. Writing a goofy blog is another. Writing a formal magazine column is something altogether different. More than anything, Phil Burgess was about growth and expansion of one’s skills. I wouldn’t be here without him.

And, there’s rarely a week that goes by when I don’t ponder just how much I thank Phil for seeing whatever it was he saw in me.

Bob Hughes

OK, there kind of needs to be one baseball influencer in this list. Right?

Bob Hughes was a top prospect in the Dodgers organization, playing with future superstars like Ron Cey, Steve Garvey, and Bill Russell in the minors. Then the Vietnam war got him. Just before his year in-country was up, he stepped on a landmine. Somehow, the M*A*S*H surgeons saved his legs, but nobody could save his career.

He showed up in 1976 as an assistant coach for our team at SIUE, when I was a young and impressionable sophomore, and he held that position for the two seasons when we earned trips to the NCAA Div. II World Series. Both of those teams are now in the SIUE Athletic Hall of Fame. I don’t think any of that is coincidence.

Later, once my minor league days were over, Bobby invited me to come out and play a game with a new elite semi-pro team called the Sauget Wizards, based just across the Mississippi River from St. Louis. I was hooked.

Bob Hughes was a mentor, a coach, a friend, and an amazing instructor. It’s true that I blossomed late as a ballplayer. Had I been the all-around player (especially as a hitter) coming out of college as I was when I joined Coach Hughes on the Wizards, I probably would’ve gone a lot further in my pro career. I was simply a better player, but it took too long for that to happen, in terms of pro ball.

But then Coach Hughes made it a personal mission to see just how much better I could be. I played a simple game then. See the ball, hit the ball, run the bases. I was an outstanding outfielder, so we didn’t waste time on that. But we spent hours working on not just the physical art of contacting a round ball with round bat, and attempting to hit it square. He was always willing to work with me, throwing endless hours of BP. We’d sit in the dugout or stand behind the cage, as he talked me through the mental part of the game. The ability to have at least a clue what the pitcher was thinking, and how he wanted to get me out, which can increase a hitter’s chances of getting it right. We worked on hitting the ball to all fields, rather than just trying to pull everything. We worked on everything. And his influence wasn’t just there in my MVP stats and the big home runs, it was also there in my mind. It was a totally different game. The best baseball I ever played was with Bob Hughes as my player-manager, on the Sauget Wizards.

To top it all off, he was one of the funniest guys I’ve ever shared a dugout with. But most importantly, he was a mentor and a teacher. He was a motivator and skilled coach. We were all impacted and influenced by Bobby Hughes. That’s why the Sauget Wizards were so damn good.

And finally, these last two.

Barbara Doyle

That leopard and his spots. That would’ve been me for much of my first 40 years of life. I was what I was, and it wasn’t always pretty. And then Lance McCord introduced us to each other and the world changed.

Barbara is the single smartest person I know. Her jobs have always been elite executive positions since the day we traded those first emails, and she carries that insightful thought pattern into the rest of her life. She is beyond dedicated, and very much focused on doing everything she does to 101% of her abilities. She really doesn’t know how to just cruise through life on a half-effort.

Looking back on our early years, I just wonder what the hell she saw in me. I was a different person then. Yes, some of my spots have stayed in place, but most have moved. And they’ve moved into better places because of her.

She has pushed me, pulled me, guided me, taught me, and supported me. Always. I’ve learned some the lessons the truly hard way, but I’ve only learned the rest of them because she continues to make sure I’m the best person and husband I can be.

We’ve lived a challenging 22 years of marriage, with near constant travel and heavy workloads, but we’ve always made sure we had fun, at least when we could be in the same place at the same time. Yes, we’ve had to live apart a few long stretches, when work came before life, but we somehow overcame it. Just normal work life was hard, with her traveling mostly during the week while drag racing happens on the weekends. But we persevered. We’re just like anybody else when it comes to the ups and downs of a marriage, but here we are more in love today than we’ve ever been.

I consider myself the luckiest guy in the world. Without Barbara’s support, I couldn’t have done what I did in the NHRA world, at least to the successful degree I was able to accomplish it. She always supported that. She always showed me how to treat people with respect, and to put aside the differences that the world and the media try to insist are the things that define us. That’s nonsense. It’s the kindness and respect within you that defines you.

I hope I’ve had some small impact on her, in return. I think so, but that’s not what this is about.

I will never forget watching Tim Wilkerson’s car idle down the track on the my last day as a PR rep, at Pomona in 2015. It was Barbara who hugged me and shared that moment with me. Like I said above, I’m the luckiest guy in the world, even if I forget to appreciate that every now and then,

Taffy Wilber

This one is easy. As opposed to everyone else referenced here, my mom is the only one who instilled her DNA in me. She lives within me, though she is long gone. I still feel her.

She came from a dusty town outside of San Antonio. Her given name was Edna Mae, and many of her friends called her “Eddie” when she was growing up. But before long, when her beauty became unmistakeable and her hair was a rich and thick dark blonde, she landed the nickname Taffy and that stuck with her for the rest of her life.

You wouldn’t necessarily think that a young girl from San Antonio, growing up in the 30s and 40s, would end up as a such a groundbreaker. She never stopped to consider that. She was Miss Air Force at Lackland Air Force base during World War II, and she met the catcher on the base baseball team. She liked to dance, and my dad wasn’t too into that, so she’d go dancing with other soldiers during the late afternoon and Big Del would sit with her dad, one Posey Archibald Bennett, in their house until she came home. He won her over.

She raised five kids while caught in the whirlwind of my dad’s major and minor league career. “Where will we live this summer?” was an annual question they could rarely answer. She was the best mom ever.

She supported me through every trial, tribulation, and disaster I created. She applauded me and hugged me when I succeeded. She loved watching me play baseball.

She instilled so many positive attributes in me, most of which can be boiled down to this: We’re all the same. Cut us open, and we’re all the same. Color doesn’t matter. Religion doesn’t matter. Country of birth doesn’t matter. Sexual orientation doesn’t matter. Politics are nonsense. Some people are happy and others are bitter. Be with the happy people. There’s no time for bitterness. Life is short.

There were no gender-based ceilings in my mother’s mind, and that world was based in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. She was a radio host on one the biggest and most influential stations in the country. She worked in the Cardinals’ front office, doing groundbreaking work in terms of women’s and children’s promotions. She started her own PR agency, and later in life when Public Access cable shows were around, she dove into that to produce a show that helped senior citizens get the help they needed.

She was a pure inspiration. She still is. I’m the luckiest kid in the world.

I hope you enjoyed this. I enjoyed writing it, for sure.

See you next week. Here’s hoping for more inspiration but no more aliens trying to bite their way out of my stomach.

And if you just read this, and liked what you read, please click on the “Like” button at the top. Thank you!

Bob Wilber, at your service a day late but I think it was worth the wait.

 

 

Today’s headline is what we call “a play on words” and it’s possible I’ve used it before. I mean, you write a blog for close to 15 years and it’s hard to keep that sort of stuff straight. But, even with the “play” it’s an accurate description of today’s content. Once again, I started the day with a blank slate and it stayed that way until about 15 minutes ago. Then, at around 11:45, I looked on the ottoman in our living room and thought “That’s worth writing about” and off it went. Just a bunch of random things that are all worthy of inclusion, but none of which are big enough to carry the whole load.

Barbara asked me a few days ago if she could read any of what I’ve written so far, for the new book. I said, “Sure, but let me print it out for you.” She didn’t want to waste the paper, but I really thought printing it out was a good idea. I’m going to have to do it when I share it with a few technical advisors, who have offered to take a look, and more importantly I needed to see it in a different format. When you only look at it as a digital document on your laptop you start to miss things. And once you miss something, you rarely ever see it going forward. Just having it on paper made it seem like a totally different thing for me, almost as if I was reading stuff written by someone else. So, I put it all in a binder and I went through it first, finding a whole bunch of typos and other things that needed clarifying. Each time I found something, I circled it and folded over the upper corner of the page, just like you see here.

Where am I in the writing process? I’m not sure. It’s not like I set out to write a 295-page book and I have to make it fit. I could be about halfway, because the two characters are just about to meet. I could be 33% of the way. We’ll see when I’m done.

I also never set out to have an outline of X number of chapters. I write each chapter until it feels like it comes to a logical conclusion without being too long to keep a reader’s attention. Three times now, I’ve actually started a new chapter thinking “This is going to get this guy all the way to graduation” or something like that, and then I realize at about page 12 that I’m not even close. I’m trying to keep all the chapters under 15 pages, just to keep both characters fresh in the reader’s mind and to keep it moving. So, right now I’m working on Chapter 16. Not at this precise moment, of course, because right now I’m working on this blog, but that’s where I am. The binder feels pretty hefty. There are about 165 pages of standard one-sided sheets. Not sure what that equates to in a 6×9-inch formatted book, but I’m still seeing this thing somewhere under 350 pages.

The sheer length and mass of “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” was clearly something we wrestled with. When you spend four months meticulously editing just to get it DOWN to 545 pages, and you use the narrowest margins and the larger 7×10 format, you have a huge book on your hands (and hopefully not on your foot). All those edits and tricks were done to keep the page count down. For “How Far?” I’m hoping we’ll be using methods to make it much more manageable with a lot more white space. Fingers crossed!

Do I like what I’m reading? I’m hesitant to answer that, but the truth is I am. Reading it in print brought it further to life for me. It flows nicely and the two guys’ voices are clear, up in my pea-sized brain. So yeah, and I’m looking forward to creating the next 15 chapters and more. And to seeing it published.

There is a lot of hockey stuff in the book, and there was a lot of hockey stuff on my TV last night. I was dead tired (hardly slept the night before for no reason other than insomnia) so I was straining to get through the intermission after the third period and before overtime. I actually missed the game-winning goal by the Blues because I’d changed the channel during the intermission and didn’t change it back in time. Oh, but I’ve watched it a number of times since. What a huge moment for St. Louis and Blues fans everywhere.

After being in existence for more than 50 years, last night marked the St. Louis Blues’ first victory in the Stanley Cup Finals. They are now 1-13 in the Finals. Whether they win the Cup or not, they’ve finally broken the glass on that alarm box.

And now a word (or more) about Kyle Gibson.

Kyle is a starter for the Twins and has become a frontline Big League pitcher. Right now, the team’s starting staff is quite stout and he’s a big part of that. He’s also a midwestern guy (born in Indiana and drafted out of the University of Missouri) who is as much about what he does off the field as he is about what happens on the mound. He’s heavily involved in a number of charitable endeavors, and he must be a good recruiter because he’s able to get a lot of teammates to join him in those campaigns.

He recently announced a program where he and many other teammates will donate money for wins and other performance milestones. The proceeds will go to helping those who are much less fortunate. In addition to the funds the players donate, fans can also participate by making donations of any amount. I signed up right away.

I’ve seen photos of Kyle getting his hands dirty, building houses and schools, and this past winter it almost got the best of him. He, his wife, his agent, and some other players visited the Dominican Republic and Haiti to help impoverished communities, and he came down with E. coli while there. It laid him low for most of the winter, and he was actually a bit behind in Spring Training because of it, having lost a lot of weight from the illness.

After making my donation I kept up on the progress of the program but I had forgotten that the players were also donating memorabilia as rewards for those who got involved. It was a random thing, I believe, but somehow I found out on Twitter that I was the first person to win an item. Kyle tweeted it himself. I was pretty stunned.

I never donated in the hope I’d get anything out of this other than a good feeling of joining in on a great project. I also had no idea what might show up on my front porch.

Yesterday, this showed up. Well, it was in a box. Pretty cool deal, right? Thrilled to have it, but more importantly I’m thrilled to be involved and to support Kyle and his many outreach programs. He’s a good man.

A lot of people have been asking me about home runs lately. The Twins are hitting so many they’re on a pace to shatter the Major League record for home runs in a season. Of course we all know “on a pace” is one of those overused and misused phrases in sports. There are ebbs and flows and stats eventually do tend to even out. But, baseballs are flying this year. Why?

Roy Smalley spoke about it on his “Chin Music” podcast and it was typical Smalley super-intelligent stuff. I’m paraphrasing here, but basically what he said was along the lines of “I’ve been holding baseballs my entire life, and this year’s ball does feel different. It feels a bit harder. I don’t think they juiced the core of the ball or did anything on purpose to see the home runs we’re seeing, but the ball does feel harder and the seams seem smaller and tighter as well. And then there’s the maple bats so many hitters are using. Those bats are really hard.”

For way more than my lifetime just about every Major League bat was made from ash trees. It was actually pretty soft wood, and as players we’d get a new shipment from Hillerich & Bradsby and search through all the Louisville Sluggers in the box to find the bats with the tightest grain. That, at least, made the bat a bit harder. Sometimes we’d spend hours “boning” the bats by actually rubbing a hard bone along the barrel. Almost without fail, after putting all that effort into it you’d get “sawed off” by an inside pitch and break the bat within an at-bat or two. That used to drive me crazy. All that work for nothing.

Ash was becoming far more scarce a few years back, and boutique bat companies were coming up with new woods to try. Maple ended up being the best bet, apparently. I’ve never swung a maple bat so I don’t know what it feels like, but if it’s a harder and more durable wood, and if the balls are stitched together a bit tighter, that could answer the questions about the plethora of home runs. Heading into tonight’s game against the Tampa Bay Rays, the Twins have hit 106 home runs in 54 games. They still have 108 games left to play. The all-time record was set by the Yankees last year, at 266 home runs. Hmmm… It is interesting, I’ll say that.

And now a topic that should be foreign to many of you, especially those from warm-weather areas. It’s a thing called “frost heave” and it’s very real, especially up here where it gets cold and the soil is typically damp. As you know (I assume) when water freezes it expands. When it does that, it’s surprising how much weight the soil can lift. This is a photo of exactly how far the door out to our grilling deck will open.

Why? Because our harsh winter and our wet soil combined to create some very real frost heave this year. We get some of it nearly every year, as does most of Minnesota (it’s just a fact of life) and I can’t remember a year here when this door remained free and clear for 12 straight months, but it usually settled back down as things warmed up and it would open just fine, all the way to the railing. This year, it didn’t settle back down much at all.

The reason is the frost pushed up the big post that supports the far right corner of the deck. It’s now out of level, and the heave caused the entire deck to raise up on that side. I have a plan to buy a new grill soon, but until we get this fixed I’d have to take the door off to get the old grill out and the new one in. So we need to fix it, and our home builder is coming to the rescue.

We’ve owned this property since the middle of 2012, so it’s been a while, but the head of construction for the builder came out and took a look at it and he committed to getting it rectified and hopefully solved. It will involve digging out around the footing and making it more difficult for the frost to push anything up. As he said, “The frost doesn’t have to get under the footing to lift it, and these footings are way deeper than code. They’re 60 inches. The frost can grab the footing by the sides and lift it up. Pea gravel should help. The gravel acts like ball bearings and solves a lot of the heave issues.”

With more than 10,000 lakes in Minnesota, and that’s not counting the tens of thousands of ponds and marshes, we definitely do live in a moist place, and it’s something most of us are accustomed to dealing with. We’ve spent a lot of time and money working on solutions. We have installed drain tiles that run out to a main underground drain line that empties into a pond. We’ve put drain tiles around all of the back-facing foundation, and have connected it all. I think we need one more, to give the water around this post an easy way out.

It’s a Minnesota thing. As are sump pumps and drain tiles.

So that’s about it for this week, gang. Plenty of chewy randomness, but some good stories, I think. Hope you enjoyed.

And if you did enjoy, I hope you’ll click on the “Like” button at the top. Maybe if I get enough “Likes” I can buy myself a maple bat…

Bob Wilber, at your service and randomly writing.

 

When I awoke this morning, I knew it was Thursday. I also left my head on the pillow (and my right hand on Buster the cat, who loves to snuggle in the morning) while I mentally flipped through blog concepts for today. It was another one of those “I have no idea” Thursday mornings. I was drawing a blank.

After I got up and prepared to face the day, I headed down to my office in the lower level and fired up the laptop. My first stop was my Google Chrome account, which I only use for book writing because it allows me to share my chapters with editor Greg Halling, who can then make changes or suggestions and send it back to me. I was happy to see something new in the In-Box, from Greg. He’d just finished editing Chapter 15, and his only comments were “This stuff just flows, man. You’re writing at a consistently high level.” Now if that doesn’t fire you up for putting fingers to the keys, nothing will.

For this book, I’m utilizing all sorts of different approaches and different strategies than I utilized for “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts.” When you’re writing your life story, you can pretty much just sit down and write every day. It’s all in there. It’s all my voice.

But for “How Far?” it’s all different. I need to channel the two characters in order to write in their voices, and some days they just don’t cooperate. Writing isn’t like weight lifting. You can’t just “try harder” on days you don’t feel it. So I write at whatever pace my brain tells me to use. If it’s not coming effortlessly, I’ll get up and do something else. Go for a walk. Have a bowl of Cheerios. Go lift some weights, where you can try harder to do it.

Within a few minutes after reading Greg’s comments, and looking at the subtle changes he had made in that chapter, I started to realize what today’s blog would be about. I am, I believe, writing at a new level now. And, it continues to evolve and transition. No matter how long I’ve been doing this, there are new territories to conquer and tools to use. But, so many of the tools I use every day come from influential writers and their books. How did those works impact me so much that the styles or approaches stayed with me? How did I adapt those tools to my own set of skills?

I started thinking back over many of my favorite books, which led to thinking about the most influential books I ever read. Books that didn’t exactly show me how to do it, but showed me what could be done, and showed me new approaches I could either absorb or ignore. That’s today’s subject. Not necessarily my list of all-time favorite books, although all of these would be in those rankings, but rather the most influential and important books I’ve absorbed. And, I’ll tell a few of the reasons why they hold such a place for me. These are in no particular order.

Back in the mid-80s I started to hear a lot of people talking about the book “Communion” in reverential tones. It was written by Whitley Strieber. The most common comments were “You have to read this book. You won’t believe it.” So I went out and bought it, because you had to do that back then. No Kindle versions or Amazon to help you. You had to go to a bookstore. And I did.

“Communion” was incredible, and not just in a stylistic sense. To this day, Mr. Strieber insists that it’s all true and it happened to him and his family. What happened? They had “visitors” and their lives were changed. It was about alien abductions and recurring visits. It was mind blowing. And it was not a happy story. No Alf or ET among the visitors.

I only tell that story because it was the way I was introduced to Whitley Strieber’s work. A few years later, while browsing in another bookstore, I saw he had a new book out, and he had co-written it with another author, James Kunetka.

I bought it and dove in. It’s a dark book, there’s no getting around that. It’s horrifying, and scary, and so well crafted it feels like a memoir instead of fiction. It’s about all 36 minutes of World War III and the aftermath. It’s a book you hope will never come true.

But what stayed with me after reading it was the style. Strieber and Kunetka alternated chapters, writing as two characters who knew each other, but who each had their personal views and their own way of telling what it was like after the bombs went off. It mesmerized me. I, obviously, never forgot the technique.

When it was time to write a new book, I was initially stumped as to the theme. I knew I wanted to tackle fiction, but wasn’t sure how I was going to do that. And then I remembered “WARDAY” and the way it was put together. I remember telling Barbara, “There was this book, by Whitley Strieber and another author. Remember “Communion” from the 80s? Everybody was reading that book, and Strieber wrote it. For the book ‘WARDAY’ he and the other author alternated chapters, telling the same story from two different perspectives. Maybe I can find someone to do that with me.”

I thought about it for a day or two, trying analyze who I could wrangle into doing this project with me. What would be the challenges? What are the potential pitfalls? You certainly don’t want to ruin a good friendship if it all goes wrong! A few days later, over dinner, I told her, “I can do this myself. I can write it as two different characters, in their own voices. It will be a challenge, but I know I can do this.”

And so Whitley Strieber made his mark in my head. I never forgot the concept.

This next one is an absolutely mammoth book. At around 675 pages, it was also published in a small font with narrow margins and thin paper. It took weeks to read it. It was pure brilliance, but it was so complex and full of details it spawned a movie that couldn’t come close to capturing it all. You can’t take 675 pages and turn it into a 2-hour film, no matter how many major movie stars are cast. Robert Redford has basically one scene. The movie was really confusing and had no flow. The book was a masterpiece.

Cornelius Ryan was likely the greatest author in the “war history” genre. And his technique was exhausting, to him and to most readers. He spent years researching, interviewing, and digging for his favorite thing. Details!

He then crafted his books to tell the stories from an insider’s view, and the reader feels they are there, in the gliders crash landing, on the bridges, in the rivers, under assault with bullets whizzing over their head, and in the war room around the strategy tables.

The book “A Bridge Too Far” was also groundbreaking in another way. It was a microscopically detailed account of a battle that was really a loss and a legitimate setback for the allies in World War II. Up to this point in publishing, the vast majority of books about particular battles came from writers on the side of the victors. As much as the American and British allies wanted to spin it that the Operation Market Garden offensive was “mostly a win” there was no such thing. That was propaganda. It either was a complete win, or it was a horrible loss. There is no “kinda sorta” when it comes to war. In their race to take a series of Dutch bridges from the Germans, they overextended themselves. They tried to go a bridge too far. Had they stopped after taking the bridge in Nijmegen, just 16 kilometers south of Arnhem on the Waal River, the operation would have been an unqualified success.

When I read the book, I totally got Ryan’s style. Details, details, details. The beauty of it is in the details. The book impacted me so much. In the early 90s, I was on a trip in Europe and I made an important detour through the Netherlands in a rental car. I had to see the Arnhem bridge. It’s still there, and it still wears the scars of the deadly battle.

This next book is not about the fictional World War III nor the factual World War II. It’s about baseball, and is roundly considered the best baseball book, if not the best sports book, ever written by an athlete. I’ve read it dozens of times, as have many of my friends. It’s “Ball Four” written by Jim Bouton, a very real baseball player and a very talented writer.

Up until Bouton spent the 1969 season taking copious notes and writing pages of stories while he pitched for the mostly forgotten Seattle Pilots in the American League, baseball books were almost always ghost-written and white washed. Ballplayers could tell a writer some stories, but they didn’t generally have the writing chops to do it themselves. And beyond any doubt, you didn’t tell stories that might upset anyone in even the slightest way. It was all rainbows and unicorns, for decades.

And then the former Yankees pitcher wrote his book. Originally a hard throwing fastball guy, Bouton hurt his arm and mounted a long and painful comeback through the minors, learning the art of throwing a knuckleball because it didn’t make his elbow feel like it was going to explode. When the Pilots were formed, he earned a spot on the roster. And he kept a lot of notes. He was out in the open about it, his teammates knew what he was doing, but they didn’t know how he’d write it.

He spared no one. If he admired and loved you, it came across in the book. If you were a jerk, he told those stories. Carousing too much? Yep, even when he was involved. Were team management and Major League Baseball always right and always fair. Of course not. If a coach or teammate treated you with disdain because they thought you were an “anti-establishment weirdo” (remember the era) would you just gloss over that? Why would you? Even his memories of his days with the Yankees were eye-opening. Before Bouton, you just didn’t write the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about Mickey, Whitey, and the Yanks. Bouton did.

And by the next year, after the book was out and being badmouthed by players and coaches far and wide (most of whom would also admit they hadn’t read it) Bouton was blackballed and out of baseball. But the book… The book lived on with many additional editions as his life changed and he finally made it back to the show as a knuckleballer for the Atlanta Braves. Why the Braves? Because owner Ted Turner loved those who were willing to be renegades. He was one himself.

I hold “Ball Four” in a very high and special place. It made me wonder if I could be an athlete who could also write. Bouton’s masterpiece is still hilarious and poignant, and basically it’s just a great book. But to me, it was an inspiration.

And those Seattle Pilots? After one season they were bankrupt and caught up in litigation. The players actually reported to spring training, wearing Pilots uniforms, but they didn’t know where they would end up or if the team would fold. During camp, just weeks before the season opener, a deal was sealed and Bud Selig bought the organization, moving the Pilots to Milwaukee where they became the Brewers. But for one year, the Pilots and Bouton left their mark. He certainly left a mark on me.

This next one influenced me well before I ever thought I’d do something as audacious as writing a book. I went through a detective/crime drama phase in my 20s, reading great classic writers like Agatha Christie and Dashiell Hammett, while also enjoying the pros of the day, writers like Sue Grafton and her “alphabet series” of crime novels. And then I discovered Ed McBain.

He wrote a number of different series of books, and this group was the 87th Precinct string of novels and characters. By the first 10 pages of my first McBain book, I was struck by his mastery of conversation. His technique eschewed many of the strict rules of writing when it came to characters talking to each other. That typically tends to get pretty choppy and stilted, with a lot of “he said” or “she responded” attributions.

When McBain had his characters speak, it was as if you were in the room with them. It was free-flowing and fluid, and it sounded like real people. At the time, I was too young to really consider what made it special, but I knew his style was something I really loved. When it was time to write “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” my McBain memory was reignited. When I started “How Far?” and I had to write in character, in specific voices, all those things I absorbed from his writing came back to the front of my mind. I’ll never be anything close to Ed McBain, but his impact stayed with me forever, after I read my first 87th Precinct book.

And by the way, Ed McBain is a pseudonym. His name by birth was Salvatore Lombino, but he legally changed it to Evan Hunter when he was 26 years old. He wrote under the pen names of John Abbot, Curt Cannon, Ezra Hannon, and Richard Marsten, but Ed McBain was the pen name that made him famous.

And finally, the funniest writer whoever made me laugh out loud while flipping the pages of his nearly endless string of hilarious books.

Dave Barry has been a humor writer for a long time, and was a columnist for the Miami Herald. His columns spawned his books.

Comedy is like a salad bar. What looks appetizing to me, and makes me happy, may draw frowns and a “yuck” from the next person in line, who themselves are constructing something I can’t even stand to look at. Dave Barry is my perfect salad bar.

After I read his first book, I could see the impression he made upon me the next time I wrote anything. When I began my blog, in 2005 on NHRA.com, I could sense my own version of “Barryisms” creeping into the copy. I actually talked to editor Phil Burgess about that, because I wasn’t sure if I should defile Mr. Barry’s style by imitating it a little. As it turned out, Phil was a huge fan as well, and as he said, “Sometimes imitation is pure flattery, but don’t try to be him. Be you, but if you can be funny like he is, go for it.”

I have no idea if I ever succeeded in that regard, but Dave Barry still resides in my brain, and I see his impact often as I write. Whenever you see me write something along the lines of “So I got in line and it moved fast (if by “fast” you mean not at all).” that’s me channeling Dave Barry. He’s a riot, but he’s an artist with his words. He made a huge impression on me, and he still does. The guy is a comic genius. I’m a rank amateur.

So there you have it. Five books and authors that not only gave me great pleasure, but which also influenced me to the point of having something to do with what I am as a writer today. I can’t be any of these gifted authors, but I can be me and I can salute them by having learned something from each of them. There’s a little bit of each of these people in me today. I’m thankful for that.

That’s probably enough for this week. It was kind of a “wonky” blog today. A bit of “inside writing” stuff, but I enjoyed even thinking about what all these books and authors have meant to me. There are many more, but the first five that came to mind were the five that made the cut.

If you enjoyed any of this, I have but one standard weekly request. Please click on the “Like” button at the top. It’s easy. Almost painless.

See you next week. I have no idea what I’ll be writing about.

Bob Wilber, at your service and still wondering how many other voices I hear in my head.

 

 

Yesterday was one interesting day and evening. I found a relic I had no idea existed, in the oddest possible place, then a few hours later I thought I was either in an alien abduction or a tornado. It was neither, but it was exciting. We’ll start with the weather.

Barbara had to get up early this morning to catch a flight out to Denver. Her niece Erin is having a baby shower this weekend, and Barb is not only anxious to be there but will also be helping out on the organization. So, when she headed off to bed last night, while I was still about 85% wide awake, I hung out in the living room until my eyelids started getting heavy. I’ve been a certified insomniac all of my life, and I know the routines well. Don’t force the issue. Be 99% asleep before you ever put your head on the pillow. No distractions!

That usually works great, and I wish I’d have known those tricks when I was a little kid laying in bed for hours, hyper and awake, after being told it was bedtime for Bobby Joe, despite the fact little Bobby Joe’s brain was nowhere near ready for bedtime. I finally saw a sleep specialist in the early ’90s and that’s when I learned the rules. We natural insomniacs have rules. Not just guidelines. Rules, I tell ya!

Anyway, sometimes it’s easy to overshoot the mark. Last night was one of those nights. I actually dozed off on the recliner sofa in the living room with the TV on. No big deal. It doesn’t happen often but it does happen. That’s why we have big comfortable couches and recliners in our house. I had nodded off but had the presence of mind to turn around and lay on the couch instead of trying to sleep sitting up. A couple of hours later, I was awakened by aliens.

It was a super-bright ultra-white flash of light. Your first instinct is lightning, of course, but there was no accompanying thunder. Just silence. Lightning was still the leading candidate though, because yesterday we got up into the high 70s. Warm weather can turn to hot weather, and a line of storms can separate the two. The flashes continued, randomly, for 10 or 15 more minutes, but still no sound. No thunder rolling in from the distance. And no alien anti-gravity beam lifting me up into the mothership. It was weird. I considered the possibility that I was actually dreaming all of it.

The flashes were so brilliant and instantaneous  I thought, for real, that they could be transformers blowing. High winds can cause that, and you see it on tornado news footage all the time. I remember lying there thinking, “Well, if this is series of transformers blowing I guess I can expect the power to go out any second now.” I actually got up and looked out the window and could see that there was a little breeze, but no real wind. And I don’t have any idea where any electrical grid transformers are around our neighborhood. Then, finally, the first sounds of thunder in the distance. It was a line of storms, about to roll through.

It was a few minutes after 3:00 a.m. and I figured that was a good enough reason to go join Barbara, Boofus, and Buster in our real bed. That’s when the rains came, and more lightning, and more rolling thunder. It was never too violent, and the rain was more soothing than alarming, but the whole thing was kind of surreal. When Barbara got up at 6:00 to get ready to go, I got up just to look outside to see if it all had really happened. No crop circles or charred spots in the yard where a UFO might have landed. Just water on the plants and puddles on the patio. All in all, it was just a nice shower, and it watered the plants and flowers Barb had just put in this past weekend. Perfect timing.

As you can see in this first photo, things are popping and blooming all over the place and it really is getting to be summer in Minnesota. The words “popping and blooming” may sound like it’s all fun and games, but if you have allergies like mine it can be a challenge. So yeah, I don’t fall asleep very well and I also can’t breathe a lot of what’s in the air, without serious consequences. It’s life.

But, I needed some exercise yesterday, the sun was out, it was a glorious day, and I didn’t want to drive to the gym to walk in circles on the 1/13th mile indoor track. I decided to shout lustily at the pollen, exclaiming “You won’t stop me, you yellow menace. Or you either, weeds and grass. I’m going for a quick 2-mile walk and you can’t stop me.” It was just my way of asserting myself and claiming my own rights. For the most part, it worked.

I walked a little more than two miles on our paved Woodbury trails, with much of it through some woods and around beautiful Powers Lake, just to our west. And it was the first walk of the season in which I really worked up a sweat. Like dripping down my forehead sweat. It was 78 degrees and it felt like 98 to me. But I won. I beat the allergies out of sheer will and determination. At least until I got home and sneezed and hacked for 20 minutes. I’ll be going to the Salt Room this afternoon for another 45-minute session in there. It does help.

And now to the part of this blog regarding relics…

When we bought this house, it was listed as having a three-car garage. That might have been true, too, if two of your cars were a SmartCar and a Mini Cooper. The third so-called bay was part of an extended notch in the garage, where you could (again, just hypothetically) store two cars nose-to-tail. We considered it a waste of space, and since we also had no storage out there we decided to put in some substantial built-in cabinets and shelves. We store a lot of our gardening and cleaning products out there. When Barbara decided to do some planting and mulching over the weekend, we carried a few bags down to the backyard. Under one of the bags was a sight for disbelieving eyes.

It was this photo. It was in a plastic cover, but it’s still seen its better days thanks to the fact it was buried on a shelf under two bags of mulch, some gardening tools, and a bag of potting soil. I had no idea it was there.

It’s a large format photo, at 20 x 24 inches, and it brings back a tsunami of incredible memories. It’s one of the final photos we took in the Winner’s Circle at Indy, as the 2005 Mac Tools US Nationals Funny Car champions. The fact it’s one of the final photos is why we all look so relaxed and happy, but not manic and crazy.

That manic and crazy part happens first. You win the US Nationals (the most prestigious and historic race in NHRA Drag Racing) after having also won the $100,000 Skoal Showdown the day before, which in total means somewhere close to $250,000 in one split second, and you go nuts. As in primal nuts. As in bonkers. Then you do that again at the top end when you go celebrate with your driver, that coolio Worsham cat.

And then the winning drivers walk out on stage and we cheer some more. Then the PR guy takes his driver to meet the media, and you relive it over and over again with all the questions. And then it’s time for photos. At first, it’s still just absolutely crazy. Pose here, wear this hat, everyone turn to the right, now to the left, now with this sponsor and that hat, on the count of three raise your hands and yell. One, Two, Three!!! It goes on for a while, but it’s a blur after accomplishing something like the Indy sweep. In the actual moment, it’s hard to believe it’s real.

I do clearly remember that they had the Winner’s Circle and the big backdrop banner in the staging lanes, facing west. And the sun was setting right in our eyes. By the time this photo was taken, the sun was finally only blanketing the upper right corner of the banner. We could see again. We were squinting through a lot of the photos.

And for this one, it was just us. Just this group of brothers who had attained the nearly unattainable. The look on our faces reflects satisfaction, and pride, and a good hunk of exhaustion. But oh so worth it.

And here’s the shirt I was wearing that day. I put it away and never wore it again. Somewhere, somehow, during the post-race celebrations, I got something on the “E” in KRAGEN, but the dry-cleaners couldn’t get it out. Whether it was oil from the car, or something in the pit area, or even a drip off a chicken wing when we joined the Don Prudhomme team at a local Brownsburg restaurant for a final celebration, I didn’t care. It was all part of the process and the memories, and one of the most magic days I’ve ever experienced.

I don’t remember the name of the restaurant, but it was only a block or so from our hotel and we got the big party room in the back, for our two teams. Being Don “The Snake” Prudhomme in Indianapolis has its perks. They set that room up for us in the time it took us to get there. Larry Dixon had won in Top Fuel, so our two teams enjoyed each other’s company for another hour or two.

The thing I remember most was how emotional our guys were. We’d all kind of settled down by then, and the enormity of the moment was sinking in. It was a meal full of those “I love you man” moments. And, of course, as was always my responsibility after a win, I gave a quick speech, if by “quick” you mean four or five minutes. I may, or may not, have accidentally dropped an expletive “F Bomb” in there, but I recall immediately saying “Sorry about that, excuse my French” because there were wives and maybe some kids in attendance. It was heartfelt, though, and I know our guys really appreciated it.

My counterpart on Snake’s team was Ted Yerzyk. Teddy and I were, and still are, good friends and kindred spirits in a lot of ways. Heck, we worked alongside each other as PR and Marketing guys for nearly two decades. After my speech, the Prudhomme guys asked Ted to give one too, which I didn’t get the impression he’d ever done before. Peer pressure at its highest. He might have consumed a beer or three, and when he stood to talk he basically said something along the lines of “I just want to congratulate both teams, and especially my guys, for winning Indy. Way to go!”

At that point, Don “The Snake” himself brought the house down by saying “That’s it? That’s all you got? Their guy nails it, and you say congratulations? Geez.” Even Ted was laughing. Typical Snake sarcastic humor of the highest degree. He’s a funny dude.

And of course I’ve still got the trophy. We always had to order these ourselves, and they were never cheap. OK, so they were legit expensive, but at least they only took MONTHS to arrive after you paid for them. Not kidding. Still, when that brown cardboard box showed up, and Wally was in there all cushioned by pages from the Chicago Tribune (the trophy company is based in Chicago), there was no greater thrill and memory generator than pulling this bad boy out and holding it in your hands again. To this day, it sits directly in front of my desk in my home office.

I have a lot more memorabilia of this sort, but I’ll admit to rarely having the energy or desire to go digging through the boxes to find more. Dozens more framed photos, laminated plaques, hats, jackets, and shirts. Tons of it. But moving across the country twice has a way of keeping those things in their place.

When we moved to Spokane in 2012 a lot of stuff went into boxes. When we got out there, in a smaller house, much of it stayed packed up and was put in a spare closet. When we moved back here, in 2016, the same thing happened again. A new house that was downsized even more. Our utility room and one closet in a spare bedroom are jammed full of artifacts and memorabilia. It’s great to know it’s in there, but if I dug through it all just to take a look I wouldn’t have any place to put it.

So yeah, the unearthed photo that was under all that mulch will go back in its clear plastic cover and back onto a shelf. In this house, I have to pick my display items carefully. I only have this lower level “man cave” to work with.

So that’s about it. We had a winter that wouldn’t end here in Minnesota, with those two unwelcome April blizzards. Then a sort-of Spring, where we’d get two nice days and then three more in the 40s with rain. And now it’s basically summer. Yes, today was a big day. Mark it down. May 16, 2019 is the date I turned the AC on and switched the diverters to send most of the cool air upstairs. Could this be just another head-fake? Sure, and it likely really is one. We could cool off again, but probably not back into the 40s. It’s actually hot here today.

I hope you enjoyed the nonsensical parts of this installment, as well as the rich memories of Indy in 2005. If you read this and “kind of dug it, dude” please click on the “Like” button at the top. I’m not allergic to “Likes”.

See you next week.

Bob Wilber, at your service and finding relics in the strangest places.

BREAKING WEATHER NEWS UPDATE: At 7:30 this evening I heard a “Weather Update” on TV. The forecast high for Saturday is 46. So there you go. I’ve done it again… Unbelievable.

 

 

So, just a week after I so proudly wrote about how many fun things Barbara Doyle and I had been doing, including restaurants, concerts, weddings, and the like, we’ve basically done nothing very fun for the last week. Part of that had to do with Barbara needing to go on a business trip to New York and Boston, and the rest mostly had to do with some home projects and the weather.

For instance, the front porch and the screened porch (in back) both needed a good “spring cleaning” after the long snowy winter. There’s also been some painting to do in a guest bedroom, new framed photos to be hung, and other such mundane activities like putting air in the bicycle tires. I mean, we’ve been BUSY! After Barb did most of the wet work cleaning off the front porch, we discovered that we’d had the two chairs and a small table on the wrong side of it, all along. The front door is not centered on the porch. It’s off to the right a little, and we’d been jamming that porch furniture onto that side. It looks much better now that it’s reversed (the furniture, not the door.)

For the screened porch, I got after that on Tuesday because I’d seen the weather forecast. After a string of brilliant days, more rain and cold was due back by Wednesday (as in yesterday) and it’s still here. You really need warm temps and sunshine to quickly clean that porch, so Tuesday was it.

We have real furniture out there. Big heavy stuff. So, the way to clean it is to move everything over to the left side, stacking up tables and chairs to get them out of the way, and that allows you to mop and clean the right side. Then you wait for that to dry. Rinse and repeat. I had a warm sunny day to work with, and there was a breeze, so the whole process of cleaning one side, then the other, and then setting all the furniture back in place only took about three hours. Yay for me.

But that left me with today. It’s Blog Day. What do I write about? I had no clue for most of this morning. I don’t really have enough “reader questions” stored up right now to do a Q&A thing, which is my standard cheater way to create a blog out of thin air. Somehow, this thought popped into my head: “Hey self, write about a string of first things you did in your life. And some favorite things, too. People will like that. It will make them look back and compile their own lists.”

I guess we’ll see if that’s true. Hopefully, this will trigger some fun thoughts in your collective heads. Feel free to send me a note or comment at the bottom of this blog if that’s the case. Here we go…

First Baseball Game

That would be impossible for me to know. Like most kids born to racers, the first race they attend is typically in the womb. Post-womb, I don’t have any recollection of the absolute first game I attended as a kid. But I can figure a lot of it out. I was born during the summer of 1956. My dad was the bullpen coach for the Chicago White Sox. I don’t know if my mom went back to Chicago after I was born, but I’d assume that was unlikely. So it wasn’t then.

In 1957, Dad was a scout for the Baltimore Orioles, and I was just one year old, so it probably wasn’t then. In 1958 he was the manager of the Louisville Colonels, the Triple-A minor league club for the Orioles. I don’t remember that summer, but I know we went to Louisville. So there you have it. I have no memory of it, but my first game had to have been that summer. The first games I really remember are from 1960, the summer I turned four. That would be when Big Del managed the Charleston Senators, the Triple-A club for the Washington Senators, who would move to Minnesota the next winter. I remember being there. Wrote about it in “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” too.

First Favorite Player

I was going to say Harmon Killebrew, because from 1961 until the end of that decade, my dad worked for the Twins as a scout and manager and I idolized “Killer.” But I realized I had a favorite player before then. When we were in Charleston, the great Zoilo Versalles really looked after me, and he befriended me in a wonderful way. He was a class act, and a great player. Before we left to go home at the end of the summer, he gave me his glove. That’s got to make him my first favorite player.

First World Series Game

Game 6 of the 1964 World Series. Cardinals vs. Yankees at the original Busch Stadium, previously known as Sportsman’s Park. It was me and my mom. I was pretty amped up as an eight-year-old. I didn’t remember the fact the Yankees won that game, but I clearly remember that the Cardinals won the Series. And seeing Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris was a big deal.

First Organized Baseball Activity

I wrote about this in the book too, and referred back to it a number of times. It was the spring of 1962 and I was in first grade at Mary Queen of Peace. There was no first-grade team, so they put me on the second-grade team. At our first practice, at Schall School in Rock Hill, Mo., a coach hit a fly ball into the outfield so we could chase it, but it came right to me. I just reached up and caught it, despite the fact my mother was yelling “MOVE! Get out of the way!!!”

First Pet

Our dog, Zorro. Named after the guy who gave me his glove.

First Favorite Sweater

Who the heck remembers their first favorite sweater? I do, of course. I’ve posted this photo a number of times. It’s from that magical summer in Charleston, and I’m wearing my first favorite sweater. We called it my “Perry Como sweater” because the singer by that name wore stuff like it. I loved it. Also love the shirt my dad is wearing in this photo.

First Bike

I have no idea, actually. I remember it had training wheels, and I could ride it around our cul-de-sac with those on it. Then, one day, they came loose and fell off. I didn’t know it until I got back to our driveway. Ta Daaa!

First Artistic Accomplishment

I have never had one of these in my entire life. OK, cutting myself a little slack, there was that video audition tape Buck Hujabre did when they were staying at our house during the “Jersey Boys” tour. I was the second character, off-screen. Nailed it.

First Records

As written about very recently, my first 45 was “PT 109” by Jimmy Dean and my first album was “Meet The Beatles.”

First concert

Well, I went big for this one. It was The Who at the Mississippi River Festival. 35,000 fans in a wonderful natural amphitheater on the campus of what would be my college in a few years. It was August 16, 1971. I was 15, and I went with a girl I barely knew and two other 16-year-olds I didn’t know at all. Somehow my mom thought this was as fine idea. It was like Woodstock. Amazing. And the MRF was amazing, too. There was a huge circus tent over the stage, with about 1,900 folding chairs under there, and then the lawn held about another 25,000 on blankets. For The Who, the crowd spilled over the tops of all the hills and all the way back to the entrance gate. We were lucky to be about halfway down on the left side. The MRF was still going when I was in college at SIUE. I saw The Eagles there about 255 times. Actually, three times. I think. The MRF is now long gone.

First Hockey Game

Couldn’t tell you any specifics, but before the St. Louis Blues came into existence we used to go down to the St. Louis Arena to watch the St. Louis Braves, a minor league team for the Chicago Blackhawks. There was no glass, just chicken wire in its place. And wooden seats. And terrible lights. And they let people smoke. And The Arena was mostly made of wood.

First Pro Basketball Game

Again, no clue exactly when it was but my dad liked to go see the St. Louis Hawks, at the old Kiel Auditorium in downtown. Bob Pettit, Zelmo Beaty, and Lenny Wilkens were stars. And then, in 1968 the team moved to Atlanta.

First Pro Football Game

Again, couldn’t tell you the year, but I know for sure it was the St. Louis Football Cardinals at old Busch Stadium (Sportsman’s Park). The quarterback was no doubt Charley Johnson.

First Radio

And I mean a radio that was all mine. When I was around seven or eight, I’m guessing, my dad came home from some function with the Twins up in the Twin Cities, and he brought home the coolest AM radio ever. It was all mine. It was a Hamm’s Beer/Minnesota Twins/WCCO radio, with a glass panel across the top. You could, theoretically, keep score with a wax pencil while you listened to the game on WCCO. The manufacturer must not have made many, because I’ve never so much as seen a photo of one online. Today, I was thrilled to at least track down this photo of the exact same radio, except it’s a Grain Belt Beer version and the Twins and WCCO aren’t involved. I played my Twins version every night before going to sleep, listening to KXOK in St. Louis. A prized possession, long since gone.

First Sip of Beer

Hahaha…  Gotta be a Falstaff or a Busch, from a can, opened with a “church key” opener, in the backyard on a summer day when I was 10 or so. Dad started me young. I thought it tasted horrible.

First Real Girlfriend

By “real” I mean a girl I went on actual dates with. Linda Young who went to Nerinx Hall, an all-girls catholic school. Sophomore year in high school. She ended up marrying one of my St. Louis U. High classmates, Don Mueller. There is no doubt she got the better end of that transaction. Kind of like the trade the Cardinals made when they sent washed-up reliever Ernie Broglio to the Cubs for a young outfielder named Lou Brock.

First Car

A 1972 VW Beetle. Powder blue. Purchased as a new car for about $2,200, and my folks actually traded in my sister Mary’s Austin Healey Sprite to bring the price down. Mary was away at college in England, at the time. Somehow, and I don’t know how, she never held the whole “let’s trade in Mary’s car while she’s away” thing against me. Thanks Mares!

First Cassette Tape

My first tape deck was installed in that VW. The first tape I bought was “Aladdin Sane” by David Bowie. Seriously.

First College Varsity Hit

A double into the left-center gap during the early part of my sophomore year, against Missouri Baptist College. Coach Roy Lee gave me the lineup card to commemorate it. I still have it. As a freshman, I played on the JV and got a whole bunch of hits, but I don’t remember the first one.

First Professional Hit

I hit a grand slam in an intrasquad game in Bristol, before the Appalachian League season started, but that didn’t count. I’m talking about real base hit in a real game, forever etched in the stats. I didn’t remember the exact date, but I still have this Paintsville Hilanders pocket schedule so now I know it was June 24, 1978 in Paintsville, against the Bluefield Orioles (and their clumsy shortstop named Ripken). We had opened the season in Bluefield the night before but I didn’t play. Then we drove the bus overnight to get back home and play the same Orioles the next day. Nice scheduling! I hit a line-drive into left field. I’m sure I mashed it.

First Real Job

I’m not talking about working for a week helping out at my mom’s office. My first real job was as an usher for the St. Louis Usher Service. I worked Cardinals games at Busch Stadium, and Blues, Billikens, and Spirits of St. Louis games at The Arena. Man do I wish I still had that fluorescent blue jacket and the navy blue slacks with the red stripe down the side. How does stuff like that just disappear over the years?

First Book Read

“Go Shorty Go” a kid’s novel about a small high school kid who makes the varsity football team as a kicker, after he overcomes a lot of bullying. I read it about a dozen times.

First Book Written

Well, that would be “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” published on May 20, 2017.

Second Book Written

And that would be “How Far?” which is still a work in progress. I finished Chapter 15 this morning.

 

And now, a quick list of favorites….

Favorite Pizza

St. Louis style in general, but Farotto’s in particular

Favorite Concert

See The Who, above. It’s easy to remember when the first concert you see sticks with you as the one that can’t be beat.

Favorite TV Show Ever

Gotta be “Seinfeld”

Favorite Album Ever

Don’t really have one but “Abbey Road” and “2112” are on the short list.

Favorite Movie

I used to say “Buckaroo Banzai – Across the Eighth Dimension” but as the years go by it has to be “Miracle”

Favorite Steak Restaurant

It’s either Manny’s in Minneapolis or Churchill’s in Spokane. It’s a tie.

Favorite Non-American City

So far, I’d say Amsterdam

Favorite Current Ballpark

Target Field, with PNC Park in Pittsburgh a close second

Favorite Ballpark Ever

See above

Favorite Football Player Ever

Bobby Joe Conrad, wide receiver for the old St. Louis Football Cardinals. A great player, but more importantly we shared the Bobby Joe moniker

Favorite Baseball Player Ever

Bob Gibson

Favorite Vacation Spot

I’ll go with Lava Lava Beach Club on the Kona side of the Big Island of Hawaii, but that’s only because Kona Village was destroyed by a tsunami. It’s under reconstruction, so we’ll see…

Favorite Baseball Team I Played On

The Sauget Wizards. And it’s not close.

Favorite National Park

Glacier National Park is unbelievable, but nothing compares to Yellowstone

Favorite Drag Racer

Too many to list and it wouldn’t be fair, but Del Worsham, Tim Wilkerson and good old Norm Wilding have to be name checked

Favorite Race Track

zMAX in Charlotte. It’s just too impressive not to hold the top spot, but I love Sonoma.

So there you have it. I hope some of these random odds and ends brought back some good memories. Feel free to leave a comment, or drop me a line, or message me on Facebook.

As always, if you did like this blog, please click on the “Like” button at the top. That would be my Favorite Thing Readers Can Do.

See you next week! Who knows what tales we’ll tell.

Bob Wilber, at your service and full of fun memories.

 

 

I don’t know when it started. I don’t recall having an epiphany and a corresponding conversation about getting out more and enjoying the many great things we can continually experience here. We live in a great place, in a wonderful part of the country, but with some of the harsh weather we can have it’s easy to slip into a phase where you just turn on the fireplace and watch TV. And that’s a shame, because you can do that anywhere. We live in the Twin Cities. This is not just “anywhere” and at some point in the last few months Barbara and I have found ourselves not just accepting more invites but seeking out new adventures and fun experiences. And it’s been a very rich thing. It’s on us to keep it up, and we’re having a ton of fun doing it, so why wouldn’t we?

It may have started with the construction of the Alamo Draft House here in Woodbury. Maybe that was the catalyst. The Alamo Draft House finally got me back in the mood to actually go see movies in a theater. For decades, I had been adamantly anti-theater. Why? Because, by and large, people are rude and inconsiderate in public places. I recall seeing a movie in Southern California, in the late 1990s. I had been avoiding theaters for many years before then, but accepted an invite to go see a movie I now cannot remember. What I do remember was the group sitting directly behind us in a packed room.

They brought horribly smelly sandwiches in with them, and they were wrapped in crinkly (noisy) cellophane. It was beyond obnoxious, and they talked a lot too. As if they were home. And they weren’t alone. It seemed everyone in the theater thought they were in their living rooms at home. That was it. I couldn’t stand the experience.

As of late, theaters have been adding reclining seats and many are allowing you to purchase specific reserved seats online. But I’m still hypersensitive to people who make noise. For the last 30 years I’ve probably watched 99% of all the movies I’ve seen right here at home. And now that we have a super-duper incredible home theater, there’s really no reason to go out.

But then the Alamo opened and Barbara managed to drag me there one night. Reserved recliner seats, servers bringing food and drink to your chairs, and an incredible sound system. That’s all great, and the sound system is something I can’t duplicate at home, no matter how good our theater is, but the clincher was in the rules. Before the movie starts at Alamo, they make an announcement. No phones, no noise, no talking, and no misbehaving. You get one warning. After that, you’ll be ejected from the theater with no refund. And it’s in a stern voice, too. It generally works.

So that got us out a little more, which is a good thing. We love to eat out, and do so multiple times a week, and we still get together with friends when we can, but something was building and it was fun.

The key next step was discovering The Dakota, in Minneapolis. Barbara had been there once without me, but our first show there was Livingston Taylor (his brother is that cat named James). We were hooked. We’ve now seen five or six shows there in just the last couple of months. And it’s in downtown Minneapolis, which is a key. You have to commit to getting there. The shows are at night and it’s likely you’ll have to battle a ton of traffic to make the trip from out here in Woodbury. You can easily spend an hour in rush hour traffic. In other words, you have to want it and you have to make the effort.

We’ve also discovered that our longtime friends Terry and Lynn Blake share one important characteristic with us. They’re completely impulsive and spontaneous. None of us in our large circle of friends are afraid to text and say “We’re going to Crave for dinner in 10 minutes. Want to join us?” More times than not, we’ll get together like that on a total whim, and we’ve done it a number of times with the Blakes. It’s a fun way to get off your butt and do something, and they’re wonderfully fun friends. Our entire large group of close friends, here in Woodbury, are wonderful and fun. That’s why we’re all friends. Laughter means more to us than just about anything. We’re very fortunate to be surrounded by such amazing people.

So this past week has been a continuation of all that, although we did not have tickets to anything at Dakota. There are some shows we want to see coming up, though, so we’ll be back soon enough. What we did since last Thursday is as follows: We did, indeed, meet the Blakes at Crave on a whim, on Friday night. We attended a beautiful wedding and a wonderful reception on Saturday. We went to the Twins game on Sunday, for Barb’s birthday, and then had dinner at a fantastic place in downtown Minneapolis. We ate out at our favorite Woodbury bistro on Monday. And last night, we attended a private function at the Minnesota History Center in downtown St. Paul, as guests of Baird, an investment, banking, and financial company celebrating its 100th birthday. And now here I am writing this blog.

We didn’t bother to take pics at Crave on Friday, so we’ll start with Saturday. The wedding was wonderful. As I mentioned last week, Mitch and Kristy Martin lived two doors down from us at our previous Woodbury home. Their daughter Ellen was just a little girl when we met them.

The wedding was at a beautiful church and everything about it was so well done. In addition, it was my favorite kind of ceremony. It was fast! Ellen looked enchanting, her new husband Ian and his guys made what I think is the best classy move in terms of apparel. They wore matching wedding suits instead of tuxedos. Everyone looked marvelous, and so happy.

The reception was at a place in White Bear Lake, not too far from the wedding. Again, everything about it was magical and so enjoyable. Plus, the weather forecast had been nothing short of dire for a couple of days, including calls for 1-3 inches of snow. Yikes! As you can see in the outdoor photo during the Father/Daughter dance, the forecasts were wrong. The clouds dissipated, the sun came out, and more magic was at hand.

The best part of it, though, was the company. Most of our best friends were there, because we all lived in the Marsh Creek neighborhood together and we all watched Ellen and her sisters grow up. This is why we made the commitment to move back here after our four years out in Spokane. This is home. You can have all the beautiful views you want, or enjoy cosmopolitan cities, or live in a mansion. You can’t fabricate friends, and this group is so special. The best group of friends we’ve ever had. This is home. And despite things like mid-April blizzards, it’s a wonderful place to live. This is “quality of life” and that’s why we knew we’d be back. We are continually happy to be home.

Sunday was Barbara’s birthday, and since she again wanted to go to a Twins game we decided to make it a full day in Minneapolis. An afternoon ballgame, followed by dinner at a place we’d never been before.

As you can see, Barbara got special birthday wishes and a hug from the Twins mascot, TC Bear. He’s a great ambassador for the team and funny as can be, which is always a challenge for people in costumes who aren’t allowed to talk. I’ve never done this sort of thing, but I think it must be fun and I’d imagine you’d have to be acting it out with all the same facial expressions and emotive gestures when you’re in there. Right?

Trivia time: Why is the Twins mascot a bear and why is he named TC?

Well, the second part should be easy. When the Washington Senators moved to Minnesota in 1961, they wanted to identify with the entire state, not just Minneapolis and St. Paul. The Twin Cities, though, would be home for the club and that’s why they’re the Twins. Their hat logo is the iconic intertwined “TC”.

Why a bear? When the Twins arrived, one of their first major sponsors both at old Metropolitan Stadium and on the radio (WCCO) was Hamm’s Beer. Hamm’s was quite popular up here “in the land of sky blue water” and they used a cartoonish bear as a marketing tool. Beer – Bear. TC is loosely based on the old Hamm’s bear. He’s great, but he’s actually pretty young. He was introduced to Twins fans in 2000, I think. He’s enormously popular. And yes, he wears the same jersey and cap the team is wearing for each game. The team has alternate jerseys, and can you guess how they pick which one they’re going to wear?  The starting pitcher generally gets to select whether they wear white, blue, or red. You can see which one they were wearing on Sunday.

After the game, which the Twins won, we headed through downtown to get to dinner. We’d made the strategic decision to park close to the restaurant, rather than by Target Field. That way, after dinner we could just walk a block to the car instead of the eight or nine blocks we’d have to traverse to get back near the ballpark. It worked like a charm.

Even on a late Sunday afternoon, downtown Minneapolis was hopping. We had to walk through the theater district to get to the restaurant, and the crowds on the sidewalk were lined up to see the shows at the various venues. At the biggest theater, The Orpheum, it was “Hello Dolly!”

Dinner was at Hell’s Kitchen. No, it’s not affiliated with Gordon Ramsay’s place in Las Vegas. Hell’s Kitchen in Minneapolis actually predates Ramsay’s place by many years. And it’s really unique. You enter at street level and immediately head downstairs to the basement. The whole place is down there, and it’s pretty big. Barb got a glimpse of the kitchen and she said it was really impressive, and nothing short of huge. And, the restaurant staff was waiting for her. They put a “Happy Birthday” sign on our table.

It was 4:30 on a Sunday. One might think at such a time any restaurant located in a basement might be sparsely filled. It wasn’t packed when we got there, but by the time we left it sure looked like most of the tables were full.

Great food and drinks, too. Scratch made comfort food, with nothing too exotic but all incredibly tasty. We will return. For any of you who might happen to be in Minneapolis anytime soon, I recommend it wholeheartedly.

On Monday night, we had dinner at Angelina’s Kitchen, right here in the Woodbury bubble. Yes, it’s great that we’re getting out and about more (like ALL THE WAY over to Minneapolis) but when you have a bistro this fabulous exactly two minutes from home, it’s an asset. The food is always off the chart, the staff is incredible, and they usually have some music being played. It’s normally a gentleman in a bowler hat playing the piano, but on this night it was a young lady playing the guitar and singing. And she was really good. A little shy maybe, but really good. And then our server told us she was in eighth grade. WOW! Imagine that…

OK, on Tuesday Barb had some appointments after work so I had a pizza delivered. Some nights it’s fine to scarf down a thin-crust pepperoni and black olive pizza while watching the ballgame.

Wednesday, it was off to St. Paul for the Baird function. I’d never heard of Baird and never been to the Minnesota History Center, but we were both looking forward to this event.

Baird, I learned, is 100 years old and still privately owned. They’re big in the financial world and do some work with HB Fuller, the company Barbara works for. So, she was invited to this shindig. I got to tag along. The whole museum was reserved for this event, and it was amazing. As Baird’s Chairman of the Board said, during a brief reception, “No sales tonight, no clients, just friends celebrating our 100th birthday with us. Enjoy!”

The catering was off the hook and everything was complimentary. The “star” of the show was a new exhibit the museum is about to open to the public. We got a sneak peek!

The street First Avenue runs through downtown Minneapolis. The club, First Avenue, has been a music hot spot for decades, outliving dozens of other such venues that come and go on the whims of musical tastes. First Ave has survived it all. The exhibit is all about First Ave. Its secrets, the bands who played there well before becoming famous, and of course the one artist who basically called it home. Minnesota’s own Prince. Much of his movie “Purple Rain” was filmed there.

Everything about the exhibit was fabulous, and very enlightening. Everyone here knows about First Ave but much of its history predates our arrival in Minnesota. I actually knew about it from the movie, but never saw it in person until we landed here in 2002. It’s got a glorious history, with many ups and downs as music styles changed. It also has a secondary venue within the building (which was originally the Greyhound Bus Depot). There’s a door around the corner on 7th street. It’s called the 7th Street Entrance, and it’s a tiny little club for smaller acts. You know, groups you never heard of.  Like U2. Yes, they played in the 7th Street Entrance venue. Amazing.

So, that’s been our week. It’s been an enormously fun one. We’re going to keep this up. There’s still so much more to do, more to see, and more to experience. This is a wonderful place to live. It’s home.

I’ll see you next week. Who knows what tales will be told. Just keep this in mind: Whatever age you are (I’m 62) get out and do stuff. Try new things. Make an effort. Just say yes, on a whim even. Take a walk. Go for a drive. Visit a park. Ride your bike. Or maybe find a small music venue and fall in love with it.

As always, if you read this installment and thought it was OK, please click on the “Like” button at the top. Prince would want that. Maybe. Probably not.

Bob Wilber, at your service and enjoying life.

I’ll just leave this right here…

 

 

With regard to this week’s headline, I shall get to the salt part in a bit. Bear with me. It’s worth the wait, especially if you suffer from severe allergies and lived through a childhood that featured chronic asthma, like me.

What we shall start with is the very Minnesotan fact that just two blogs ago, so two weeks ago, I wrote about and shared photos of our dastardly mid-April blizzard. A week later, nearly all signs of it were gone. This week, we’ve been in the 70s, all the buds are popping on the trees, the grass is starting to grow as the lawns green up, and it feels like we’ve turned the corner. There you go, I’ve done it again. It will no doubt snow within 15 minutes.

I don’t think we’re in any danger of more snow. The temperature would need to drop about 40 degrees for that to happen. So take that Mother Nature. I don’t think you’ve got that in you until next November or December. In literary terms, this is what’s called “issuing a challenge.”

And, as you can see in the first photo (you’ll probably have to enlarge it by clicking on it) our crabapple tree is totally on-board with the whole “it’s really spring this time” mantra. Those buds weren’t there yesterday.

OK, back to a chronological string of news. Last Thursday, I wrote about the fact we were going to see Daryl Stuermer at The Dakota in Minneapolis that night. I also wrote that I greatly admired his virtuoso guitar playing, but I had no idea what the concert was going to be like. Daryl’s roots are in jazz/fusion music. When Genesis auditioned him for the role of stage guitarist for live shows, he was expertly playing with jazz violinist Jean-Luc Ponty, who revolutionized the use of the violin in the jazz format. Basically, violin was never seen as a jazz instrument until Ponty came along and changed the way it was played. Moving over to play for Genesis was quite an adaptation for Daryl.

As it turned out, the adaptation went very well. Daryl was the perfect fit for the band, and his stage performances were incredibly impressive. I’m guessing I saw him play with Genesis at least six or seven times.

And the show at The Dakota was phenomenal. I’d say about half the songs were Daryl’s own compositions, from his seven different solo albums. They were very jazzy, which isn’t always my thing, but Barbara and I loved every second of them. His playing is so far “off the charts” we were mesmerized. He also played some cover songs, tunes by Jeff Beck, Peter Gabriel, and The Police, and they were all incredible too. The Police song was “Message In A Bottle” and it could not have been played better. The rest of the songs were Genesis tunes, some of which were quite well known and a few of which only a real Genesis fan would know.

And all this was done with just Daryl on his guitar while an accomplished keyboard player, Kostia Efimov (who immigrated to the US from Russia in the late 1980s without knowing a word of English) accompanied him. No vocals. So, that gave Daryl two options. He could play the Genesis songs straight, using the same chords and notes he used on stage, and we’d have to imagine the vocals, or he could seamlessly switch from the instrumental parts to the vocal parts with his guitar. In effect, he made his guitar sing the vocals. Yeah. It was that good.

The Dakota is a small club, but I still wasn’t sure how many tickets Daryl could sell. After all, he was never an official part of Genesis as a songwriting entity. He was just the “hired hand” stage guitarist they needed to play the songs in concert. When we got there, around 6:15 for a 7:00 show, the room was nearly empty. Barbara looked around a bit aghast and said “There’s nobody here.” I was more than a little worried that Daryl would take the stage to the sound of five people clapping. But then, more and more folks showed up and the room nearly filled. It wasn’t as totally packed as it was for Cowboy Junkies and Southside Johnny, but it filled up nicely. And it was clear, from the conversations going on around us, that most of these people were Genesis fans who knew him well. That was a relief.

Daryl was a great story teller between songs, and the show was nonstop fun. He’s just a down-to-earth guy from Milwaukee (he still lives there) who loves the guitar and ended up playing 30+ years with one of the biggest groups in the world. No big deal. Truly a great show, and the encore ended it with a rocking version of “Turn It On Again” that had everyone on their feet. See him if you love great musicianship, some incredible jazz stuff, and great Genesis songs. Well worth it.

OK, enough waiting. Let’s get to the “salty” part of this story. A couple of years ago, Barbara and I discovered the place in this photo. It’s literally two minutes from home. I was skeptical and had no idea what she was trying to get me into.

Basically, you’re there to get salted. You enter a room that is totally made of salt. Salt on the floor, salt on the walls, and salt on the ceiling. It’s all salt, all the time. And you take a seat in one of the reclining lounge chairs. They do provide booties and blankets, and after each session you put your booties in the Ziploc bag they give you with your name written on it, and then put it in the correct alphabetized drawer. So I put mine in the W drawer. That’s how the alphabet works.

When it’s time for the session to begin (they all start at the 30-minute mark and last until 15 minutes after the hour) they turn on the salt machine that blows salty air into the room. For 45 minutes, you just relax and breathe deeply.

My skepticism was alleviated after one visit, back then. The next morning I woke up feeling about 80 percent better than usual. My mornings, no matter the time of year, usually consist of a good hour of getting through the same unpleasant process in order to feel human and normal. Lots of congestion, thanks to those allergies (yes, I’m actually allergic to cats, but that’s a nonstarter as an issue) and the asthma that plagued me until I was nearly 20. As I’m getting older, I can feel the vestiges of that asthma again, and I’ve never had the lung capacity of a normal person. I wouldn’t have gotten very far as a distance runner. Hey, that’s a pun. You’re welcome.

Anyway, we went regularly for about a year and then for some reason we just forgot to go. We got out of the habit. This winter was brutal for me, and winters really are my worst time. Winters here are often wet, snowy, and there’s always a lot of particulate matter in the air. Plus mold. Spokane was the same way, and maybe even worse. It’s brutal from time to time. I actually crave the super-cold frigid days when the sun is out. There’s not much I’m allergic to when it’s 25-below. Give us a grungy foggy winter day, though, and I’m sunk.

About three weeks ago, I was having a bad morning with a ton of coughing and hacking, and Barbara said “You should get back to The Salt Room. You need to do something.” I knew she was right.

So now I’ve been five times in the last 10 days and the difference is incredible. I feel so much better.

Why salt? I’m not really sure of the science, but it does a great job of clearing you out and it even makes your skin feel better. Put it this way, where do you go when you want to feel renewed and clear-headed? You go to the beach. Salt. It’s pretty amazing. Just don’t put too much of it on your food.

And yes, depending on which chair you choose you can come out of there with quite a bit of salt on you. You can see the vent in the photo, that little black box on the wall. That’s where the salty air comes from. If you sit in that front chair on the right, you’ll get the most salt in the room. I usually go with chair number two, right next to it. The four chairs in the back get a little less direct salt, but the whole room fills with the salty air so you get a good dose no matter where you sit.

45 minutes is about my capacity for sitting still doing nothing, but I just put my chair back, pop my ear buds in, and crank some tunes on my phone. Basically, if you think of it as just relaxing in a dimly lit room for seven or eight songs, it’s manageable. You never know how many other people are going to be in there with you for a session, and if you’re alone or the other people are sleeping, you can even put your phone on its dimmest setting and check Twitter or Facebook a few times. There’s a strict protocol though about using your phone as an actual phone. That’s more than frowned upon. Don’t do that! It’s the rule, people!!!

And now I wonder why I struggled with all this congestion throughout the winter when The Salt Room was still just up the road. I’ll try not to make that mistake again.

Want an update on my new book? I just finished another chapter (Chapter 14, I believe) and shipped it off to my editor Greg, if by “shipped it off” you mean I clicked on the Google Docs button that says “Share” so he could see it. I’m on 15 now and I’m on a good roll. I’m roughly two chapters from where my two characters actually meet. Up until now, each guy has no idea the other guy exists because they’re from vastly different backgrounds. I hope it gets as interesting as I want it to after I have them intersect. And I think it’s worth noting that I officially “hear voices in my head” these days. It’s the voices of the two characters. They’re very distinct. That doesn’t mean I’m crazy, though. Well, I guess I may very well be.

I’m taking my time with this. I don’t try to push it if the words aren’t there on any given day, or even any given week. I want to feel what the characters would feel and then put it in their words. Some days or weeks, they don’t cooperate with me. It will be done as soon as it’s done. I would think we can all have a copy in our hands within a year, but the whole publishing thing is hard to pin down in terms of timelines. And there is the plan to pitch this one to conventional publishers. That will take some time and the odds aren’t in my favor that any of them will jump on it. We’ll see. I probably need to be more confident about that.

Finally, because it’s really spring now I took the covers off our two Adirondack chairs on the patio. I leave the cover on the gas fire pit all the time, except of course when it’s in use. That would be real mistake to light that bad boy with the cover still on.

We love these chairs. We were at the Irish Festival on Harriet Island in St. Paul last summer, and Barbara spotted a booth where all sorts of chairs like this were on display. Manny, the guy who hand builds and paints every one of them, was there. The Minnesota Wild and Minnesota Twins logos are inlayed and the Wild logo, in particular, is made up of dozens of small pieces. It’s art!

By late in the fall, Manny showed up at our house with these two. We got to sit in them two or three times, around the fire, before winter hit. Now we get to enjoy them again. They’re cool, and they’re really comfortable. And the workmanship is impeccable. These chairs will be with us for the duration.

So that’s it for this week. I was in The Salt Room yesterday and I typically go three days a week, so I won’t be going today. Probably will tomorrow though!

On Saturday, our good friends Kristy and Mitch Martin will be celebrating the wedding of their daughter Ellen, and we’ll be thrilled to be in attendance with our other Marsh Creek friends. How the little girl who lived two doors down from us at our Marsh Creek home is even conceivably old enough to be getting married is a mystery. We haven’t gotten that much older, have we?

Sunday is Barbara’s birthday, and for the second year in a row she had the same answer when I asked what she wanted in terms of a birthday present. She said “I want to go to a Twins game. Are they in town?” They are. It’s a 1:00 game on Sunday against the Orioles. We have field level box seats just behind the visitors’ dugout. You know you’ve won the game of life when your wife wants to go to a ballgame for her birthday. I’ll buy her the best hot dog in the place.

Finally, as always, it’s all about “The Likes” around here. If you liked even one sentence of this weekly installment, please click on the “Like” button at the top. The “Like Police” are watching. I’m on probation…

See you next week.

Bob Wilber, at your service and lightly seasoned with salt.

I’ve been a music fan for as long as I can recall. That’s a little odd, because I am completely devoid of any “music playing” genes in my DNA. The most complex instrument I could ever master was the steering wheel, although to be fair to this blogger I was, and continue to be, a world-class percussionist on said steering wheel. I’ve really just been a fan all my life. Music takes me places, and over the years those places have varied widely, from incredibly happy locations to darker “we’ll all get through this together” corners. It’s what music does best.

My first record of any sort was a 45. I apologize now, to anyone born after 1970, for the term “45.” For you, I can barely explain it. It was a record. A small record. It just had one song on each side. Do you know what a record was? To own one, and to put it on your record player and listen to the needle scratch its way into the first groove, was magic. My first 45 was by Jimmy Dean. Yes, the same guy with his own brand of sausage. It was “PT 109” and it was a song about John F. Kennedy and the patrol boat he captained during World War II. It was cut in half by a Japanese destroyer. The boat, not my 45 record. I played it endlessly on our record player, because it was mine. My mom bought it for me. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t even know the song or record existed, she just brought it home one day and presented it to me as my own. It was a big day, for this six-year-old.

My first album (OK, surely everyone knows what those were, and still are, and don’t call me Shirley) was “Meet The Beatles.” Again, my mom was amazing. I had “reserved” our television set to make sure we’d be watching “The Ed Sullivan Show” on the night of February 9, 1964 when The Beatles made their American TV debut. I was transfixed. I was seven years old. The next day, she came home from running errands and handed me the album. Again, I never asked for it despite the fact I was absolutely well known for ceaselessly begging for any toy or special thing I wanted. I never thought it was possible that I’d have my very own album, nor did I even consider that it would be by The Beatles. She just did it. She knew. No one had a better mom than I did. I miss her every day.

Let me digress for a bit. My mom has been in my dreams a lot lately, and I find it interesting that she’s always around the same age in those nightly encounters. It’s Taffy Wilber in her 50s. Not the gorgeous wife of a ballplayer. Not the beautiful and vivacious KMOX radio personality. Not the executive who founded her own PR firm when women really didn’t do audacious things like that. Not the old lady with dementia who may or may not have recognized me the last time I saw her. Just my mom from my late high school and early college years. She’s just been showing up a lot lately. I wonder what that means.

Anyway, my mom brought “Meet The Beatles” home and my music “career” as a fan was kicked into high gear. Now, 55 or so years later, it’s still in that same high gear although it’s often turbo-charged. I’m a music geek, a music freak, and I’m hopelessly addicted to sound.

The connection here is what Barbara and I did last Saturday night, when we ventured into downtown Minneapolis for the third time in six days, to see a concert at the majestic State Theater. The band, and the show, was called “Rain” and it was a Beatles tribute group. We’d seen a couple of those types of shows in Vegas, and they’re always fun, but the reviews I had read about this touring act were stellar. Barbara wasn’t sure why we needed to see this show, but after a little convincing she went along with the plan. We had a marvelous time.

It’s a full concert, spanning The Beatles career, and it’s all played “live” note for note. The band members stay in character and have all the voices, mannerisms, and playing so well mastered it’s almost (yes, almost) like seeing John, Paul, George, and Ringo themselves. It’s sort of a “I can’t believe my eyes and ears” type of show. Really spectacular.

And speaking of The Beatles, here’s a fun thing you can do to illustrate people’s ages and eras. Ask anyone under 40 (maybe even under 50) to name the four Beatles. If they can, and that’s a stretch usually, they will typically just randomly pluck the first names from their memory bank. It might come out as “Ummm…  Paul, Ringo, uhhh, John, and who was the other one? Gerry? No, George!”

Ask anyone who lived through Beatlemania and it will be automatic: John, Paul, George, and Ringo. That’s how the media always referred to them, and to us those four names trip off the tongue automatically in that order.

So that was fun, and the music was terrific. The four guys were great players, great singers, and magnificent performers. The show was chronological, so it started with them on Ed Sullivan and then followed them through Beatlemania, into the “Rubber Soul” era when they were expanding their craft into more sophisticated song writing, then the Sgt. Pepper era, and right through Abbey Road. It ends, of course, with “Hey Jude” and the crowd sang every word of it. I spotted more than a few tears running down the cheeks of people around us. Not me, of course. Oh no. Never.

And tonight, there’s more great music on the horizon. Ever heard of Daryl Stuermer? If you have, you know what a virtuoso he is on the guitar. Chances are, however, that the name is not familiar to most of you. It is to me, and I can’t wait to see him play and perform tonight, back at The Dakota Club in downtown Minneapolis. Tonight will be our third Dakota show in 11 days. Beat that!

OK, here’s the short version of why I can’t wait to see Mr. Stuermer. My senior year in high school coincided with my sister Mary’s first year of college. She spent that year on a transfer program, attending school in England. While there, she met one Alan Spence Learmonth, a full-on kilt-wearing Scotsman who also happened to be a phenomenal bass and guitar player. He introduced her to a British band that was just starting to “break” in terms of record sales and popularity over there, although they were still virtually unknown in the USA. Mary sent me a cassette tape of one of their early albums, although it was a “live” recording of one of their concerts. That was a little tough for me, because “live” albums are usually popular due to the fact the listener gets to hear an actual stage performance of studio songs they already know. I had never heard any of the complicated and strange songs on the tape. The title of it was “Genesis Live.”

It amazed me. It actually changed me, and I’m not exaggerating. It changed my musical taste forever. It was a like a door opening to an entirely new style of music and playing that took my tastes in music to a level I never knew existed. And that guy Peter Gabriel, who was the lead singer, wasn’t bad either.

Anyway, as you likely know, that guy Peter Gabriel left the group to start a solo career just about two years later. When that happened, the drummer for the band moved out front to sing. Some guy named Phil Collins. For the sake of touring, though, they needed a second drummer because being lead singer and playing the drums doesn’t work very well. For their first tour with this set up, they enlisted the brilliant Bill Bruford (formerly of Yes) and after that they hired Chester Thompson, who was so brilliant the band never played another show without him. A few years after that, guitarist Steve Hackett left the band as well.

The remaining three guys, Mike Rutherford, Tony Banks, and the aforementioned Mr. Collins, decided to hire a new touring guitarist. They handpicked Daryl Stuermer, who had been wowing audiences while playing for Jean-Luc Ponty. Like Chester Thompson, Daryl Stuermer played every concert with Genesis from that point forward (countless sold-out shows over a 30-year span) and when Phil Collins became a solo star, Daryl was always on stage with him, as well. He’s incomparable. He’s phenomenal. And I really don’t have a clue what his show is going to be like tonight, but I can’t wait to experience it.

Here at home, in Woodbury, the mid-April blizzard from last week is now all gone. That’s the beauty of April blizzards. They don’t stick around long.

It is still a bit mushy and muddy out there, though. When a foot of snow melts in a matter of five days or so, and then is followed by 3 inches of rain (yesterday) things get a little saturated. Thank heavens for a good sump pump.

That’s about it for this week. Mr. Stuermer awaits at The Dakota tonight. Barbara is on her way home with hot soup from the grocery store deli. It’s not raining today, and by Saturday we’ll be in the 70s. I think (hope) we’re past the point of worrying about more blizzards, but there are no guarantees. It’s Minnesota.

Take care everyone, and I’ll see you next week with my review of the Daryl Stuermer Duo show. I’ll be stunned if I’m disappointed.

As always, I’m “that guy” who really likes it when you click on the “Like” button at the top. Maybe I need affirmation. Who knows? Does Peter Gabriel know?

Bob Wilber, at your service and unable to get “Watcher of the Skies” from “Genesis Live” out of my head.

 

 

One year ago, when we had our “Men of Woodbury Epic Retreat” up at Larsmont on the north shore of Lake Superior, April turned from kind and welcoming to vicious and cruel. A massive snow storm hit the northern plains and we were “holed up” in two luxury condos riding the storm out (cue REO Speedwagon). The waves on the lake were 20-30 feet high and crashing ashore just yards from the building. It was a lousy and cruel way to say hello to spring, but somehow we had riotous fun anyway.

So here we are again. We’ve been hearing about this storm since before the upper-level disturbance even formed out west. At first it was “a mix of snow and rain” with 1 to 3 inches predicted. Then it was six inches. Then, overnight, the forecast changed considerably. There were some models that suggested the Twin Cities might see as much as 24 inches of heavy wet snow, and the National Weather Service went so far as to even caution us that it could be a “shutdown event” followed by the words “be prepared.” So we knew something was coming. It was just a matter of what and how much.

It was pretty obvious that the gradient for this storm was going to be narrow, meaning that the distance between true blizzard amounts and just nuisance snow would be unusually short. To the point where parts of the Twin Cities might be getting buried while other suburbs got little at all. The temperature would have a lot to do with that. The whole thing was predicted to happen over 36 hours with the thermometer hovering in the 32 to 34-degree range.

It started a little ahead of schedule yesterday, with the snow beginning around 3:00 in the afternoon. We had tickets, along with our friends Terry and Lynn Blake, to have dinner and see yet another concert at The Dakota in Minneapolis, and the plan was for us to drive to their house, here in Woodbury, and then Terry would drive all of us to downtown Minneapolis. It took an hour to get there, and we were surprised we managed to do it that fast. At the time, it was coming down hard and was very slushy. When we did get parked and inside, our biggest fear was what we’d see when we exited the venue four or five hours later. Turned out we dodged that bullet, as the temperature rose a bit to turn it temporarily to rain. That good fortune wouldn’t last, as you can see in the photos.

It’s not snowing right now, and we may be past the worst of it, but the real issue is wind. Even though this stuff is really heavy and wet, the wind is gusting up to 45 mph and it’s blowing the snow everywhere, which means it’s drifting across the roads and highways. There are wrecks and road closures galore, from neighborhood streets all the way to the interstates. I-94 is currently closed in both directions up by St. Cloud, while they attempt to clear multiple big rigs that have jackknifed. It’s no fun.

Me? I’m treating it as a snow day. Even to the point of wearing sweat pants all day.

A few hours ago I noticed a large number of small birds, of the finch variety, scouring the snow behind our house in the hope of finding something, anything, to eat. Our feeder is empty, and considering it’s hard to fill on a dry warm day, it’s basically impossible to fill it now. So, for the sake of the little birdies, I did the next best thing. I tossed a bunch of bird seed out onto the snow for them. The little guy in this photo was the first to find it. He must’ve gone and told his friends, because now we have a dozen little guys out there. If they eat it all, I’ll toss out more.

And our feeder is empty for more than the one reason you’d expect (that being “the birds ate it all.”) It’s touted as a squirrel-proof feeder, because the little perches are spring loaded and if more weight than a typical small bird pushes on any perch it will close. Squirrels are WAY smarter than that.

We have a couple who have figured out how to do gymnastics to get at the food. They hold onto a branch with their hind feet and reach out to grab the feeder, then they grip the perch at the sides instead of at the front edge so that it doesn’t push down and close, and laying out flat like a gymnast on the parallel bars, they gorge themselves. It’s fascinating to watch, as they practically defy gravity, but also a bit infuriating.

OK, back to the last few days…

On Monday, Barbara and I had tickets to see Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes at, wait for it… The Dakota. It’s our new favorite music and dining venue in the Twin Cities. The show was great, the people sitting around us were fun, and we had a fantastic time. The only hitch to the whole thing was the fact we had no idea that Minneapolis was going to be a wall-to-wall zoo on this particular Monday night, back when she bought the tickets. The championship game of the NCAA Basketball Tournament was at US Bank Stadium just a few blocks away. 77,000 fans would be attending.

Also, as part of the festivities, entire blocks of downtown were shut down so that fun stuff could happen in the streets. One of those streets, Nicollet Mall, just happens to be the street The Dakota is on. A large ferris wheel was actually in the middle of the road right outside the club, and the entire area was packed with basketball fans. It was pretty crazy, but the vibe was fantastic. Everyone was having fun on a warm and dry Monday night.

To make it more of a challenge, a number of other streets were blocked off near the stadium, for security reasons. Since we typically enter downtown from the eastern edge of it, literally driving right alongside the giant stadium which is just off the interstate, we were going to need an alternate route. I mapped that out, having us drive around downtown on I-94 to enter the area from the west side and then work our way back to The Dakota, but the problem was traffic.

The first part of the trip, through St. Paul and the Midway area between the cities, went well. The last six miles or so were done at a walking pace. It was nearly gridlock anywhere near downtown, but the plan worked and we got in on time. Dinner was fabulous, the wine flowed freely, and the show was fantastic. I was fairly stunned that they were able to get a three-piece horn section, a drummer, a bass player, a guitarist, a keyboard player, and Southside Johnny himself all on the tiny Dakota stage, but they rocked the house.

If you’re not familiar with Southside Johnny, he’s been part of the Bruce Springsteen universe for decades. They emerged out of New Jersey at the same time, playing very similar styles of music, and they share a lot of songs with each other. The band has a real E Street sound, and they’re all great musicians. It was a lot of fun.

We were at a table at the front of the stage, with just one other couple between us and the band. Near the end of the show Johnny was talking about the merchandise and CDs they had for sale and Barb had already bought one. She held it up to show him, and Johnny said “Let me see that.” She handed it to him and he put it in his back pocket, saying “Now she has to buy another one!”  That got a laugh out of the crowd, and my wife.

When the show was about to end, Barb yelled “Where’s my CD?” to him, and he just said “Nah, we’re not doing that” and then they walked off the stage. She had a kind of shocked look on her face and those around us were saying “I guess you’re not getting it back” in a kind of surprised bemusement. Then, a roadie who looked to be about 85 years old came out on stage holding the CD. He spotted Barb but then made a motion like he was signing it, obviously meaning “Do you want this autographed?” and when Barbara nodded he went behind the curtain and came back with Southside Johnny’s autograph on the sleeve. Cool evening, but we had one more challenge.

I thought the basketball game would still be far from over by the time the show ended, but the band played a long time and when we left I checked my phone and saw that the game was almost over, and about to go into overtime. No way we could drive the short route home, because it goes right by the stadium. So we went with Plan B.

I’d mapped out a route to take us directly south a mile or two, where we could get on I-35 and take it south to near the airport, then we drove home from there. Worked like a charm. No traffic at all.

Two nights later, which would be last night, we were back at The Dakota again. This time with no basketball game going on and all the streets opened. Crazy to see it all back to normal in just 48 hours. No sign of any ferris wheel.

Terry did a great job getting us there, and we enjoyed our dinner before the show started. It’s a real treat to have great servers bringing food and drinks right there at your table in such an intimate venue. And the food is pretty amazing.

The show featured a great band by the name of Cowboy Junkies. If you’ve never heard of them, they are not junkies. And they’re not cowboys. What they are is a totally unique band that creates a sound like no other band I’ve heard. And, as I posted on Facebook today, I’m still trying to figure out why I like them so much, because their style is about 180-degrees out from the harder stuff I normally listen to.

The band is made up of two brothers, Michael Timmins (guitars) and Peter Timmins (drums), along with their sister Margo (vocals) and a guy named Alan Anton (bass) who has known Michael since kindergarten. They’ve been recording and touring for 32 years now, with the exact same lineup. They are all from Toronto.

I discovered Cowboy Junkies around 1998 when we were living in Austin. They have a soft “spooky” sound, with waves of guitars and drums under the vocals. I think I like them so much because they’re all really smart and really talented, and that shows in the wonderfully inventive music they create. I’ve never heard another band that sounds like Cowboy Junkies. A huge (enormous) part of that is Margo’s voice. It’s from another world. Sort of a sound you might hear in a 1950s smoky piano bar, but with a modern edge to it. She’s incredible.

After our fantastic dinner we cheered as they walked on the tiny stage, and the first words out of Margo’s voice created one of those “Wow” moments for me. I’ve been listening to her sing for more than 20 years, but this was the first time I’d heard her, and the band, in person. What a great place to experience it.

I don’t recall one moment during the two-hour show when I was bored or thinking “OK, let’s move on to the next song now…” You don’t really sit there and just listen to the Junkies. You kind of bask in it, and let it all wash over you. It was really a memorable (unforgettable) experience. I’m so glad I finally got to see this band.

At first, we were a little worried that the weather would keep some people away, and the crowd did arrive a little late, but it totally filled in. The show had sold out almost immediately after tickets went on sale, which gave them the chance to add a second show the next night (tonight). Margo made a point of saying “We really want to thank you all so much for letting us play for you. Because of you, we get to do something we rarely have the chance to enjoy. We’re playing here again tomorrow night, so that means we get to stay in one place for two entire days, and not have to immediately drive to the next show. It’s a total day off for us, and we plan to enjoy your beautiful city, after we all sleep in a little.”

It was a magical night, with great friends, sharing fantastic food and drink. And did I mention that Margo Timmins can really sing? Wow…  If you’re not a fan or never heard of Cowboy Junkies, just check them out on YouTube. I think everything I just wrote about how they sound and what they do will make better sense if you do. Heck, here’s a direct link to an old video from the late 90s, featuring the song “A Common Disaster” which was the first Junkies song I ever heard. I was hooked.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TsS_W5jN-vU

Now it’s time for me to make tuna casserole on this snowy windy extended-winter day. This white stuff needs to go away, and since we’ll be back in the 50s by Saturday it shouldn’t be here long. Fingers crossed.

I’ll see you next week. We actually have one more concert to see before next Thursday. This time it will be at the State Theater in Minneapolis, a larger and more traditional venue but a great one nonetheless.

As always, if you perused my ramblings and found them to be generally agreeable, please click on the “Like” button at the top. It’s super-duper cool when you do that.

Bob Wilber, at your service and still marveling over Margo Timmins and Cowboy Junkies.

 

 

There is generally a point, during any Minnesota winter, where local residents begin to wonder if it will actually ever end. Not every year, but quite often. At first, as winter begins, the snow is “pretty” and the cold is “refreshing” while it’s also nice that the mosquitos, geese, and other pests have all left or are in hiding. But once it’s late February and then into March, if the white stuff is still piled high and the thermometer is refusing to cooperate, it gets to be something we’re all collectively “over” and all we really care about is spring.

Welcome to that magical time of year. And, as one of our esteemed local meteorologists said last night on the news, “Right now, it looks like we’re actually going to have a spring. A lot of years we don’t, we just go straight from winter to summer, and let’s not forget we had 18 inches of snow in one big storm last year, right in the middle of April.”

I haven’t forgotten. It was our “Men of Woodbury” weekend getaway to the North Shore of Superior and we got snowed in. Fortunately, and I’m really tempting fate here, the weather patterns right now show “no sign of anything like that happening this year” according to Belinda Jensen, the aforementioned esteemed meteorologist for KARE11 here in the Twin Cities. I believe her. She’s good at her job.

I think the key to all this was my trip to Kauai. While I was gone, Minnesota turned the corner. By the time I got back, a lot of the snow was finally melted, and now all that’s left is stuff that was piled up very high, or is in the shadows and gets no sunshine, or both. And the thermometer has been pretty friendly as well. So, clearly, all I had to do was leave for 10 days. Perhaps the entire population of the Twin Cities, if not the entire state, should participate in a GoFundMe campaign to cover the costs for me heading back to the island next year. And every year after that. Sounds fair. I can do it. I’ll take another one for the team.

Yesterday, on Facebook, I posted a photo of our last remaining little patch of snow out in the front yard. It was no more than a half-inch thick and about 2-feet x 2-feet. Four weeks ago it was nearly 4-feet deep. It’s gone now. The giant mountains in the shopping center parking lots are still around, and will be for a few more weeks, and some of our neighbors who have north-facing homes still have little piles in the shadows, but all of the remaining snow is living on borrowed time. The forecast for the next week is generally in the upper 50s or even the mid 60s. Not that I’m totally 100% confident. You’ll notice that I have not yet removed the covers from our Adirondack chairs or the fire pit. One step at a time…

Things I have done: I hooked the drain hose back up to the sump pump PVC pipe on the side of our house. The long black hose runs down the side of the house to a collection box in the back. That box collects whatever the sump pump spits out as well as water from a downspout, then sends it all down an underground drain line to another buried line, which runs downhill to a pond. So, the water from our gutters and our sump pump ends up directly in that pond, which is a good 100 yards away. But only during the warm months.

As you may recall, I can’t leave that hose hooked up during the winter because the first hard freeze will turn the collection box into solid ice and then the line will back up all the way to the PVC pipe, until the pump can’t actually pump and it burns out. That would be what we call, in technical terms, a really bad thing. It’s a big day when I get to hook that hose up again. I also took the rubber floor mats out of my car and will put the carpet mats back in today. I’m waiting for my car to “air out” a little more, though. It’s sitting in the garage with the windows down, because a harsh Minnesota winter will include the unavoidable fact that your shoes or boots will be dragging plenty of slush and snow into the car. Within that slush and snow is often a considerable amount of road salt. That salt dries and adheres itself to the permanent carpet in the car. All around the edges of the rubber mat, the salt will dry on said carpet and it seems to stick to it at the molecular level. No brush, rag, or vacuum can get it off. But, warm water mixed with vinegar will. My car still smells like Easter eggs. One more day and we should be good.

It’s also time to turn on the outdoor water spigots. That all has to be meticulously shut down for the winter. Once the two outdoor spigots are on I can do things like topping off the hot tub without having to run buckets of water out there, one at a time. I can also clean the garage floor completely, removing the last vestiges of gravel, salt, and dirt dragged in by the cars all winter. It’s a process.

As you can see here, the forecast for the weekend is really good. And that’s great for the Twin Cities and US Bank Stadium as we get ready to shine on the national stage one more time. The NCAA Final Four is here for the weekend, and the excitement in downtown Minneapolis is building fast. Our last big national moment was the Super Bowl, just a little over a year ago. As many may recall, it was classic Minnesota winter for the football game. Subzero temps and biting winds. We heard a few complaints by media members who only want the Super Bowl to be in warm-weather resort cities, but the vast majority had a great time, experiencing what we’re used to along with all the Minnesota Nice. This weekend, everyone will get to see another side of Minneapolis and the Twin Cities. Should be great! And I’m not letting that high of 48 on Tuesday scare me. It was 27-below not too many weeks ago.

One week ago, the Twins opened their season at home, in Target Field. When the schedule was announced many months ago, there was quite a bit of disbelief that MLB would not only have the Twins open at home, but have it be the earliest opener in baseball history, on March 28. The odds of it being very bad, versus OK, seemed to be about 100 to 1, but we dodged the bullet. Heck, they were still removing snow from Target Field just a few days before the opener. It was actually sunny and about 50 for the opener, which looked quite comfortable, but it did slide back into the mid-30s for home games two and three over the weekend. Still, considering the team had something like six early games either snowed out or postponed due to bitter cold last year, it was a fine way to kick off the season.

What confuses me, though, is that MLB now ignores the weather facts when it comes to where the first few games of the season should be played. Many years ago, after a terrible start to the season due to weather, MLB instituted a schedule for the following year that had warm-weather ballparks or domed stadiums hosting at least the first series of the year for every team. The Twins play in the AL Central, which boasts no indoor parks and where the one market that might be considered “warm weather” would be Kansas City, which is not generally warm this time of year. Why not have the entire AL Central open in domes or warm-weather towns? I get it that the cold-weather teams don’t want to have to habitually open the season on the road, but that’s got to be better than the overwhelming odds of starting the season in late March, in Minneapolis. We’re lucky to have gotten away with it this year.

On a different baseball note, however, there is this little gem. Found it on eBay a week ago, and just got it.

How does one find a 1979 Medford A’s pocket schedule? Believe it or not, there are people who collect pocket schedules as a hobby. Lots and lots of people, collecting lots and lots of pocket schedules, from MLB and NHL all the way down to the Northwest League. This one was listed as “mint” for its condition and the seller claimed it had never so much as been opened or unfolded. After getting it, I believe that. I think I’m the first human to unfold this thing.

I wanted it because I’ve never been able to find the full 1979 Northwest League schedule. Plus, I knew that just looking at our home and away games would fire up some more vivid memories. What I didn’t expect was to discover that what I thought was my photographic memory actually had some things wrong. I thought we went to Grays Harbor on the same road trip when we went to Bellingham and Victoria, BC. We did not. The trip to Grays Harbor was on a road trip with a series against the Padres in Walla Walla.

But, just by looking at this thing I could definitively see that the day I got hurt by taking a Louisville Slugger in the face and mouth was June 28. I know this because after two home games with me in the radio booth, complete with grotesque bloody bandage on my face, the team went on the road to Eugene for two games and I didn’t go. I was stuck in our apartment with no car, a right eye swollen completely shut and adorned with all sorts of wild colors, and teeth so loose I could probably have spit them out. It wasn’t a great time to be me.

It’s easy enough to spot the road trips where our bus broke down, too. The first would’ve been the night of June 26, driving back to Medford from Bend. OK, it was after midnight so it would’ve actually been June 27 when it broke down around 2:00 in the morning. For that one, my roomie Mike Altobelli and I jumped in a couple’s car and they gave us a ride home. The next one would’ve been the night of July 16, on our way home from Walla Walla. We finally got home late on the 17th in a school bus designed for grade school kids.

The luxurious pampered life of a minor league ballplayer knows no bounds. It also included seven of us sleeping on the floor at the radio announcer’s house. And $8 a day in meal money on the road. And 15-hour bus trips, but only if the bus didn’t break down. Plus, by this point I was getting paid the enormous sum of $700 per month. Rich, I tell ya. Filthy rich! Actually, the memories are just that. I’d do it all over again for the same money, if I could.

So that’s about it for this week. If you end up watching any of the Final Four just wave at the TV screen. I won’t be at the games but you’ll at least be waving in my general direction.

As always, if you just read this blog installment and thought it was “jolly good stuff” please do me the ultimate favor of clicking on the “Like” button at the top. I still working on my “Like Button” merit badge.

See you next week!

Bob Wilber, at your service and collection pocket schedules. Or actually not. This one will be fine for now.

Greetings from Woodbury, Minnesota. It’s a very special day, in numerous ways. While I was gone cat-sitting on Kauai, almost all the snow has melted. Not the super huge piles created by the plow guys in our front yard, but the back yard is 100 percent clear. It’s 53 degrees. But, the first thing I noticed when I reluctantly got up this morning was the sound. It was the familiar song of the robins and blackbirds, who signal the return of spring each year with their own return. The blue jays and cardinals, and all the little finches, have had the place to themselves all winter. There’s also the honking of the returning geese, but I’ll choose not to go there. They should just keep going to Canada and be quiet. Finally, though, it’s Opening Day.

Many of us think of it as a national holiday, hence our propensity for capitalizing the first letter in each word. It’s Opening Day. As tired as I was last night (extremely tired and jet-lagged) I watched at least three hours of MLB network on TV, just to dive into all the Opening Day Eve predictions and prognostications. I also hadn’t watched any TV in nearly two weeks, so there was that. And now, in just two hours, the Twins will host Cleveland at Target Field. It’s finally here. Gosh, winter can be long and grueling. Your football team plays once a week, and even gets a week off during the season. Your hockey and basketball teams play maybe two or three times in a week. And it’s dark. And it’s cold.

Now, baseball brings our dear friends back into our homes. The players for sure (this Twins club is an easy team to like, both on and off the field) but the announcers too. Dick Bremer, who does the Twins play-by-play on TV, sure feels like a friend although I’ve never had the privilege of meeting the man. His wonderful and humorous voice arrives in our home almost every day. Now, in addition to the one and only Bert Blyleven, Dick has a full team of color analysts who are all fantastic. Roy Smalley and Justin Morneau are priceless. I learn something from them nearly every time they are on with Dick.

162 games. From now at the end of March until early October, and then hopefully beyond. I’m 62, turning 63 in June. This has been going on my entire life. From Stan The Man, to Brock, Cepeda, and Gibson. To Ozzie doing backflips to Sutter closing games. To Jim Gott, Dave Stieb, and the rest of the Blue Jays when I worked for them. To Big Mac and Sammy. To those first Twins teams when we moved here and became instant fans. Torii, Johan, Corey, Justin, and of course Joe. St. Paul’s own sweet swinging Joe. To old old Busch, to new Busch, to Busch III. From Exhibition Stadium to SkyDome. From the Metrodome to Target Field. From Jack Buck and Harry Caray to Dick Bremer and his crew. From player introductions on Opening Day in Paintsville, Kentucky, to Lakeland, Florida, to Medford, Oregon. This, my friends, is life.

And, quite frankly, I need the jolt of adrenaline. I was really tired when I got home yesterday. I woke up this morning feeling like I’d been hit by a truck and failed to get the license plate number.

But back to the trip. It was a magical nine days on Kauai. It was proof that even I can slow it down and relax, clear my head and even do nothing. Then write. Then take care of Maxie and Biscuit (my Buster and Boofus stand-ins). And write some more. And see the island again. And not even mind the traffic or the rain. It’s no secret that it does rain on Kauai. As I tell those who haven’t visited the island or who are about to, “They don’t run plumbing up to the tops of those mountains to create the waterfalls. No rain, no waterfalls.”

By the end, Maxie and I once again did more than just bond. I bought them both a new brush, which Maxie instantly fell in love with. Biscuit, not so much. Biscuit would allow me to be in the room with him, and from time to time I could pet him and he’d close his eyes and purr. But anytime I had anything in my hand, he didn’t like that. The brush never touched him.

Maxie, in his own way, let it be known that the brush was always welcome. Within a day, he was doing the same thing Buster does here. I don’t have to say a word. I just pick up the brush and show it to him. Buster then takes me to wherever he’d like his massage to begin, which is generally the middle of the living room floor. I say where it will “begin” because he gets so excited he keeps moving around. I’ll say “Hey buddy, if you keep moving I can’t keep brushing.” Finally, he’ll flop down and then it’s on. It’s hilarious.

Maxie bounded into action by the second time I picked up the brush, and I used it as a way to get him to share the bed with me. He never did sleep with me, he was always just a few feet away throughout the night on his favorite pillow atop the hamper. But, if I sat on the bed and showed him the brush, there was no hesitation. And when a kitty lays flat on his back and shows you his belly, you’ve won him over.

It did get misty and rainy since I blogged last Thursday, but as I said above that comes with the territory. There’s the general Kauai mist, which is hardly a bother. On my last day, the morning began with the sound of a driving rain storm, though. Those tropical plants with the big leaves? Yeah, they’re like that to capture the water and keep themselves fed and growing. When it really rains, the drops make popping and splashing sounds when they hit those huge leaves. It’s kind of mesmerizing, and on the whole not a bad way to wake up.

A day earlier, I’d made the drive up to Hanalei. It’s a pretty drive, although the little two-lane road gets pretty curvy as you approach the town. There’s still a one-lane bridge to maneuver as well. The sign says “Local Custom is Six or Seven Cars.” That’s how many you should let go through. Then, those on the other side let your group through. That’s Kauai.

Traffic from Kapaa to near the airport in Lihue gets backed up every day. They even go so far as to move cones from one side to the other so that the heavier direction can get two lanes going. It still backs up, but that created the evolution of Kauai drivers. No one is getting anywhere fast when it backs up, so if a car is trying to merge, or cross traffic, it’s rare for more than one or two cars to go through before the next one stops and waves them in. You just do that. No honking. No trying to “swoop the line” to get around nine cars. No flipping people off. No dirty looks. Just a wave of the hand. And the other driver will almost certainly give you a “hang loose” wiggle in return, as a thank you.

I got a little wet in Hanalei, but I didn’t melt. I’d been to this restaurant before and was fortunate enough to get a table by the open windows. It’s a wonderful little town. I was going to get their marvelous fish and chips but for the first time I can ever remember the server said “OK, but just so you know, we’re out of french fries.” Out of fries. Remember, everything has to be shipped in. I guess you can run out of fries. I’ve never been to a place where they did, but I guess you can run out of fries.

So I had the teriyaki chicken on rice, instead. It was equally marvelous.

On Tuesday, I relaxed with the cats much of the morning. My flight to Honolulu on Hawaiian Airlines was at 3:00. I stripped the bed and gathered the towels to do the laundry, like a good brother does for his sister and her husband. There are coin operated machines in each building. Once the bed was stripped, the suitcase came out. Maxie immediately got in it. He had the exact same look Buster gives me when he sees my suitcase. Not happy.

I put the whole load in the dryer once the wash was done, and inserted my four quarters for one 60-minute cycle on “high heat.” 58 minutes later, I returned to see if it was all done. Nope. Still soaking wet. The heater in that dryer apparently was on strike. An hour later, as it was getting to be around 12 noon, everything was fully dry in the other machine. An hour of my life on Kauai, and $1 in quarters, gone from my life never to be reclaimed. OK. they were Mary’s quarters.

I said my goodbyes to the cats, and felt really sad about that. Then I got in Mary’s car and headed for the airport quite early. I feared the traffic for good reason. I could’ve walked to Lihue just about as quickly. I parked the car, left the keys in our super-secret hidden place, and headed in to the Hawaiian desk to get my bag checked and get a boarding pass. This was a lesson learned from the last trip.

In December, I booked the long Delta flights first, just to get those out of the way and make sure we’d meet up with Barbara’s sister Kitty at LAX. Then I booked the Hawaiian “island hopper” flights to get us from Honolulu to Kona, Kona to Kauai, and Kauai back to Honolulu all on the Hawaiian website. But, that meant the two airlines couldn’t work together. They may “code share” as many airlines do, but if you book the tickets separately they don’t exist in the other airline’s system. So when we headed back to Honolulu, from Kauai, with more baggage than we’d arrived with, we couldn’t have Hawaiian transfer the bags to Delta for us. That was, as we call it, a long schlep through the huge Honolulu airport to go outside security, pick up the bags and then get them checked with Delta about a half-mile away, and then back through security. For this trip, I booked it all through Delta so that my bags would transfer.

I remember at the time being a little concerned, maybe even worried, about the 90-minute layover they set me with up in Honolulu. But, I worry about all parts of travel. It’s a big part of why I retired to write after 40+ years of it. How will traffic be? How long will the lines be to check my bag? How about TSA? Where will my gate be? How long is my layover in Salt Lake? Or Detroit? Or Seattle? Those questions never ended, in my head, and I’m not even talking about rental cars and hotels, which carried their own sets of worries. So, I told myself 90 minutes was fine. The flight to Honolulu, after all, is only 35 minutes.

So at 1:00 I went to the bar to correct a huge oversight. I had not enjoyed a Mai Tai the entire time I was on the island. The bartender mixed me a perfect one.

I sipped it and raved to my server, for her fine effort. I was blissfully ignorant of what was to come.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed as both Hawaiian and Delta were pinging me to alert me to “A change in your itinerary.”  My Hawaiian flight was now due to depart at 3:20 instead of 3:00. So my 90-minute layover was now 70. And the “island hopper” terminal is a long way from the Delta gates at Honolulu. I wasn’t too happy.

After my Mai Tai, I looked at the monitor and it still showed my 3:00 flight departing on time. Hmmm. Apparently, Hawaiian’s monitors need to be manually changed, and no one had done it.  So much so, that by the time I got to the gate to confirm the delay, I got pinged again. Now 3:35. And then 3:45. And still no change to the monitors.

I found as quiet a place as I could and called the Delta Platinum desk. We talked it over, and the guy was mostly like “Get on the Hawaiian plane. If they get out of there at 3:45 you should make it.”

I said, “But let’s be honest. I have no confidence they’ll leave here at 3:45. Are you sure I should get on it? I’d imagine I’ll be stranded in Honolulu if I do.”  He seemed more optimistic than me. Plus, there are worse places to be stranded than Honolulu, I guess.

Then I checked the monitors again, which also list incoming flights, and it was pretty easy to figure out that the incoming aircraft was now listed as arriving at Lihue at 3:46, magically time-traveling to arrive one minute before it was still listed to leave for Honolulu. The way my math skills evaluated it, even if it arrived at 3:46, the taxi to the gate, the unloading, the reloading, and all the other “stuff” that happens to get planes in the air, there was no way it would get to Honolulu until after my flight was leaving, on-time. This was not going to work.

I called the Platinum desk at Delta again. This time Gwendolyn took my call. She was pretty amazing. She looked at all of her screens and said, “You’re right. There’s no way you make that connection. Let me see what I can do…”

We looked into just moving my entire itinerary to the next day, but there were no empty seats. We looked at getting to other islands but it just wasn’t going to work out. Then she got creative.

“OK, how’s this? There’s a 10:20 flight, tonight, right out of Lihue direct to LAX. After a one-hour layover at LAX, you go straight to MSP. You’ll get home around 1:15 tomorrow afternoon. We have to make a decision, though. There’s one seat left on each flight.”

I said that sounded great. Do it! She then said, “I want to let you know that you’ll be in First Class on both planes, but it’s standard first class. You were booked in Delta 1 class on the nonstop from Honolulu to Minneapolis.”

That meant I’d be going to what would still be a nice First Class seat with all the amenities, but I’d be giving up my “Lie Flat” pod with all the sleeping and privacy advantages. I told her I didn’t care. Book it.

It all had to be done manually, so she got her supervisor on the line and about 15 minutes later I was getting pinged again with my new itinerary and boarding passes. And, Gwendolyn said, “This is really all Hawaiian’s fault, but we’re going to take care of you, Mr. Wilber. I’m working on a $500 travel voucher, but approving that is above my pay grade. I’m working with special services. Can you hold on another few minutes?” Sure!

When she came back, the voucher had been approved and then she added, “Plus, the fare difference going from Delta 1 to standard First Class is in your favor. I don’t know what that is yet, but give us a call in a day or two and we’ll get that put back into your account.” Thank you! The only thing left to worry about was my bag, which I’d checked with Hawaiian. I wasn’t going to sweat that. It was full of dirty clothes and my shaving kit.

“Oh, your bag will find you, it’s just a matter of when,” Gwendolyn said. I was just happy to be getting home.

So, by then it was about 3:00. I sure didn’t want to hang out at Lihue Airport for seven more hours. Mary was due in, from Seattle, around 8:30 or 9:00. I considered taking her car back to the condo but could imagine all sorts of ways that could end up poorly, so I took a taxi. I got to hang out with Maxie and Biscuit for another five hours. That was just fine.

I texted Mary, knowing she was in the air and wouldn’t see it until she landed, and that’s how it worked. I got back through security and waited at her gate. She got off her plane, we shared another hug and some laughs, and off she went. I went and waited for my plane.

I slept a little on the flight to LAX, which arrived there around 6:00 in the morning. After my quick layover, it was another four hours to MSP and I actually slept quite a bit on that one. Lots of “head bobbing” going on. We landed right on time. Meanwhile, I had been getting funny updates about my bag being loaded onto different flights. It was never being loaded onto the plane I was on, but it seemed to be in motion and headed in the right direction. When we landed, the next ping informed me that my bag had been unloaded at carousel 3 about 55 minutes earlier. I walked down there, and lo and behold it was sitting right by the carousel, being carefully documented and scanned by a Delta baggage agent. I said, “Hey, that’s mine” and she replied, “Oh, Mr. Wilber, I didn’t think you were due in yet. I thought you’d be here around 1:15. Oh, well look at that. It’s 1:00 already.” So, after all that, my bag got to MSP an hour before I did. That’s magic.

I took a taxi home. Buster and Boofus tried to give me the cold shoulder, but I wouldn’t let them. I picked each guy up and gave them each a big hug and some rubs on the head. And then I went to lay down “for a few minutes.”  At 5:00, I woke up with Buster in my arms and Boofie between my legs.

I stayed awake until it was time to take a session with Barbara in the hot tub, and with the outdoor temp being around 45 with a nice breeze, that was about as perfect as it gets. Then I slept like a brick. When I woke up this morning, I felt like a brick. Starting to feel a little more human now.

Opening Day Update: Pregame show starts in 15 minutes. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hold off posting this until Dick Bremer makes his first appearance of the 2019 season, holding his Fox Sports North microphone in the booth.

I’ll be back in a minute. In the meantime, there’s this diversion:

Before I left for Kauai I filled Barb’s car with gas. The snow melt was just beginning, so I didn’t pay much attention to how wet the concrete was next to the pump. When I got back in her car, it was obvious I hadn’t been standing in water. Or slush. Some sloppy customer had spilled quite a bit of gas next to pump, and the soles of my shoes stunk up the car something fierce. And these are currently my favorite shoes.

I took them home and cleaned the soles with dish soap. I sprayed them with 409 and scrubbed some more. Still smelled like gas. I put them in the washer and ran the cycle on hot. Still smelled. The day before I left, I put them out on the screened porch. They’re still there.

To be fair, the smell is about 80 or 90 percent gone, but it’s still there. I’m going to wash them again, but if anyone knows a “hack” to get the gasoline smell out of sneakers, let me know.

If it involves raw eggs, or the eye of a newt, or strange herbs, I might opt to pass.

OK, the pregame show is underway and the Twins are being introduced, one by one, on the first-base line. I absolutely love the pageantry of Opening Day. I have goosebumps. Watching the guys get introduced, you can’t miss how happy they all look. Baseball should make you happy. It’s a game. It’s supposed to be fun.

So I leave you with this. The dear friend I’ve never met, Dick Bremer, kicking off the 2019 season for Twins fans all through Twins Territory. Justin Morneau by his side, ready to dispense his wisdom as a former MVP.

I’ll be back next week. In the meantime, enjoy baseball! And if you liked this post, please do me a favor and click on the “Like” button at the top. Otherwise, it’s “Swing, and a miss.”

Bob Wilber, at your service and ready for 162 games.

 

Aloha, everyone. It’s another beautiful day in paradise, which is part of the reason I’m a day late getting this vacation blog posted. OK, it’s not really a vacation if you’re on an actual assignment, and that’s exactly what I’m doing here. It’s an executive position as the CCS (Chief Cat Sitter), food provider, vacuum operator, and fitness coordinator. Lots of long walks along the beaches, drives to beautiful areas, and companionship for Maxie and Biscuit.

Last year, Biscuit was not even seen for the first 48 hours, and then was only glimpsed briefly dashing for the food bowl in the dark. This year it’s much better. Biscuit will now allow me to be in the same room with him, as long as I don’t make any sudden movements. When he’s curled up and sleeping, he’ll even allow me to pet him. Progress! Maxie warmed up to me during my cat-sitting stay last year, to the point where he was on my lap during my final morning here. He seems to have retained much of that, because we’re good buddies. He’s one of the coolest cats I’ve ever met, although he’s about as goofy as he can be. And even though they were both strays and are unrelated, they treat each other like brothers. It’s fun to be here with them. Well, OK, it’s fun to be on Kauai too. Hard to believe, right?

So here’s something I’ve never done before. It’s a map of the island of Kauai. If you click on it to enlarge it, you can get a real feel for where I am, where we typically go when we’re here, and what it’s like. Basically, everyone on Kauai lives around the edges. The entire center part of the island is mountains, waterfalls, and canyons.

Plus, if you look closely you can see that the main road around the island doesn’t connect on the northwest side. You used to be able to get a little past Hanalei up on the north shore, but torrential rains and floods back in April of 2018 wiped out some bridges (and houses) beyond the village and it’s still an ongoing project to get everything back to normal again. It’s not easy rebuilding washed out ravines and demolished bridges on an island.

So, anyway, as you can see there’s no way to get all the way around. If Kauai was a clock, from just past Hanalei and Princeville up around 12 noon, around the northwest side to just a little north of Kekaha down around 8 o’clock, it’s all wilderness. There are some incredible vistas from atop the mountains, where you can see down to this remote part of the island on the far west and northwestern sides. The only way to get there, though, is by boat.

My sister Mary and her husband Lonnie own this condo in Kapaa, which is often spelled in the more traditional Hawaiian as Kapa’a. I’m right about 3 o’clock on the right (east) side of the island. This afternoon, after I finish this and post it, I plan to make the drive up to Hanalei. It’s a wonderful little village of shops and restaurants and, as all you Peter, Paul, & Mary fans remember, it’s the fictional home of Puff, The Magic Dragon.

Yesterday, I drove down to Koloa Town (down around 6 o’clock) and then continued on to the beach and village of Poipu. Koloa is a great example of what Kauai is like. It’s the town that built up around the first successful sugar plantation and mill on the island, back around 1835. The word “quaint” doesn’t even come close. It’s a step back in time, and there’s more than plenty of that sort of thing on Kauai.

So, about the state of Hawaii. Most tourists from the mainland start on Oahu in Honolulu. It’s great, and a trip to Pearl Harbor ought to be mandatory for citizenship. But, it’s a truly big city with superhighways and high-rise buildings. It’s very cosmopolitan in some ways, but it’s very “big city urban” in many others. Maui is kind of the “party island” for most folks. Barbara and I were actually married on the beach there. There are too many super-luxury resorts for me to count and lots going on there, although a trip around the island to the Hana side gives you a glimpse of old Maui.

The island of Hawaii, known as The Big Island, is kind of unique too. It’s the largest island, it has huge mountains where it’s not uncommon to see snow at the top. That’s where all the gigantic observatories are, too. It has a wet side (Hilo) and a dry side (Kona) and there are some very nice luxury resorts to be found. We’ve stayed at the incredible Lava Lava Beach Club the last two times we’ve been to the Kona side of The Big Island. And our former favorite resort in the world, Kona Village which was destroyed by a tsunami, is finally being rebuilt. Can’t wait for that! The Big Island is also all about volcanoes, so there’s that footage we see on the news so regularly. All of these islands came up from the sea bed as volcanoes.

I haven’t yet been to Lanai or Molokai, but from what I’ve heard they are still very rustic, without all the hustle and bustle of a string of resorts called “Fairmont” or “Four Seasons” to entice you. I’d love to get to both islands some day.

Kauai, though, is my favorite. To be fair, with just the one main road around the edges of the island the traffic can back up easily, but the charm of it still can’t be missed. It’s old-school with some new school thrown in. There’s a reason a lot of celebrities own places on Kauai. I have personally never bumped into Pierce Brosnan, or Graham Nash, or Drew Barrymore, or even Mark Zuckerberg, but they all have homes here. OK, Zuckerberg owns about 700 prime acres, upon which sits his mansion and compound and his own helipad, so that’s not quite the same as Ms. Barrymore’s beachside bungalow. Homes are homes, I guess.

Lihue, which is where the Kauai Airport is, would be the one sort of “big town” on the island. It’s over there around 4 o’clock on the map. It has a population of about 6,500 (the entire island only has a population of about 72,000) and it even has a shopping center (where my sister works, at Pier 1) a hospital, and a community college. It also has a Petco, where I made a quick stop yesterday, on the way back from Koloa and Poipu, to get these guys a couple of new toys. They went nuts for the new fresh catnip toys I brought home, and Maxie  fell in love with his new feather on a stick. Biscuit is afraid of it. That’s their two personalities on perfect display.

And speaking of “the two cats” I’m sitting for, there’s actually a third. It’s a stray feral cat that sort of adopted Mary in terms of getting food. Mary has a little bowl for food and water out on the lanai (Hawaiian term for patio or porch) so I also fill that up each day. He or she (we can’t tell yet and I can’t even get anywhere close to cat No. 3 to this point) comes by to munch in the afternoon and then sits out on the yard behind the condo for much of each day. He or she then typically sleeps on the chair out there. Maxie and Biscuit are intrigued, but they are strictly indoor kitties so never the twain shall meet. Or, as Lonnie put it, “If we let that cat into the condo, we’ll have a hundred cats within a year. Two is enough.” He’s probably right. Mary never met an animal she didn’t love, and we grew up with multiple cats in the house.

Down in Poipu, there’s a wonderful shopping area that has all sorts of cool shops and restaurants. Heck, there’s even a Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse, which seems about as out of place as anything on Kauai, but Poipu Beach is a real destination (with numerous resorts) so an upscale place like that does well. When we were here during Christmas, Barbara and her sister took me to a jewelry shop and that’s where I picked out my new titanium and crushed pearl wedding band. I love this ring! So much so I made a stop at the shopping area to go in and see the woman that had it made for me. And, lo and behold, she had the day off. Foiled, but I told the young girl working there to make sure she told the owner that a guy who ordered a titanium ring back in December thinks it’s the coolest ring he’s ever owned. She said she would.

So what have I been doing on this trip? Well, I’ve had a writing resurgence and I haven’t missed a walk yet. I had been in a self-inflicted dry spell in terms of writing the new book “How Far?” for about a month. First, we went to Orlando for a few days and both came back with horrible head and chest colds. I suspect a real professional writer could power through that, but I guess I’m still an amateur. I couldn’t string a sentence together when I was sick for a solid week. Then, just as I was feeling better I flew back to Florida for our SIUE Roomies Reunion at Spring Training. There’s another week shot. I was only home for parts of three days before jetting over here.

My goal was to use this as quiet time and writing time. In the last two days I wrote an entire new chapter, and at 14 pages it was the longest one of the book, so far. Plus, it’s the place in the book where some really dramatic family stuff happens for one of the characters, and that definitely got me outside my comfort zone. I’ve rarely written about stuff like that, and I was proud of it when I was done last night. I shared it with my mentor and editor Greg Halling after I finished it, and I’m either going to be “super proud” of it if he likes it, or it will be “back to the drawing board” if he has to break the news to me that I need to do better. We’ll see.

This afternoon or this evening, I’ll be starting the next chapter, with the other character. The two have really come to life, and it’s a joy to write this. I’m thrilled to be back in the saddle again. Coming over here was the best possible way for me to focus strictly on the book and not have any distractions, other than Maxie walking through the room dragging his feather and stick behind him. I can deal with that.

I’ve also stuck with the walking, and will fit another few miles in today as well. I can walk out the door here and be on the beach in two minutes, and before Mary left for the mainland she showed me a nice little two-mile loop she does that’s scenic and fun. For a more strenuous deal, I drive about five miles north to Kealia Beach, which is a great place. It has a huge parking area, picnic tables and buildings, even lifeguards, so it’s a real official style beach. The trail that runs alongside Kealia starts down here in Kapaa and runs well beyond Kealia until you come to Donkey Beach.

Donkey is still a bit of a hidden gem, because you can’t see it from the road and would need to have the local knowledge that a little wide spot on the side of the road is where you’d park if you wanted to hike to the beach. For a long time, it was so uncrowded and unknown it was a nude beach (from what I’ve read) but that was just because no one bothered to enforce the Hawaiian “No Nudity” beach law at such a secluded place. Now, it’s well enough known that they have enforced it, and it’s still a cool little beach to discover at the end of a long walk on the paved trail.

The real name of Donkey Beach is Paliku, but the legend has it that it got the Donkey nickname from the pack animals that helped haul sugar cane. Funny thing though. Those were mules, not donkeys. I guess Mule Beach just didn’t have the same ring to it.

From Kealia to Donkey and back is nearly 8,000 steps on my watch. That’s close to four miles, but it’s all along the coast and it’s pretty typical to see some whales along the way. A couple of days ago I either saw four different whales or the same whale four times. Kinda hard to tell when all you can see is the flume of spray when they blow, way out at sea. It’s still a thrill to see them, each and every time.

Another thing about Hawaii in general, which also applies to Kauai, is how expensive everything is. It pretty much has to be, or the shops and restaurants couldn’t stay in business. Everything has to be shipped in. From cereal to cars, from structural steel to milk, from all the stuff on all the shelves at the drug store to just about everything in the grocery store. It’s expensive just to get stuff like that here. Mary knows it well. At Pier 1 they have big trucks bringing shipping containers to the store every week. How else could you get all that cool furniture and other stuff to a store on Kauai? And yes, Mary has to help unload it all.

The first day, after I dropped Mary at the airport, I went across the road to Safeway to stock up on groceries. I’m not a big “eat out by myself” type of guy, and I really did come here to watch the cats, walk, and write, so I went and stocked up on groceries. Nothing unusual or extravagant. Stuff like salad, cheese, apple sauce, bananas, peanut butter, etc. I walked out of there with three bags. Granted, there were two bottles of $12 wine in there, too, but that’s about it. My bill? $203.  Not kidding. But this stuff will last all nine days I’m here, and I don’t mind cooking or preparing. I had an Asian Sesame salad the other night, with a chicken breast I baked to perfection. I could easily spend $200 on just four or five dinners out, with Mai Tai’s included of course.

And here’s a random shot of the two guys loving on each other last night. They’re adorable.

And another thing. Not only have I not gone out to eat or to a bar since Mary and I hit the Olympic Cafe after I got here on Sunday night, I have also not turned the TV on. As I told Barb on the phone, “You know how much time we spend watching mindless stuff on television? I’m going full cold turkey. No TV while I’m here.” To be fair, I have streamed a couple of shows I wanted to see, on my laptop, and I’ve followed some sports scores there too, but no TV.

I also entered my nephew Ewan’s March Madness deal. It’s just for fun, no money involved, so I filled my bracket out and was thrilled to see two  upsets come through for me yesterday. Minnesota and Murray State. Then, like about two-thirds of America, I assume, I checked online last night after the evening games were done, and said aloud the word “Wofford?”  Really? Wofford? That pretty much blew up the entire lower right side of my bracket.

Well, that’s about it for today (a day late and after that trip to Safeway still more than a few dollars short.) I’ll take more pics before I leave. Four more nights here, and then I’ll fly overnight to get home. Time for a walk, I think. Or that drive up to Hanalei. I can do both! I’m on Kauai.

And in the spirit of Aloha, if you read today’s installment and thought it deserved a passing grade (even if that’s a C+) please do me a huge favor and click on the “Like” button at the top. Just 3,266 more “Likes” and I can get a free ticket to a luau. Or maybe it was a half-priced Mai Tai. Or a cheap t-shirt. Hard to say.

See you next week. ALOHA!!!

Bob Wilber, at your service and hanging with Maxie and Biscuit.

The names are not quite the stuff of legend, but we’re getting there. Oscar, Radar, Wilb, and good old Lance who was often called “Disco” in college at SIUE, but who just as often was known as Lance Romance. Neither of them stuck. He’s just Lance. As in Lance McCord, the pride of Highland, Illinois. Go Bulldogs!

I returned from our 5th Annual Roomies Reunion yesterday, getting home around 4:45 feeling a little tired. Once I sat on the couch and turned on the TV, I realized I was more than a little bushed. Barbara had plans with friends last night, and I failed to stay awake anywhere close to 11:00 when she got home. She woke me up on that same couch. My buddies and I about wore ourselves out down in Florida, but man was it fun!

As you read last week, this year’s reunion centered around Spring Training in Florida. As you can see here, there are still plenty of teams who play in the Grapefruit League, despite the fact a few have defected to the Cactus League in Arizona over the last few years. The whole concept of Spring Training in Arizona has never clicked with me, for one very good reason. Why? Because growing up we always went to Florida. Year after year. Usually to St. Pete, staying at the Edgewater Beach Motel not far from Al Lang Field. When I played pro ball, I went to Florida to train at Tiger Town in Lakeland. I have actually never been to any Spring Training activities in Arizona. It’s the Grapefruit League for me.

In case you ever wanted a visual representation of the current Grapefruit League, here it is. Our trip included games in Bradenton (Pirates), Lakeland (Tigers), and Fort Myers (Twins and Red Sox). That last stop included two games in two different parks, just a few miles apart. To make life even better, our wonderful Airbnb home in Fort Myers was basically equidistant from those two stadiums, with each being not much more than eight minutes away.

What I knew going in but learned all over again was the pesky fact about Florida traffic, especially this time of year when Spring Training is drawing visitors by the gazillions while Spring Break is doing the same. It can be really hard to get around, whether it’s surface streets or the interstate. Those last two stops in Fort Myers came with their share of stoplights and back-ups, but at least we stayed off I-75 to get to the games.

So, let the stories (and the games) begin.

We all arrived on Thursday, with Lance and me flying in on different flights while Radar and Oscar once again exercised their right to drive. Amazingly, we all arrived at the Bradenton Airbnb within a few minutes of each other. That was a good thing, because neither Lance nor I were smart enough to figure out how to get in. The owners sent us the code to unlock the front door but we couldn’t figure out where to enter the code. We were just about at our wits end when Oscar and Radar arrived. Oscar went straight to the door and got it open. What had looked like a decorative face plate above the knob, to me and Lance, was a hidden keypad. You just had to touch it the first time to get the numbers to light up. Sneaky.

The place was really cool. Like very cool. And the views out over the water were everything we’d imagined when I booked the place and shared the listing with the boys.

We each had our own rooms, spread out over two floors. The kitchen was great, the living room fantastic, and the sunset was priceless.

And here’s a fun fact you might be surprised to hear, when thinking of four old guys who went to college together. We only ate out twice, if you don’t count hot dogs at the ballparks. We went to the grocery store in each town and stocked up on breakfast and dinner items, then cooked them ourselves. And it was awesome. It helped that Lance has taken some serious culinary classes and he knows his way around the kitchen. His knife skills were pretty impressive, too. Snacks were also included in our purchases, as were a few beers and some wine. We’re very self-sufficient in that regard.

After we got settled in, ate our great meal, and watched some TV, we headed off to our specific rooms. We made it to 10:00, I think. Maybe 9:45. We’re animals. We did get up early though. Basically the sunrise was our alarm each day and we were ready to go. We had time for morning walks, a great breakfast, and general relaxation. Then, around 11:30 or so on Friday morning an Uber driver arrived at the house to deliver us safely to McKechnie Field, in downtown Bradenton. The Uber thing was important, because the old historic ballpark is wedged into a busy industrial and commercial part of town and parking is difficult. We got dropped at the curb like VIPs. Except instead of a limo it was something like a Kia Optima. You should’ve seen me, Radar, and Oscar in the back seat! Lance always gets the front because he’s an entire half-inch taller than me.

After passing through the gates, we were officially starting our 2019 Spring Training Tour. We were quite early, but that was OK by us. We found our seats and watched Toronto take batting practice, then decided to walk around and check out the old park that is now mostly a new park. When I was 11-years old I made my first trip to McKechnie during the fall of that year, to be with my mom and dad for a week of Florida Instructional League action with the Twins. My dad, of course, was the manager. Guys named Graig Nettles, Pat Kelly, and Rick Renick were on that team of rookies. So was a second-baseman by the name of Rod Carew. I got to be the batboy for a week. Think that was fun? Oh yeah.

Back then, McKechnie had basically never been updated since it was built in 1923. It had rickety wooden bleachers that held about 2,000 fans. It was cozy. It went though its first renovation in 1993, expanding it to a capacity of around 6,600. In 2013 it was turned into a fine modern place, holding about 8,500, with only the original stucco facade and exterior still in place. You can still feel the old-school vibe, though, and they’ve done a marvelous job of that. Modern amenities, but that great old-time feeling. The Pirates have called it their spring home since around 1969, I think

The boys had never been there, and they thought it was pretty cool. It most certainly was. We ended up just cruising around the place instead of sitting in our seats, and had a great time. We also proved one more bit of maturity by lathering up with sunblock before we left the house. We actually had one tube that was SPF 100, although we referred to it as “SPF one million”.

I should also mention that during the game we were having fun out in right field, standing on a large patio out there at the edge of the outfield wall, when one of the Blue Jays hit an absolute screaming line drive. Like, if life was a Bugs Bunny cartoon the baseball would’ve been actually screaming as it flew through the air. Right off the bat, all four of these former SIUE Cougars shifted into ballplayer mode. We all knew instantly that it was coming right at us, or at least right at Oscar who was the furthest one of us to the left. Amazing that at 62 you can still instantly tell that a ball that has just been mashed 370 feet away is coming straight to the guy five feet to your left. It was a rocket. Probably never got more than 40 feet off the ground on a laser-like trajectory. With a glove, any of us could have caught it, I’m sure. Those instincts don’t fade away. Oscar was ready, but a young guy wearing a Pirates shirt reached up and deflected it and it shot to the back of the patio area. Oscar then said, “I never really factored in the whole deflection part. That’s a great way to lose four teeth.” We talked about it for hours.

Getting out of there after the game was no treat, as traffic was in gridlock and we had to try to spot a new Uber driver on the busy roads. He actually showed up on a cross street on the opposite side of the road. He was quite stuck, over there, so we dashed through the traffic and hopped in. Craziness, but a fun experience. Our Uber driver was a laugh a minute, too, and it was he who recommended a dinner location for us. We enjoyed a fantastic meal at The Ugly Grouper over on Anna Maria Island. I had the Grouper Sandwich. Imagine that. Hey, go with what you know!

On Saturday, we were headed to Lakeland to see the Tigers take on the Braves, and I’d wrestled with how we were going to get there. My gut instinct told me to map out a route on country roads. That might be a longer trip, it terms of distance, but it would be a far easier one. Then, for some reason, I decided just to take I-75 up to I-4. Big mistake. Always, let me emphasize this, ALWAYS trust your gut. Traffic was horrible. A 70-mile drive took us way more than two hours. It was great to be back there, though, once we finally arrived.

Like many of the parks in Florida, Joker Marchant Stadium has gone through many fantastic face lifts. It has all the modern benefits while still keeping a lot of its charm. When I played there, in 1979, it had basically no charm. Zero.

And as part of that ongoing renovation, the Tigers have done what the Pirates and Twins have also done. They’ve made it possible to completely circle the ballpark on walkways, boardwalks, and bridges, and they’ve added a lot of green space for fans to hang out on to watch the game from the grass and maybe catch a home run, while avoiding the loss of four teeth. We stayed in our seats more for the Tigers game, but also spent a lot of time walking around to see everything from different perspectives. And we visited the souvenir store. I bought a t-shirt at every game.

Back in my era, the Lakeland ballpark seemed large and imposing but it probably didn’t have 60% of the capacity it has now. Back then, Spring Training was not nearly as popular as it is in the present day. Now, many thousands of fans make annual pilgrimages to Florida and Arizona, and Spring Training has become big business for the clubs and the communities. It’s pretty common for games to be sold out, but the teams make sure the relaxed “training” atmosphere remains. If you’ve never been, you should definitely go. It’s a vibe unlike any other I’ve experienced in sports.

And what’s also cool is how fans come down and root for their teams wherever they’re playing. There were tons of Canadians at the Pirates game, cheering for their Blue Jays. Braves fans came out in droves to see their guys at the Tigers game. It’s always like that, and it’s pretty cool.

It’s also exactly the reason why the four of us chose to have our annual reunion this way. We could get to Florida and see all sorts of teams and ballparks in a condensed area. It’s a cool deal.

Being in Lakeland was really nostalgic for me. The last time I set foot in Marchant Stadium I was returning to the clubhouse to clean out my locker after having been released the night before. That was early June, in 1979. It’s changed a lot, but it’s still the same in many ways. To look out over the complex behind the stadium, seeing those fields and the buildings that make up Tiger Town, was really a special feeling. One of the side benefits of having written “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” was that it gave me some affirmation. For far too long I secretly considered myself a baseball failure, because I could only compare myself to my father and his Major League career. When writing about it, and when visiting Tiger Town again, I had to let that go and realize I’d accomplished quite a lot in the game. Not too many guys get to wear the uniform and play at Marchant Stadium after Spring Training in Tiger Town. I think I did OK.

We had to get up and get rolling on Sunday morning, because we needed to get to Fort Myers in time to go straight to Hammond Stadium for the Twins game. With two vehicles, and knowing what I-75 traffic could be like, we split up the tickets and planned to meet outside the park when we got there. Amazingly, that worked like a charm and traffic wasn’t too horrible.

Hammond Stadium, a part of the Century Link Sports Complex which houses the entire Twins organization during the spring, is a jewel. Like so many others, it’s been renovated and improved on a nearly constant basis. I’ve been going to games there for a decade, by combining the NHRA Gatornationals up in Gainesville with a side trip to Hammond, and compared to how it was when I first did that it’s now a palace, while it’s still so comfortable and friendly.

The Twins were playing the Blue Jays, and we sat behind a wonderful young family from Guelph, Ontario (not too far from Toronto). It was fun talking to them and enjoying their kids, who were having a blast. As I said to Barbara on the phone after the game, “Imagine a crowd made up of Canadians and Minnesotans. Possibly the most polite game I’ve ever been to.”

And, it was the second time we’d seen the Blue Jays on the trip, despite the fact we never got close to Dunedin, where they train. Again, the beauty of Spring Training. And we got to see a young man who has a chance to do pretty well in the sport. Do you remember former big leaguer Dante Bichette? His son Bo Bichette is a young player in the Jays’ organization who played in Double-A last year. If the performances he put on during the two games we saw him in are any indication, he’ll be in the big leagues soon. He absolutely mashed the ball every time he came to the plate. I’m not talking about regular line drives or home runs that barely cleared the wall. He hit absolute rockets. He hit four home runs in the two games we saw, but they kind of all blended in as a series of explosions off his bat. This old scout says “Keep an eye out for Bo Bichette coming to a ballpark near you…”

The game at Hammond also seemed like our “home game” on the trip. Obviously, I’m a Twins fan but the guys have all kind of stayed interested in the Twins since our reunion in Minneapolis a few years back. Plus, as it turned out, they all thought the overall experience at Hammond Stadium was the best of the trip. So, it only seemed right to break out the new reunion shirts as our home white uniforms.

The Twins did get bombed by Bo Bichette and the Blue Jays (great name for a 50s Doo-wop band) but that’s not really why you go to Spring Training. You’re seeing a lot of rookies, wearing numbers in the 70s and 80s, who will soon be “going back to the other side of the complex” for more minor league seasons. You’re seeing veteran pitchers “working on things” to help develop new pitches when it doesn’t hurt as much. You’re soaking in the sun and enjoying a hot dog surrounded by friendly people who are all doing the same thing.

It’s a magical place.

After the game, we headed over to our second Airbnb of the trip, and it was great too. Not the zillion dollar view of the first place, but a very comfortable and modern home in a suburban development. It could not have been any nicer and it felt like home the second we walked in the door.

As you can see, Radar gave it his seal of approval upon arrival.

While in Fort Myers, we also had the great pleasure of spending an afternoon and evening with yet another SIUE Cougar teammate, Kent Hendrickson. He and his wonderful wife Mary live in Fort Myers now, and Kent had us over to enjoy an afternoon at the pool in his condo complex, followed by an incredible dinner whipped up by Chef Mary. It was all phenomenal and it was great to see The Stork in his new habitat. Plus, Mary is a riot so the whole visit was full of laughter. We’d also hook up with Kent one more time, when he talked us out of our laziness to join him for dinner at a great place near Fort Myers Beach.

And, in a total “it’s a small world” type of deal, any Team Wilkerson fan will know why I said “Wow, look at that” when we approaching the restaurant. To get there, we passed Diversified Yacht Services, which is owned by Dick Levi. DYS decals have been on Wilk’s Funny Car for many years. The place is huge, and really impressive. What a coincidence!

Our final destination was JetBlue Park, just a few minutes from our Airbnb on Tuesday. JetBlue just opened in 2012 and that’s pretty obvious from the moment you approach the facility. JetBlue may need a renovation someday, like around 2040, but right now it’s the most modern and striking park in the league. And, the field is exactly the same shape and dimensions as Fenway, hence its nickname of “Fenway South.”

Strangely, the one feature JetBlue doesn’t provide is the ability to walk all the way around the park. Not sure why they didn’t do that, but it’s still a beautiful place. And another thing they did, I suspect to give it a bigger Fenway vibe, was to build an actual street into the design, so that once you’re through security and the gates, and in the park, you can check out all sorts of food trucks and other concessions that are available beyond the standard concessions.

We had bleacher seats for this game, but they basically went unused. It was the hottest day of the trip, and the aluminum bleachers only made it hotter. We lounged on the grass, watched the pitchers warm up before the game, and wandered around. And yes, souvenirs and t-shirts were purchased.

On the ride back home, the consensus was that JetBlue was strikingly beautiful and the field layout was really cool, but it felt a little antiseptic to us. And that’s a bit odd, because Fenway is one of the two most “character rich” ballparks in the world, along with Wrigley. It felt almost like they tried too hard to make it all things for all people. Frankly, it was a world away from McKechnie in Bradenton.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fabulous place. We enjoyed the game and the fact the Sox were playing the Tigers, so that made it twice we’d seen Detroit, after also having seen Toronto twice on the trip. We had a great time (despite the fact it was oppressively hot) and really enjoyed the ballpark. Maybe had we gone to JetBlue first the other parks would’ve seemed different as well, but we were all happy we’d done it in this order and we didn’t have much of a choice. There just weren’t that many options when trying to string four games together in one corner of the Grapefruit League.

I think the general consensus among us had the “favorite ballpark” listing as follows:

No. 1 – Hammond Stadium

No. 2 a tie – McKechnie Park and Marchant Stadium

No. 4 – JetBlue Park

All in all, though, the whole thing was magnificent. We had a great time and are already thinking about next year. Toronto is on the short list, as is San Francisco. San Diego is probably in there, as well. We even talked about doing a trip together to England or Scotland some day. Probably no baseball involved with that, but it would be fun.

As a bonus, I leave you with this picture of James “Oscar” Noffke, the pride of Strasburg, Illinois and one fine infielder back in the day. Also one of the most sarcastically funny guys I’ve ever known. This is him, caught in his native habitat.

By Tuesday night, when we were unable to stay out of bed any later than 10, I do believe we had squeezed all we could out of the trip. We were pretty exhausted, but so thankful for the chance to do this. And I love it when friends on Facebook mention that fact, commenting on how cool is is that the four of us are making this happen every year. Plus, this time we got the bonus of seeing The Stork as well. Dude hasn’t changed a bit…

I slept in this morning. I didn’t have much choice. After this trip, I needed to recharge my batteries a bit.

I’ll see you next week, and by then I’ll be blogging from Kauai. No rest for the wicked! I’m off to hang out with Biscuit and Maxie. I’m a giver.

As always, if you just read this and thought it wasn’t terrible, please do me the favor of clicking on the “Like” button at the top. A thousand more “Likes” and I win a BB gun! Maybe.

Bob Wilber, at your service and no longer wearing any SPF one million.

 

 

Greetings from Woodbury one day early, in terms of my blog day. I need to post this on Wednesday because tomorrow will be a long travel day. I’ll spend the morning on Delta flight 2096, with nonstop service from Minneapolis – St. Paul to Tampa, Florida. We’ll be cruising at an altitude of 33,000 feet heading south. More importantly, I am personally going to be traveling from piles of snow taller than I am to the Sunshine State, where the extended forecast for the next week is for sunny days and temps in the mid-80s. I might melt. Yesterday, it got “up” to 15 in Woodbury and I did indeed see kids walking home from school carrying their jackets. T-shirt weather!

The reason for this trip is spelled out in the headline. It is our 5th Annual SIUE Roomies Reunion, and this year we’re all excited about having Spring Training in Florida, otherwise known as the Grapefruit League, be the focus of our trip. To recap, our first such reunion between myself, Lance McCord, Bob “Radar” Ricker, and James “Oscar” Noffke was in 2015. That was Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame followed by Washington, DC and a Nationals game. At the end of that fun trip, we all shook hands on a pact. Not a promise. A pact. We would do this every year for as long as we could. In ’16 the boys all came up to the Twin Cities and we spent two nights in Minneapolis, where we shared a luxury hotel with the Cleveland Indians and then attended a Twins game against them, and then two nights in St. Paul. In ’17, we all converged on Seattle, and had a blast of a time in a truly wonderful city. The Mariners game was fun, too. Last year, we combined Pittsburgh and Cleveland into one trip. Had a riot and did Airbnb for the first time. This time around, in 2019, we are doing Spring Training, just to mix it up. This allows us to see four games in five days.

Oscar arranged the Airbnb thing for Pittsburgh and Cleveland and it was eye-opening. Cool old turn of the century (as in 1900, not 19 years ago) townhouses in each city. All for a rate that was cheaper than one night in a hotel. And, Oscar the cook handled breakfast for us each day. Way better than the buffet at the Hampton Inn.

This year, I took on the Airbnb assignment. To start with, there aren’t a lot of turn of the century brick townhomes in Bradenton and Fort Myers, the two towns we’re going to spent three nights in each. So, I went for the gusto. I looked around one day a few months ago, on the Airbnb site, and saw some nice looking places. Then, after we all agreed on the dates and ballgames for the trip, I went back to select places. The photo at the right is the view off the pool deck for a place I found in Bradenton. It looks amazing, and all the reviews are raves. It’s $450 a night, which made me blink at first, but then I realized that’s just a bit over $110 per guy, per night. You couldn’t find a Holiday Inn out by the freeway for that.

We all get in tomorrow, in the afternoon, and again Radar and Oscar are doing something Lance and I can only laugh about. They are driving. From Illinois. They also drove to the Twin Cities and they drove to Pittsburgh and Cleveland. I guess I’m a little surprised they didn’t drive all the way to Seattle. Lance and I are coming into Tampa on different flights, about an hour apart. We, I believe, are the sane ones.

On Friday, we’ll hit our first ballgame. Pirates vs. Blue Jays at historic McKechnie Field in Bradenton. We can Uber to that game, which is a good thing because McKechnie Field (OK, it’s called LECOM Park now) is really old, really urban, and really not flush with parking. It’s also where my dad was the manager of the Minnesota Twins team in the Florida Instructional League for many years. I have personally run around on that field shagging fly balls during batting practice. As an 11 year old.

Here’s an interior view of the Bradenton house. That’s Anna Maria Island across the water. Holmes Beach is over there. The interior of this crib looks like it will be pretty nice, if by “pretty nice” you mean incredible. Plus, there are four bedrooms and bathrooms. I think we’ll survive.

All the games we’re going to are at 1:00 down there, so we’ll have our evenings free. We’re just going to ad lib it, I think. We’ll find some restaurants and maybe we’ll cook dinner one night. Definitely plan to hit a grocery store upon arrival. We’ll probably (don’t be shocked) set up a little bar in the home, as well. I mean, just to be efficient.

On Saturday, we have to make our longest round-trip drive to any ballpark, because we’re headed to Lakeland in the middle of the state to see the Detroit Tigers host the Atlanta Braves at Joker Marchant Stadium. That will make it two consecutive ballparks where I have been on the field and have personal history. If you read my book “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” you’ll likely recall my 1979 stint with the Lakeland Tigers in the Class-A Florida State League. I still remember exactly where our apartment was there, but won’t put the boys through that sightseeing excursion unless they want to.

Then, on Sunday, we have to get up early, straighten up the house (that’s important in an Airbnb) and get on the road early. We have a 1:00 game at Hammond Stadium in Fort Myers, as the Twins host the Blue Jays. So there’s two connections for me. I’ve never been on the field at beautiful Hammond Stadium but I’m a well-documented Twins fan of the highest order, and my dad was a scout for the Twins when I was a kid. As for the Blue Jays, well, I worked for them as a Scouting Supervisor for four years back in the 80s. It’s been a baseball life for me.

It’s about 90 miles from the Bradenton house to the ballpark, so you think “Oh, that’s about an hour and a half” but you have a large chance to be very wrong in that assessment. I’ve made the drive many times, and I-75 can be anything from crowded and congested all the way to gridlocked and stopped. It’s rarely an easy drive. So, we’ll get up early and try to hit the road by 10:00 at the latest. If we get there early, there’s always stuff to do at the ballpark until the game begins.

After the game, we’ll head to this place. I had a whole different strategy for the Fort Myers part of this trip, and you can see that in the photo. Both Hammond Stadium and Jet Blue Park (where we’ll be going on Tuesday) are on the east side of Fort Myers, out by I-75 and the airport. I could’ve rented a place on Fort Myers Beach, but the traffic getting into and out of the beach is usually brutal, because there’s only one road in and out. So, I went for suburban style out near the freeway.

It’s a nice place, for sure, and although it has just three bedrooms they are all large and it has room for six, so we’ll have plenty of space. At about $260 per night, it’s downright cheap for four guys.

We have Monday off, with nothing scheduled, and nobody really seemed to want to pin anything down or make too many big plans. We’ll just wing it. We can drive over to Sanibel Island if we want, or just hang out and mess around at the house. We did that one day in Cleveland, and it was actually a lot of fun just to be binge watching stuff on Netflix and laying around the living room being lazy with lifelong friends. We tend to laugh at the same stuff, and we can crack each other up with single words. It’s easy to be lazy with these guys.

I’m relatively sure we’re going to spend some time with another former SIUE Cougar teammate, Kent Hendrickson. “The Stork” as we called him, was a helluva good pitcher for us, and a great teammate. He lives down there now, and he and Lance have been talking about all of us getting together. That would be awesome!

Here’s an interior shot of the Fort Myers house. Again, it will be rough but I think we’ll be fine in this little cabin by the swamps. And here’s an interesting bit of roommate trivia. Did you know that Oscar and Radar actually never lived with Lance and me at the same time? It’s true. Radar lived with us during our senior year and again during our fifth year in school, when Lance and I were back to finish up our degrees. During that second year, around New Year’s Eve, Radar’s dad decided he should move home. I believe he thought Lance and I were bad influences on his boy. I am shocked. At the time, Lance said “Radar’s dad instituted the No More Fun of Any Kind Doctrine” and Radar had to move back home. That opening gave Oscar the chance to move in with us, and as is well documented in my book he brought his awesome girlfriend Theresa Natta with him. T Natta was a fantastic roomie, and we all got free haircuts out of the deal. But no, Radar and Oscar never overlapped. And that’s funny, because those two are the ones who live close enough to each other in Central Illinois to see each other often and hang out together, or go hunting, or fishing, or just doing stuff.

On Tuesday, as mentioned, we’ll be off to our fourth game in five days, which will set a new Roomies Reunion record for most baseball games seen in on a trip. We’ve never seen more than two before. Jet Blue Stadium is only a few miles from Hammond, which means it’s also only a few miles from our Airbnb. We can Uber to this one, as well.

It’s a fantastic new park, and what’s really cool about it is that the Red Sox (who play there) were able to design it so that the playing field is an exact replica of Fenway Park. That’s important, because there’s no park in baseball any quirkier than Fenway. People always think about the Green Monster in left field, but there are angles, and jutting out points, and odd features, all around the field. Jet Blue gives Red Sox outfielders a chance to learn all that before they get up to Boston.

Red Sox Nation is also enormous. I booked all the tickets for these games on the first day they went on sale. At McKechnie for the Pirates, we’re sitting behind home plate. In Lakeland, we’re in Field Box seats just beyond third base. For the Twins, who also have a huge and loyal fan base, the best I could get was past first base in short right field. For the Red Sox, I got online less than an hour after individual tickets went on sale, and we are in the bleachers. We’re not even in the main part of the stadium! Hey, I felt lucky to get those.

In addition to all the aforementioned fun, I’m also taking the gift thing to a new level. I ordered these shirts for all of us and will be presenting them to the boys when we all get down there. The are white, and Nike Dri-Fit, for good reason. We’re all escaping the cold of winter and 85 degrees is going to seem scalding to us. I’m sure we’ll get some looks and maybe even a few questions. That would fine. It’s not like we’re all shy and afraid to talk to strangers.

Lance is up to added mischief as well. He found a cool silver “cup” style trophy and bought it. Like a slightly smaller version of a trophy you’d win for a tennis or golf championship. He also found a guy in Raleigh who can hand engrave it, and that’s hard to do these days. Almost all engraving is done by computers now, and the guys who can sit down with tools and make it look professional are part of an ever shrinking group.

Lance is going to have the names of the cities and ballparks engraved on the cup, from all five of the annual reunions we’ve had, and then he came up with a great twist to the idea. Like the Stanley Cup, one of us will get to take it home each year. And then the next year a different guy will get to keep it. I hope we can keep doing this, and swapping “The Cup” for many more years to come.

Can you tell we’re all pretty excited to do this again in 2019? I thought so… We will have fun, enjoy four ballgames in four classic Spring Training ballparks, eat well (and a few hot dogs, no doubt), relax, bask in the sun, and maybe catch a foul ball. If we do, we’ll give it to a kid. We’ve all caught enough baseballs in our lives. Most importantly, we will share the greatest friendship any of us have ever known. We all met more than 40 years ago as SIUE Cougar Baseball teammates (I think the exact number is 43 but Radar might be one year less) and this tight friendship has, I believe, stood the test of time. It’s the best it’s ever been.

I’ll be back with photos and tales galore, in just a week.

As always, if you liked what you just read, please click on the “Like” button at the top. I’m trying to reach Platinum Medallion status in “Likes”…

Bob Wilber, at your service and ready to get down to Florida!

If you read my book “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” you probably remember the name Larry Eberle from the early chapters. He got a lot of ink in the book because of how important he was to me as a young lad. I don’t think I fully appreciated his impact on me until much later in life, maybe even as late as when I was writing about him in the book. He changed me, and that’s not necessarily something we expect out of 12-year-old friends.

Larry and I had a mutual grade-school friend by the name of Dan McKeague (although he’ll always be Danny McKeague to me.) I recently reconnected with Dan on social media and learned that Larry is in the midst of some serious health issues. Larry has had a tough ongoing battle with cancers of various types, as well as other serious maladies, and is now in hospice care. It’s true that we’re all on “day-to-day contracts” on this mortal Earth, but to hear of Larry’s current condition still guts me and breaks my heart.

Larry and I went through Mary Queen of Peace for eight years. We were always friends, everyone was friends with Larry, but it was sixth grade when the friendship blossomed from “just two guys cutting up in class” to something very special. The catalyst for that transformation was our teacher, Mrs. Luna. As I wrote about in the book, Mrs. Luna was gregarious, communicative, supportive, brilliant, and she always looked like she should be wearing an apron and stirring spaghetti sauce. She saw something in both Larry and me that forever changed each of us, I think. She saw creativity, outside-the-box thinking, a little bit of mischief, and quite a bit of humor. She paired us up on many projects, including when she decided Larry and I should be the permanent “Decorators of the Classroom.” We ended up in charge of all the themes that were tacked up on the cork above the chalkboards. She even prompted us to do a full-room decoration supporting the Cardinals when they were in the World Series against the Tigers. We nailed it.

When we all originally arrived for first grade at MQP, many of the teachers were still nuns dressed in classic black and white “habits” (the official name for those flowing robes and head covers they wore.) For the most part, they were very serious older women. Humorless is a fairly accurate description. They were there to teach us and keep us in line. That was not an easy thing for them to do when it came to kids like Larry and me.

Mrs. Luna was just the opposite. She brought us out of that strict shell and let us blossom. This old torn and creased photo is our sixth-grade class. Larry is second from the right in the third row. I’m second from the left in the second row. Mrs. Luna looks proud of her minions.

As we went through sixth, seventh, and eighth grades Larry and I became much closer. We spent too many sleepover nights to count, at each other’s houses, and every one of those was 100 percent full of creativity.

We had a small reel-to-reel tape recorder, and we’d ad lib impromptu radio shows, or movie scenes, or just nonsense, for hours. By that time, Larry’s large family had moved from one side of Webster Groves to another, not too far from school. It was a three-story house with about a hundred bedrooms, hidden back staircases, and even (wait for it) a bomb shelter. There were a lot of things for two creative kids like us to do.

Even at that early age it was abundantly clear that Larry was a genius. He saw things I never saw. He saw things no one ever saw. He always had a vision. He was an accomplished artist by the time we finished sixth grade, and as a cartoonist he could draw anything. As I wrote about in the book, at the age of 12 he drew caricatures of our entire Wilber family (including our cat) that were so brilliantly spot-on our neighbors and family friends refused to believe someone that young had drawn them. Oh do I wish I had those now.

We won a major ribbon in a city-wide Science Fair when Larry, Mike Fitzsimmons, and I built a fully functioning mini-elevator out of balsa wood, string, and a small electric motor. A little Barney Rubble doll rode up and down on it. Fitzy and I were along for Larry’s ride, on that. We helped, and had input, but he saw the whole thing in his head before the first two pieces of wood were glued together.

Larry and I would spend hours on a sleepover by spinning the globe in his bedroom and then stopping it with one finger. Wherever that finger landed, it was our assignment to crack the other guy up with a funny story of how that place got its name. Places like Iran or Turkey were easy, but what about Alaska? In mere seconds, Larry came up with a story about an eskimo hunter named Ka. Each year he’d head off to hunt seals for the village. One year, he never came back. And the villagers all solemnly cried, “Alas, Ka.”

We’d build Revell models together, but often would put all the pieces from two different cars in the middle of the table to see who could create the most interesting and fun “FrankenCar.” He always won, but I got better at it just following his lead. I got better at a lot of things just following his lead. Imagine that, having a mentor at the age of 13.

We made movies together. Along with Tom Ward, Patrick O’Malley, Larry, and Fitzy, we were Wardoeblerfitz Film Productions. In seventh grade. Seriously. We made four or five movies with a little Super-8 film camera and a small editing desk. They were all hits, at least among our families and friends. We just did what Larry told us to do. The little camera had no sound capability, but on our last movie (a World War II epic) Larry saw a way to give the movie life with sound. We shot the whole thing without ever showing anyone’s full face when that person was talking. Then, we went back into our editing room and recorded a sound track to sync up with the movie. It worked, to a degree, but it was pure genius for kids our age.

We won the MQP Talent Show with an ensemble cast, dancing and acting to a hit song from that time, about Bonnie and Clyde. We took large sheets of cardboard and cut them out and painted them, making one look like the front end of a 1930s Ford while the other was a black and white police car from that era. We’d do the dance holding those in front of us, looking through the cut-out windshield as if we were driving, while two other guys did the same with one we’d drawn as the police car. We actually choreographed the whole thing at Larry’s house. He was Clyde, and I wore a wig and a beret to be Bonnie. Brought the house down.

As I wrote about in the book, Larry and I were big fans of the space program, and we started talking about building something. We came up with the idea of a mockup of the Apollo 11 command module. We built the whole thing in my basement, out of chicken wire, rope, and Reynold’s Wrap, and damn if it didn’t actually look like Apollo 11. Then we “blasted off” and spent about 18 of the planned 48 hours in it before we aborted our mission. We didn’t have the stamina to stay inside it for the planned two days, but it was never about that. It was about the vision. Our minds were constantly racing.

My mom was working for the Cardinals in their front office and once in a while she’d come home for lunch and then take Larry and me back downtown for that night’s game. We had free run of the entire stadium, because the receptionist in the Cardinals’ offices adored Larry (imagine that) and we could run around downtown, take riverboat rides, and go up in the Gateway Arch, right up until game time. It was riotous fun.

In seventh grade, Larry folded up a piece of standard lined “school paper” and made some tears in it to form some box-like wings. Nothing held it together, but he envisioned it as a flying thing. He just created it, straight from an idea in his head into reality. And of course it worked. When the wind was right, we’d open one of the big windows in our classroom and let one go. The best flight we ever launched disappeared around the church and kept rising. We named the folded origami thing a “Larry” because it was his creation.

By that time, we were getting interested in girls. Somehow, the two of us realized that we’d be better off representing one another rather than trying to get girls to like us on our own. We were each other’s agents, and it worked like a charm. I think I got the better end of it with Larry working his magic on the girls I was interested in, but hey… We were in seventh grade. If a cute girl so much as smiled at you, concentrating on the teacher for the next hour was impossible.

We rode our bikes all over Kirkwood, Glendale, and Webster Groves. We must have ridden 25 miles a day, and I don’t recall ever being tired. We knew every clerk in every store. Those were the days when the Rexall drug store would not only have a soda fountain, it would also have a grill. Those hamburgers with a Pepsi on the side, and a paper straw, were the best lunch meals ever.

We played touch football in the huge yard at his house. I still have two scars on my right knee, where it impacted a spot on the ground that featured two small rocks. Bled like a stuck pig but I had to put a big BandAid on it and ride the 2.5 miles back home.

When the snow would come in the winter, we took our Flexible Flyer sleds over to Algonquin Country Club, not far from his home. The long fairways made for perfect sledding. I have no memory of ever being cold, but solid memories of thinking “I wish this would never end.”

Larry’s family would “adopt” me when it came time to get “resident passes” to the Webster Groves skating rink. They’d add me to their list and I’d get a pass for the full skating season. Again, I have no memory of being cold, but vivid recollections of exactly how the warming house smelled, with a big wood fire burning the middle. We never got very good at skating, but it was idyllic fun.

Larry was from a strict family and our upbringings were very different, but we connected at a deep level that never felt like we were anything but kindred souls. That’s what we were.

As eighth grade came to a close, the end of our friendship was near. I had chosen to go to St. Louis U. High down in the city, while Larry’s parents wanted him to go to a new Jesuit school, De Smet, that had just opened out in the suburbs.

I think we saw each other five or six more times, and that included one football game where SLUH and De Smet faced off. We’d gone our own ways, made new friends, and altered our lives. That’s kind of how it is when you’re 14. You can have all the creative vision in the world, but it’s nearly impossible to fabricate maturity. We let each other wander away.

In this age of social media and instant contact, we connected again over the last few years. We shared emails that recounted our memories of those incredible years in grade school. We both enjoyed talking about Mrs. Luna. He was doing wonderfully with a company he founded in the digital media sector. They make videos and films. Hard to believe, right? I didn’t feel the need to hurry up and see him. I knew we’d get around to that because, after all, I get to St. Louis fairly often. But life is complicated and we have “things to do” all the time.

He remains the most amazing person I’ve ever known. He brought out a whole new part of my eventual personality, and I learned something from him every single day. And we were just grade school kids.

Everyone loved you, Larry. They still do. Myself very much included.

I’ll be back next week.

And please, if you just read this blog installment and liked it, please click on the “Like” button at the top. I’d love to show Larry how many people appreciate everything he has done and what he has meant to me.

Hello blog faithful. Just a quick one today because we all have better things to do on February 14th. Happy Valentine’s Day. It’s a unique holiday in so much as it’s completely contrived and based on nothing more than a chance to sell a lot of cards, chocolates, and flowers, but most of us go along with it. I tell my wife I love her every day of the year, and this day is no different.

Barbara is not a big fan of chocolate, and we can’t have fresh flowers in the house because Boofus and Buster will eat them and get sick, but I do enjoy the chance to browse through the cards at the Hallmark store and find a couple that seem the most appropriate. Whether it’s Valentine’s Day or her birthday (in April) I long ago established a tradition of getting her one sentimental card and one funny one. I accomplished that mission a week ago, when the selection at the store was still good. I can guarantee there are panicked gentlemen at the Woodbury Hallmark store right now. I’m all set, thanks.

We’re going out for a nice dinner tonight, at Angelina’s Bistro. As far as I know, it’s the only night of the year when they take reservations. For the rest of the year it’s just first-come-first-served in the little restaurant. Or you can eat at the bar. That works, too.

Since last week, we’ve had yet again another Snownami to add to the pile. It snowed for about 24 hours, starting late on Monday and all through most of Tuesday, and at one point I remarked “I bet we have 20 total inches after all three of these storms.” I didn’t pay myself much mind, because I’m generally terrible at judging how much snow we have. I’ll look out at the patio and say “That’s gotta be eight inches” and it’s really only four. This time, though, I nailed it. Our esteemed local weather experts on various channels tabbed the overall total at 20 inches. Whatever it is, it’s a lot of snow. And, it’s going to be here for a while. I don’t see any forecasts that call for temps above 32 for the next two weeks.

At the shopping centers, the snow mountains are gigantic in the middle of the parking lots. When they get that big, it can be late April before they’re gone. It will be nice to see the grass again, someday.

A couple of days ago they were saying we had a chance for another large storm to roll through today, but as of last night the forecast I saw had it toned down quite a bit. It is, however, snowing right now. Just little harmless flurries, but snow nonetheless.

With all the white stuff, I’ve been able to concentrate on writing quite a bit, and I crossed another big milestone today. I had promised my editor Greg Halling that I would finish Chapter 12 today and I shared it with him this morning. It’s big in subject matter and importance, because it gets my Roseau hockey character all the way through high school. That was my device for getting the two characters “synced up” in terms of where they are as they “write” each chapter. The hockey kid is three years older than the baseball character, so I made Chapter 12 his biggest one yet to get him through high school. I think, therefore, we’re only three chapters away from them actually meeting, and then things will really go crazy.

The process is fascinating. It’s hard to explain but it doesn’t feel like I’m writing. It actually feels like they are. As my fingers move, “their” memories appear on the page and I hear their voices. I did some basic character outlines before I started but I’m not even looking at those anymore. Their words just come to me. I don’t really even know how it works. It just does.

After I shared the newest chapter with Greg, I went back and spent a few hours reading everything I’ve gotten done so far. There’s a thing in your mind that I think every writer is familiar with. OK, maybe not Stephen King, but certainly the rest of us. It’s self doubt. I thought Chapter 12 was good, but that made me worry that Chapters 1 through 11 weren’t. I had to go back and read it all again, in order. And I’m not saying this to be boastful, I’m just using it as an example of how weird the concept and process is. They’re all pretty good. They’re all on target and in the right voices. To me, as I said, it’s as if these two guys are writing the book. I’m going to take that as a good sign, right?

OK, here’s my final topic for this ultra-short blog today, and I do not believe it’s one I’ve written about before. It’s about the Minnesota Kicks.

Who, you ask, are or were the Minnesota Kicks? Valid question. MLS (Major League Soccer) is not the first established pro soccer league in US history. It’s not even the first successful one. From the late 60s to the mid-80s the NASL (North American Soccer League) was in business, and for quite a few years the league was packing them in and selling out NFL football stadiums. The New York Cosmos were the flagship team in the league, and Pele played for them, along with a bunch of other World Cup stars. That was kind of the unofficial NASL method. They’d throw a lot of money at European or South American superstars who were older and in decline, and then they’d fill out the rosters with younger American players who didn’t command that kind of money.

The Kicks played at Metropolitan Stadium, where the Twins and Vikings originally played. Mall of America now sits on the site, in the suburb of Bloomington. The Kicks drew big crowds, but that’s not what people around here remember about them. What people still talk about, even in 2019, are the tailgate parties that went on all across the sprawling asphalt parking lots that surrounded the stadium. They went on for hours before the games, and I’ve heard many stories of the parties going on during the games and afterward, as well. Some people would actually drive to Met Stadium without tickets to the game. Or maybe they were partying so hard they lost track of time. Those tailgate parties are the stuff of legends, now.

But here’s the fun trivia. Three members of the 1977 Minnesota Kicks were guys I went to school with. One, Tim Twellman, went to both high school (St. Louis U. High) and college (SIUE) with me, and we were baseball teammates at both schools. Tim was an outstanding ballplayer at second base, but he was an absolutely elite soccer player. When the Kicks drafted him, he left SIUE after his junior season. His son, Taylor Twellman, ended up being a big star in MLS and on the US National Team.

If you follow me on Facebook, from time to time you’ll see me interacting with a guy named Greg Villa. Greg played with Tim on the SIUE team and also grew up in St. Louis. We knew each other then, because we were fellow Cougar athletes and (you’re not going to believe this) we might possibly have ended up at various local bars on the same nights. Shocking, right? Greg was a great player for the soccer team and he signed with the Kicks after his junior year, as well. He was also one of the biggest and most powerful soccer players I’ve ever met. He went on to play quite a bit in the Major Indoor Soccer League after his outdoor career. That would be the same MISL I was in as a front office executive, a few years later with the St. Louis Storm.

I suggest clicking on the photo to enlarge it. Tim is second from the back on the left side and Greg is the last guy on the right. Mark Moran is in the photo, too, as the third guy from the end of the row on the right. He, too, played at SIUE but I really never knew him. We must’ve gone to different bars or discos, or maybe we just went on different nights. Nah, all the SIUE athletes went to The Granary on Wednesday and Spanky’s on Thursday. Somehow, I don’t believe we ever met. Interestingly though, you can see a guy named Sam Bick over on the right side, fourth from the back. Sam is another St. Louis boy, and he and Greg both ended up playing for the St. Louis Steamers, the original indoor soccer franchise in St. Louis. It was the Steamers who made me an indoor soccer fan. Tim Twellman ended his professional career by also moving indoors, playing in the MISL for the Kansas City Comets.

Next interesting tidbit: One of the Kicks’ goalkeepers was Tino Lettieri. Tino was born in Italy but raised in Canada. After playing for the Kicks, he and his wife put down roots in the Twin Cities and raised a son, Vinni Lettieri. Vinni took to hockey, and is now in the NHL with the New York Rangers. It runs in the family. Tino’s wife is the daughter of a huge Minnesota hockey legend, former player, coach, and general manager Lou Nanne.

So you likely never heard of the Minnesota Kicks but now you know I played baseball with one member, knew another, went to school with but didn’t know a third, and the goalie’s kid is an NHL hockey player. Plus, the tailgate parties are still the subject of mystical stories from years gone by. You’re welcome.

That’s it for today. I need to go get my car washed. It’s covered in ice and salt and one very large bird used it for target practice yesterday. Maybe it was a Bald Eagle. Whatever it was, it was big. SPLAT!!!

As always, if you read this brief bit of bloggage and kinda sorta maybe liked it, please click on the “Like” button at the top. If I get enough likes maybe I can find an old Kicks jersey on eBay.

Bob Wilber, at your service and full of trivia.

PS: I clearly jinxed us with the “just little harmless flurries” comment. It’s legit snowing now. Awesome. Wouldn’t want to have our total sneak down to 19 inches, would we…

It’s snowing. Like really snowing. It started at around 6:00 last night, while Barbara and I were enjoying yet another wonderful dinner at Angelina’s, our favorite Woodbury bistro. It’s the one place in Woodbury that rivals Hay J’s, our fave spot back out in Liberty Lake and Spokane. It snowed most of the night and it’s not supposed to end until 6:00 or so this evening.

When we get these “snow events” (the technical term for the end of the world) we count on plows in multiple ways. The counties plow the interstates and main highways. The individual cities and suburbs plow their main arteries and surface streets. If a suburb isn’t large enough to have its own plow teams, they contract it out. The shopping centers and other places with parking lots hire independent contractors to clear the snow, ranging from guys in pickups with a blade attached to the front all the way to large private companies with fleets of machines. Finally, here in our subdivision the HOA hires a firm to do all the lawn care during the warm months and all the snow removal when it’s cold. By “all the snow removal” though, I mean a couple of things. 1) They don’t scrape it off at all unless we get more than 1.5 inches. 2) They do our driveways, walkways, and porches, along with the sidewalk. So what I’m getting at there is that the contractor will not come around to the back of the house to shovel me a walkway from the back door to the hot tub. C’mon, man.

To this point, at exactly 12 noon on this Thursday Blog Day, we have not seen a plow in our little St. Johns Village enclave. As a matter of fact, I just saw the mail truck go by and it got stuck for a while at the next set of mailboxes after ours. I’ve never seen that before. He had to back up and try it again three times just to get going. Here in Woodbury, the city’s large fleet of plows concentrate on the main roads first. Then the secondary roads, like the ones we use to get into our development. They leave the little neighborhood roads for last. So we’re last.

The HOA contractor has a limited set of resources, as well. We’re not the only HOA they work for. So, they have some guidelines too. If a storm ends in the middle of the night, they’re great about getting out here well before dawn so that everyone can get out to go to work. It’s kind of like peace of mind to be awakened by them at 5:00 in the morning. At least you know they’re working. But, when it’s a continuous snow storm like this one they like to wait until it’s over so they only have to do it once. I’m not sure what their plan is today (I’m no longer on the Board of Directors) but no sign of them yet. And it’s deep. And only getting deeper.

Out in the western part of the start, it’s getting really bad. They have the same heavy snow but out there the wind has kicked up. They’ve closed I-29 north and south of Fargo, and now I’m seeing tweets from various counties that say they’re pulling their plows off the roads until this ends. It’s too dangerous for them to be out there when the wind is whipping things into “white out” conditions. Our forecast shows the wind picking up here too, later in the day. Hopefully it’s not that bad.

And then there’s the whole issue of timing between the city of Woodbury and our contractor. It’s all about who comes first. When the city plow comes by, it pushes big mounds of snow toward the curb, which means we end up with a big mound of snow at the end of our driveways. That’s OK for a while, if the city comes first, because our contractor will clear that when they clear the drive. If the contractor comes first, they’ll clear the whole drive but the city will then throw the snow from the street right back on it. We have to go out there and clear that ourselves. These are the struggles we face.

We’ll wait this out, I guess. My biggest worry is the fact Barbara had some important meetings today so she drove to work. I haven’t heard from her, so that’s probably good news. But, it’s way worse now than when she left, and it wasn’t exactly good then. There are wrecks all over the Twin Cities because idiots are idiots. Like, “OK dude, there’s 8 inches of snow and some ice at the bottom of it. Probably not a good idea to drive 60 mph in your pickup truck and swerve in front of big rigs.”

Now, back to better times. On Friday I flew down to Kansas City and then drove my rental car over to Independence. And once again I was reminded of just how far north of KC the airport is. We used to call it “Southern Iowa International Airport” when I lived there. I got to the hotel around 3:30 and then ventured out to find some provisions to stock my full kitchen at the Staybridge Suites, conveniently located about a minute from the hockey arena.

At 6:00 I headed over to the arena, which is title sponsored by Silverstein Eye Centers. The gates opened at 6:00 and I wanted to have time to pick up my tickets and my press credential at Will Call, and then find my friend Bob Rennison on the concourse. He doesn’t have to be at his broadcast position until around 6:40, so that would leave us time to catch up on things and do a tour of the building. It’s an outstanding arena! It holds a little over 5,000 but it has big wide concourses and lots of concession options. Feels like a major league place when you’re inside.

I spotted Bob holding court on the concourse right after I walked in. For the next 40 minutes we walked all around the place and I shook approximately 1,277 hands. I said approximately, so don’t hold me to that, but the fact is Bob has been the Mavericks play-by-play guy for 10 years and he’s extremely popular. The fans love him and everyone is constantly shouting his name or saying hello. It helps that Bob is in the top 1% of all the friendliest people in the country. He loves his job. That’s why I hired him in 1994 to be the play-by-play announcer for the Kansas City Attack. And to that end, I think Bob introduced me to everyone with the line, “This is Bob Wilber, the man who hired me for my first professional announcing job.”

I told Barbara that Bob should run for mayor. He is certainly the mayor of the arena when the Mavericks are playing.

As part of my tour, Bob took me to his broadcast position, which he calls “the gondola.” This is how we got there, and I’m not kidding. Near section 109 we walked through a nondescript door after Bob introduced me to the gentleman who guards it. Bob then said to me, “I hope you’re not afraid of stairs.”

We walked up what seemed to be a dozen flights of stairs (probably more like eight, but you know) and at one point had to move a barrier that would let normal people know they shouldn’t go any higher. Bob is not normal, in any sense. Up to the top we went, and through a door that took us into a cramped space full of humming heating and ventilation equipment. Then to yet another door, but this was the key one. When opened, there’s a big ledge to step over, and then you are on the outside of the building. No, seriously. On the outside. On a walkway that rings the edge of the arena’s roof. And it’s dark out there.

We walked on this very flexible bouncy material about half-way around the building, where we came to another door and another big ledge to step over. In there was the broadcast position, which Bob shares with camera operators and other assistants. When it was time for Bob to get on the air, I traced my steps back around the roof and down to the concourse. I was thinking I should’ve left a trail of breadcrumbs.

I found my way to my seat, which was located next to two other seats and I had all three tickets. Why? That was done so that Alexa Jacobsen and one of her friends could sit next to me. Alexa, and all the other wives or girlfriends of the players, have passes to get in and usually just sit wherever they want, but this way we knew we could sit together in reserved seats. It was wonderful to see her! Geez, I’ve known her since she was 10, and she was as wonderful a young lady then as she is now. We cheered, we talked, and we caught up on everything during the game, which the Mavs won.

Her boyfriend, CJ Eick, is really something to watch. He might be the shortest guy on the team, but he only has one speed, and that’s flat-out fast. He’s all over the place, buzzing everywhere and driving the other team nuts. He’s a great hockey player.

I think I’ve written this before, but here it is again just so everyone understands. The Mavericks are a professional hockey team. They play in the ECHL, which is the equivalent of a Double-A minor league in baseball. They are an affiliate of the Calgary Flames. Should a player be promoted by the Flames, the top minor league team in the organization is the Stockton Heat, in the AHL. Any promotion from there would take you to the NHL and Calgary.

On Saturday I met Bob for lunch, and once again a number of people in the restaurant recognized him. He also asked me if I’d like to come on the radio with him during the second intermission at Saturday night’s game. Sure I would!

I was tempted to head over to the arena at 1:00 because the Kansas City Comets were playing an indoor soccer game, but I felt a bit of a cold coming on and taking a nap seemed like a smarter option. Yes, the building crew can make the switch over from hockey to indoor soccer and then back to hockey all within hours. It’s a pretty amazing process to watch, and in all my years working in arenas I used to love to watch the crew make the switch, or “change the house” as they called it. At the old St. Louis Arena, when I worked for the St. Louis Storm indoor soccer team, it was common for the building to go from hockey to soccer, and then to basketball, and then a concert, and then back to hockey, all in five consecutive days. And when the first fan would walk in for any of those events, they’d get the sense the place always looked like that.

I sat with Alexa and her friend again, having much fun and rooting for the Mavs and CJ. Bob had asked me to come up to the gondola about halfway through the second period. My first thought was, “Gosh, I hope I can remember how to get there…”

Somehow I survived the mountainous climb up all the stairs, and found my way around the ledge on the roof, in order to get to Bob’s spot. When he got his first break, he pointed me toward a headset and off we went. He had me with him on the air for the last 10 minutes of the second period, the entire intermission, and the first 10 minutes of the third period. It was great fun.

Bob and I had done this before, and we got right back into the swing of it. We’d done it before as recently as 1996 with the Kansas City Attack. But seriously, we make a great team and have a real easy banter with each other. My job is to stay out of his way when he’s calling the play-by-play. And, in case you ever think “Oh I know I could do that” the answer is “You have no idea how hard play-by-play is, especially in a game like hockey where the play is nonstop.”

Bob is such a pro. Like all announcers, he has charts in front of him to identify the visiting players. He keeps a running scoresheet to know how many penalties each team has and when goals were scored. And above and beyond all that, he just has the gift. He’s a terrific announcer and a great guy. It’s been my privilege to be his friend and mentor since 1994.

I left the arena a little early, to beat the traffic out of the lots, and I also had to get back to the room in order for my next mission to be accomplished.

About 30 minutes after the game ended, there was a knock on my door and Alexa and CJ were the ones doing the knocking. We proceeded to sit down and talk hockey and life for nearly two hours, while I kept my digital recorder going the whole time. The whole reason for the trip was to sit with these two and get an immersion lesson in the hockey lifestyle. All I had to do was say, “Okay, CJ. Let’s get started when you were a little kid, just learning to skate” and other than a few times when I asked him to clarify something, that was all I had to ask.

From youth hockey up to high school, and the fact he actually left his home in Wisconsin to attend a high school in my home town of St. Louis, it all surprised me. He then went straight into Junior Hockey, playing for the Green Bay Gamblers, living with a family and learning the ropes of being a full-time hockey player while not getting paid. From Green Bay he went to college, playing for Michigan Tech, a very fine program at a fine school on the snowy Upper Peninsula of the state, based in the town of Houghton. When his college career was over, he signed his first professional contract with the Utah Grizzlies, in Salt Lake City and in the same ECHL. They were an Anaheim Ducks affiliate. After about a year with them, he was traded to Kansas City in mid-season last year.

I needed a lot of Alexa’s input, too. I needed to know what it was like for her and the other women, because they have to live this crazy minor league hockey life right alongside the guys. My first question to her was “What’s the hardest part of this?”

Her answer was instantaneous. “It’s the uncertainty,” she said. Before she said another word I knew exactly what she meant. My mom dealt with all of that for 40 years, never knowing where Dad was going to be playing, or coaching, or scouting, but knowing that she’d be the one who would have to figure out what the Wilber family would do, and where we would go.

Alexa said, “People ask me what our plans are for next year, and I have to say I don’t know what my plans are for tomorrow or next week. There are no guarantees what’s going to happen. When CJ got traded from Utah to here, we had to pack everything up and immediately drive from Salt Lake to Kansas City, and then find a place here and get moved in, all while the team was in the middle of its season.”

My mom used to swear they once found out about a time my dad was traded by hearing it on the radio. It’s a great life in most ways, but it’s so uncertain, just like Alexa said. And the women have to be strong to cope with it.

They are an amazing couple. So fun, so serious, so gracious. What a wonderful and valuable evening it was, and two hours flew by so fast I couldn’t believe it. My next door neighbor, who was a great hockey player in her own right, is all grown up now. What a fantastic woman she has become. Go Mavs!!!

So, still not a plow in sight. Not on our little neighborhood road, not on the road that connects to the rest of the development, and not even on the big road behind our house. A few cars or trucks, but no plows. I just saw one neighbor outside shoveling their drive, but I’m only going to do that if I have no choice. After all, we pay HOA fees every month for stuff like this. Clearly they’re waiting for it to end.

In the meantime, Buster is down here as my assistant and his job is to keep an eye on the snow and any little squirrels or bunnies that scoot by. He’s good at it for a while, but his attention span isn’t all that great.

Hold tight while I go over to AccuWeather.com to see what the hour-by-hour forecast for Woodbury is. (Play your favorite theme music, although I always recommend the theme from Jeopardy. You’re welcome.)

And I’m back. Well, AccuWeather can get confused at times. Right now their “MinuteCast” shows the snow ending in 100 minutes, so around 2:45, which is good. Their “Hour By Hour” though says it ends at 6:00. I tend to go with the MinuteCast because its based more on specific radar data. It was always my “go to” data spot when trying to figure out what the rain was going to do at the race track. I hope it’s right this time, like it usually was at the track.

That’s it for this week. Hoped this rambling mess of info on snow, plows, Kansas City, Silverstein Eye Centers Arena, Bob Rennison, Alexa Jacobsen, CJ Eick, and more snow was enjoyable.

As always, if you liked what you read please click on the “Like” button at the top. If I get enough “Likes” we can use them to pay the HOA contractor to do more plowing. I think. Not sure. Worth a shot! Maybe at least the part about the hot tub. Right?

Bob Wilber, at your service and snowed in.

PLOWING UPDATE!  “Live” from “Plow Central” at 2:44 pm.  Our little street has been plowed by the brave men and women of the Woodbury Plow Team. As noted above, that would be good news in terms of timing. Now, if our HOA contractor will show up and do the driveways, the city will likely not plow us back in, as long as the snow stops at some point. We march on!

ANOTHER UPDATE!  Just after I posted this, the Kansas City Mavericks published a fantastic story about CJ Eick. It’s a great window into what kind of man he is, and what kind of player he is. If you read it, I think you’ll see why I enjoyed our time together so much. He’s no stereotypical “dumb athlete” by any stretch. Check it out!

https://kcmavericks.com/en/news/mavs-insider-c-j-eick-is-grateful?fbclid=IwAR2vmHDCVMCj5Dpan02BymmYzrOcK1ajPJTFpNav5Jz3OoXPpK6zYBAJaVY

Just a quick blog today, because my plate is pretty full of “must do” stuff before I leave for Kansas City tomorrow. I’m looking forward to getting down there to see Alexa Jacobsen, CJ Eick, and Bob Rennison. In addition, I’ll get to see the Kansas City Mavericks play two hockey games! In the meantime, I have bills to pay, a haircut to get, and other errands to run. It will also be the first time I’ve been out of the house for more than 15 seconds since Monday. It’s been a little nippy here.

Yesterday, at around 10:00 in the morning, I put a pot of water on the stove and brought it to a boil. Then I dressed for the elements because it was -27 at the time, and took said pot of water out to the front of our house. Barbara stayed inside, like a sane person. I’d tried this science trick once before, back when we lived in our former Woodbury house, on a night when it was -15, and it kinda sorta worked. I was pretty confident it would work perfectly at -27, and it did. You need some confidence to throw boiling water into the air right above you. Barbara shot video of it and it’s been very popular on my Facebook page. Tons of likes and shares. I don’t have video capability here, so this is a still shot taken from the video. Worked like a charm. Boiling water turning instantly into fog and snow. I don’t think more than a drop or two made it to the ground in the original liquid form.

I got a number of questions about using boiling water instead of cold water. Seems counter-intuitive, doesn’t it? It’s not. Boiling water is very active and full of oxygen. It’s also already in the process of turning from liquid to vapor. That’s the steam coming out of the pot. Plus, there’s the greater variance of the two temperatures. There’s 200 degree water versus 27-below-zero air. It vaporizes on the way up, as you can see here, and more of it vaporize on the way down. Almost zero of it made it down to the ground. It was REALLY cool.

Right now, it’s downright balmy. We’re all the way up to -14. Actually, by Saturday, when I’m in KC, it’s going to get all the way up to 40, which will seem crazy all by itself. Even better, for me, is that it’s supposed to reach 50 or higher in KC. That’ll seem like summer!

And now to the additional unforgettable moment denoted in the title. It was supposed to be in the blog last week, and I already had a photo picked out and uploaded, but for some reason I got distracted (squirrel!!!) and just finished up the blog and sent it off into the blogosphere without including this massive moment. Seems kind of ridiculous that I’d leave it out, and I actually realized that about two hours later, but by then it didn’t seem right to go back and edit because a lot of people had already read the blog. So now it’s here.

I wrote about it extensively and in great detail in “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” and I think I nailed the experience pretty well. It was about a Funny Car team having about as big and successful a weekend in NHRA Drag Racing as possible. It was Indy, in 2005.

As you likely know, we had earned a spot in the Skoal Showdown, a special event that was run in conjunction with the NHRA U.S. Nationals, the biggest and most prestigious drag race in the world. The Skoal deal was a special 8-car race that, just to qualify for it, you needed to earn points all season long. It was really hard to just get in the thing, and then when you did you knew you’d be racing a very good team starting with the first round. With only eight cars in it, everyone was fantastic and very fast.

On Sunday, when the Showdown was held, we won round one over Tony Pedregon. Then we won round two over Robert Hight. Then we faced the late great Eric Medlen in the final and beat him too. The Skoal Showdown paid the winner $100,000. In case you’re wondering, that is indeed a lot of money. Winning a regular four-round race back then was worth $50,000.

But, of course, there’s more. As you likely also know, if the winners of the Showdown were to go on and win the U.S. Nationals on Monday (that would be Labor Day every season) you wouldn’t just win the prize money for that. Being the biggest race of the year, the U.S. Nationals paid $75,000 to the winner. So we’d win a total of $175,000, right? Nope, there was also a $50,000 bonus NHRA paid out for any team that could “double up” and sweep the whole weekend. In prize money alone, we could possibly win $225,000 in two days. But there was even more, because we had some contingency sponsors who paid us a bonus for every race win, and our primary sponsor CSK Auto had a bonus plan with us as well.

On Monday, we beat Jim Head in round one. As I noted in the book, I went back to my office in the pit area and just happened to have Eminem’s “Lose It” on my iPod speaker dock. It was uncanny that such a song would be the first one to play with the iPod in “Shuffle” mode.

Eminem says, “Listen. If you had one shot, one opportunity, to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment. Would you capture it, or just let it slip?”

I remember the hair on my arms standing straight up when I heard that. They just did it again right now as I typed the memory. I might have had a tear in my eye, because I remember getting pretty emotional there at my desk in the transporter. It was like it hit me, “We might be able to do this. We just might do this…”

In round two we beat Bob Gilbertson, and Eminem played again as soon as I got back to the pit. I could hear impact wrenches squawking as the team got to work for the semifinals.

We raced Whit Bazemore and beat him handily. We were going to the final round of the U.S. Nationals after having won the Skoal Showdown the day before. You know what was playing on the iPod speaker dock. And something else occurred to me then. There would likely never be a single round of drag racing in my life and career any bigger than this one. The only way there could be would be for us to have to win the final round at the final race to take home the Funny Car championship. That rarely happens, and we had never been closer than a distant second place on the last day of any season.

If we won in Indy, we’d make some history and an awful lot of money. If we lost by an inch, no one would remember. And we’d go home with about $100,000 less than if we won. The contrast was so stark. It really seemed like an “all or nothing” deal, despite the $100,000 we’d won from Skoal.

As I wrote in the book, Eminem played again. The hair on my arms stood up again. The minutes were simultaneously flying by and crawling. It was the weirdest sensation. I was having a lot of deep thoughts.

As a baseball guy, I know all about dramatic “walk off” home runs that win games in the bottom of the ninth. It’s as thrilling as it gets. One second, the pitcher is getting his sign and ready to throw. A second later, the ball rockets off the hitter’s bat and heads for the fence. Then there’s mayhem. It struck me, for the first time, that such a thing happens in nearly every final round of a drag race. The only time it doesn’t happen is the exceedingly rare time one of the contestants can’t make it to the line and the other racer gets a solo pass to the win. In my career, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that. I’ve been part of teams that purposefully stalled just to let the other team get there, even with NHRA officials demanding we start the car.

On that Labor Day afternoon in Indy, as we pushed the car to the line to race our former teammate Frankie Pedregon in the final, two things were in my head. The first was that I thought I was going to faint and was momentarily worried about my health. Then I realized I was so nervous I wasn’t breathing.

The second was the enormity of the moment. Not just any “walk off” result was right ahead of us. This was the U.S. Nationals, and we’d already won the Skoal Showdown. It was too huge to imagine. It scared me.

As our entire team stood behind the car, no one knew how it would end. We didn’t have an 8-run lead with two outs in the bottom of the ninth. We weren’t ahead by four touchdowns at the two-minute warning. There would be no comeback. Two cars would go down the track and one would win. The other team would walk away. When it gets like that, the amount of emotion inside you is beyond belief, but none of it can come out until one car crosses the finish line first.

Our car did. Our driver, Del Worsham, won the U.S. Nationals. And this is what it looks like to feel that. Do yourself a favor and click on this photo to enlarge it . Look closely at the faces. Look at the emotion. This scene, right here, is the moment I felt the most unfiltered and unrestrained excitement I have ever felt. It was almost too monumental to grasp. It was like an explosion within all of us.

And you know what? The money wasn’t the reason we were so excited. Del might have thought about the money, since he and his dad had to run the operation, but the rest of us were just thinking of making history.

I’m not in the photo because my job was to videotape every run by kneeling over by the wall. I was always the last one to the winner’s party, but that didn’t matter. You can see the burly arms of ESPN camera operator, and my buddy, Dana Sherman, holding his camera and getting the “reaction shot” of our team. I’m probably just getting up from my kneeling position right next to him.

I remember the celebration because it was unlike any we’d ever had. We were all levitating and jumping up and down, and as a group we kind of moved around as a unit there, behind the starting line. It was totally impromptu and organic. It just happened.

I remember piling into the tow vehicle SUV and riding down to the top end to get Del and the car. I called Barbara and didn’t realize how emotional I was. All I could say was “We did it” and that was the last thing I could utter.

It was one of the most unforgettable things I’ve ever been a part of. And I’m still so proud of those guys, and of Del, and of everyone who was a part of it. I’ll never forget it.

So that’s it for today. This hair isn’t going to cut itself. I gotta run.

If you just read this and enjoyed it, please do me that weekly favor of clicking on the “Like” button at the top.

See you next week with tales of hockey and friends.

Bob Wilber, at your service and still amazed by the 2005 U.S. Nationals and the team that won it all.

Last week’s blog installment was all about random thoughts, because that’s what I do when there’s no big news or central theme on any given week. When I woke up this morning my first thought was “Man it’s early” and my second thought was “Well, there’s two boyz snuggling with me so maybe another hour’s sleep would be OK.” Then my third thought was “It’s Thursday. What am I going to write about?” Finally, my fourth thought just popped into my head for no reason. It was, “I’m going to write about unforgettable moments in my life.” So there.

I don’t know if it’s just me or if everyone has a cache of truly unforgettable moments stored in their memories. And I don’t mean stuff that you just remember generally. For me, there are literally millions of those memories, but there are some others that are etched so deeply into my brain that I can still close my eyes and be there. I can feel it. I can sense it. I can get the same goosebumps now as I did then. It’s amazing.

So today, I will be doing a little of the “random thing” because I’m just picking a few unforgettable memories out of hundreds that I would rank as the “best of the best” and the most memorable. These are also in no particular order, because any memory in this grouping would have to be tied for first place. They’re all that special.

OK, actually there is one photo that gets put at the top. In “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” this photo is tagged with the line “Just a couple of kids on Maui” and there’s no debating that we look very young. Truth is, though, I was 41. I just still looked really young. And yes, from my current perspective as a 62-year-old “kid” 41 was really young. I’ve grown a lot since then.

I remember everything about the day. December 31, 1997. I remember the layout of the condo we stayed in, just a few hundred yards away from this backyard right on the beach. I remember the smell of those leis we wore. I vividly remember how nervous and excited we both were. I remember being horrified that, for most of the day it was dreary and rainy but just before our planned wedding everything dried up and it all went perfectly. And, of course, our sumptuous dinner at the Grand Wailea Resort, sharing a private balcony with Halle Berry and her none-too-pleased boyfriend. These are the sorts of things that I can feel, smell, and remember in crazy detail.

As you likely know, I’m a huge music fan and I have a long list of great unforgettable moments that have stayed with me. You probably assume the photo of a few of us NHRA guys with Geddy Lee, backstage before a Rush concert in Dallas, would be on this blog. Truth is, it’s not. We were all as nervous as we were excited, and although I do recall the backstage meeting in great detail it is fogged by those nerves. I didn’t want to be “that guy” and say something inappropriate or take up too much of Geddy’s time right before the show. We kind of “Rushed” through the whole thing in a blur. See what I did there?

What is not a blur is the final Rush show we ever saw. It was November 17, 2012 at the Honda Center in Anaheim. I’d bought a special VIP ticket package for Barbara and me, and with the package you were guaranteed seats in the first 15 rows, but you didn’t know what you were getting until you picked up your envelope at the Will Call window. It was a little dark out and I was excited to open the envelope but when I pulled the tickets out I couldn’t quite read them. A guy next to us in line said, “Wow, you scored man! Third row!!!”

We didn’t know at the time if there would ever be another Rush tour. It turned out there was one, but the dates never lined up for me and I wasn’t able to see any of those shows. Probably a good thing. I suspect it would’ve been a little emotional to “say goodbye” to those guys. Still, I had a strange unshakeable feeling in Anaheim that this was it, at least for me and Barbara. With those seats and with that show, it just wouldn’t have gotten any better. When they played the “Clockwork Angels” album in its entirety during the second set, with a string ensemble behind them, I swear I was transported somewhere. It was the most magical set of music I have ever seen in my life. I have goosebumps just typing this. I remember it so damn vividly.

And to cap it off, we defied all mathematical odds by leaving the building with 15,000 other fans and yet we somehow ran right into Jeff and Windy Arend when we exited to the parking lot. I’ll never forget the look on Jeff’s face when he shouted “Best concert ever!” I agreed.

And there’s a second musical memory on this list, but it’s quite different than any other. Why? Because at the time it was happening and I was watching, I didn’t fully understand how long the memory of the show would stay with me, in such great detail. I didn’t know much about the band. I didn’t know anything about the full double-album they were going to play that night because it hadn’t even been released yet. I didn’t know that the whole album project was a bizarre “coming of age” story, written by the lead singer. It was all a big mystery to me. It was also one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen and it was the final tour for this group with that lead singer who wrote it all.

A year earlier my sister Mary had sent me a cassette tape of a “Live” concert by some group called Genesis. I’d never heard of them, and had never heard any of the songs. After one play, my musical tastes were changed forever.

On November 23, 1974 I was in the early part of my freshman year at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and the band on that cassette came to St. Louis to play at the Ambassador Theater. We sat in the third row of the balcony. I took a date, and she was a girl I actually didn’t know and never saw again. I kept asking my new college friends if any of them wanted to go and kept hearing “Nah, I don’t think so.” Finally a neighbor in the apartment next to mine said she knew a girl who might want to go. It was a blind date, but I remember the young lady looking at me about 15 minutes into the concert and saying “I have never seen or heard anything like this. They’re incredible!” Mary and her first husband Alan, who had introduced her to the band, hence the mailing of the cassette tape from England, were sitting right in front of us. On our seats were printed copies of the story line for this new album, which I guess was good for pre-show homework but we were all so confused by it the theme kind of refused to stick in my head.

What did stick in my head was the amazing playing of Mike Rutherford, Tony Banks, Phil Collins, and Steve Hackett. The lead singer wasn’t bad either. It was the last album and the final tour Peter Gabriel would do with the Genesis. At the time, I didn’t really know any of this. I just knew I’d been grabbed by this strange group and transformed.

Not long after the tour, Gabriel left the group to start his solo career. The band stayed together though, and the drummer came out from behind his kit to become the new lead singer. I saw Genesis at least eight or nine more times after this first show, and they were all great concerts. Easily one of the tightest and most precise bands I’ve ever seen. But nothing matches the memory of that first wide-eyed show featuring the entire double LP “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway.” I still feel so fortunate to have seen it.

This next memory is another “feel it, smell it, remember it like it was yesterday” deal. As I wrote about in great detail in my book, the Detroit Tigers released me in June of 1979 and I had to drive home to Kirkwood, Mo. feeling utterly defeated. When I got home, my mom delivered the news that the Oakland A’s had called and I needed to do my laundry and get on a plane the next morning. I was headed for Medford, Oregon.

Two days later we were opening our Northwest League season against the Bend Phillies. I’d never been to Medford. I’d never played in the Northwest League. I didn’t know a single one of my new teammates. As I shook hands with the team owner, Doug Emmons, during pregame introductions, my head was swirling. I was the starting left fielder. I was really feeling kind of “out of body” until the first pitch by Mark Tolli hit catcher Frank Kneuer’s mitt. Then it hit me. I’m still a pro. I’m playing the game I love and getting a nominal paycheck for it. I’m a Medford A.

Yes, I wore number 33 there. We were lucky to have enough white jerseys to go around for that game. I wore what they gave me. And that’s Frank “Baloosh” Kneuer with the shin guards on, and infielder Shaun Lacey next to him. Both have a look of “Who’s this guy?” on their faces. We all did.

And there was another unforgettable moment coming just a week or so later, when teammate Bobby Garrett accidentally let go of his bat and it hit me right below my right eye and across the front of my mouth. That would be one of those bad memories that will never fade. I can still see the bat just inches from my face and still hear it hit me. I didn’t really feel it, but boy did it make a loud sound in my head. By the time I pulled my hand away from my face to see my white batting glove covered in bright red blood, it was a moment I knew I’d never forget because I’d always have visual reminders of that life-changing moment when I would look in any mirror. I’m kind of glad there were no cameras nearby when it happened.

This next photo, though, shows the byproduct of the injury. Out of nowhere and with no plan, I “transitioned” into a relief pitcher. This photo was taken by one of my teammates as I warmed up in the Medford bullpen to go into a game. It’s faded and grainy, taken with a small Kodak Instamatic camera, but I’ve kept it since that late summer day in 1979.

The chapters in “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” that are about playing in Paintsville and Medford are two of my favorites. So many wonderful cherished memories of each of those teams and towns. Turning myself into a relief pitcher, though, is one of those twists and turns in life that come from out of nowhere, but leave you with vivid memories of the entire thing. I was so nervous making my first appearance I was afraid I couldn’t throw a ball near enough to Baloosh for him to get a glove on it. And then it all went better than I could have dreamed, ending with a magical bullpen session in Royals Stadium, with the real Oakland A’s. From shaking Doug Emmons hand, to playing that first game, to the gruesome injury, then pitching with my mom actually in attendance, right down to the feeling of the bullpen mound in Kansas City. I’ve never forgotten any of it. It just happened last year, right?

One other baseball memory is the sort that comes from being a fan in the stands, rather than a player on the field. It was the single greatest ballgame I have ever seen, and I’ve seen too many games to count.

It was October 6, 2009. Barbara and I had lived in the Twin Cities for seven years. We’d been Twins season tickets holders for six of those years.

At the end of the 162-game MLB season, the Twins and the Tigers were tied for first place in the American League Central. The Tigers came to Minneapolis to play the one-game tie-breaker, at the good old Metrodome. Barbara and I felt lucky to nab two seats in almost straight-away center field. It’s forever known in Twins lore now as “Game 163” and it was the most mind-bending thing. Back and forth lead changes, huge clutch hits, huge mistakes in the field and on the base paths. Each team had numerous chances to put the other away and just as many chances to fold and let it all slip. And because a 163rd game wasn’t enough, it had to go to extra innings.

The Tigers took a one-run lead in the top of the 10th. The Twins were facing defeat but managed to tie it up again in the bottom of the inning. The Dome was ELECTRIC. I’ve never felt an atmosphere like that.

When Alexi Casilla singled home Carlos Gomez in the bottom of the 12th, I thought four things: 1) This is deafening. 2) That was amazing. 3) The roof might just blow off this place. 4) I’ve never seen a game like this and I’ll never forget it.

Single greatest game of baseball I have ever witnessed.

And finally, I’ll wrap up this impromptu list (seriously, I had the idea when I woke up but didn’t pick the moments until just before I started typing) with the most important day in my recent life, one which still seems like it happened yesterday and still gives me goosebumps to remember. It was May 20, 2017. It wasn’t that long ago, but it changed everything.

“Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” was due to be released any day. For a week I’d been waking up early to check Amazon only to see the words “Coming Soon” on my sales page. Elon Werner was at the ready with press releases and interviews for me to do. We both kind of figured either the publisher or Amazon would tip us off that it was coming, in like 24 hours or something. Instead, I woke up on May 20 and grabbed my phone like I’d been doing for a week. Not expecting much, I clicked on Amazon. And there it was.

I couldn’t believe it. Here are the emotions I felt, pretty much all at once. Fear. Excitement. Shock. Nervousness. And Fear again. It’s one thing to spend a year writing a book about yourself. It’s a whole other thing to see it published and for sale. Fear of failure will grab you by the throat faster than you can process the feeling. The world began spinning very fast right then. It’s still spinning fast. It’s still the most unbelievable and unforgettable thing that’s ever happened to me, and I made it happen.

And I’m thrilled to use this photo of me with SIUE classmate Jim Keegan as my illustration for this unforgettable memory. Jim was a big part of the book and a great friend at school. He was fun to go to college with, but more importantly he was a giant part of my education. We pushed each other to be better every day, and had a riot doing it.

This random list of memorable things is only a drop in the bucket. I’m fully aware of how ridiculously fortunate I’ve been to have been born to my parents, to have grown up with my siblings, to have been blessed with talents on the playing field and at my desk at work. It’s been a recurring theme for most of my life, when after telling someone any of the seemingly endless list of stories, I would hear the same line in response. Whomever I was talking to would say, “You really need to write a book.”

So I did.

Thanks for reading this one today. It was enormously fun to write.

If you enjoyed even one iota of this blog (whatever an iota is) please do me a small favor and click on the “Like” button at the top. I collect “Likes” the way I used to collect baseball cards.

See ya next week!

Bob Wilber, at your service and still having goosebumps.

 

To be perfectly honest, I expected my spellchecker to flag the word “Randomness” in today’s title. I wasn’t exactly 100% sure it was a real word, but apparently it is. The reason for its use in the title of today’s installment is probably clear to most of you who are even semi-regular readers of this nonsense. Sometimes I just don’t have a major theme, and since I get paid by the word it’s important to make sure I write anyway. Wait, you didn’t know I got paid by the word? Why do you think these things ramble on forever? Of course, I pay myself and I do it in “credits” instead of cash, but I’m indeed a fully paid professional blogger. To this point in my 13+ years of blog writing I have accumulated roughly 2.75 million credits. When I get to 10 million I’ll be able to get a free pack of gum.

First, our most important news: I have added a third trip to the “My Trips” page on Delta.com, and it will come prior to the other two trips I recently booked. On February 1, I will fly south to Kansas City and that night I will attend the Kansas City Mavericks hockey game in nearby Independence, Mo. The Mavericks play in the ECHL, which is a large professional league with teams scattered over much of North America. In baseball terms, it would be the equivalent of a Double-A level league, so two steps below the NHL.

Why do I need (or want) to travel to Kansas City for a minor league hockey game? There are multiple answers. First, Alexa Jacobsen (daughter of Neighbor Dave and Nichol) has a longtime boyfriend who plays for the Mavericks. His name is CJ Eick. I sorta kinda “borrowed” this shot of the two of them from Alexa’s Facebook page because it’s just too adorable.

So, who doesn’t fly down to another city to see a former neighbor’s favorite guy play hockey? Right? Well, there’s a reason for that, as well. One of the characters in my new book “How Far?” will be a hockey player from Roseau, Minn., but you knew that. The catch is this: He will graduate from Roseau High and instead of going straight to college hockey he will go off and play Junior Hockey for three years, in Des Moines (because back then the Des Moines Junior team controlled the area where Roseau is located.)

I understand how Junior Hockey works, and when we lived out in Liberty Lake we went to see one of the best Junior teams around, the Spokane Chiefs, on multiple occasions, but what I don’t know are the personal stories about what it’s like to leave home and live with another family in a far-off town to play your favorite sport, but one level down from being a pro. Junior players are usually 18 to 21 and are amateurs. That way, when they’re done playing at that level they have the option of still going to college, because their eligibility is protected. They play hockey full-time, and travel like crazy, but they do it for free. It’s a great experience for them, and many go on to college and pro careers. They learn how to put hockey first and concentrate on developing as a player and maturing as a person.

“But CJ is a pro” you said aloud. He is, but after high school he went to play Juniors, for the Green Bay Gamblers in the USHL. So, I’m heading down to KC to see Alexa and CJ, and to hopefully have some enlightening conversations about just what it was like to do that. After the Gamblers, he did go back to college and had a great career at Michigan Tech. He originally signed to play pro hockey for the Utah Grizzlies in the ECHL but was traded to Kansas City during the 2017-2018 season. He’s a bright young man, and a heck of a hockey player, so this should be really valuable. Plus it will be fun. The Mavericks play the South Carolina Stingrays both Friday and Saturday nights, so I’ll get to see CJ play twice. That will be two more times than I’ve ever seen him play. Go CJ! Go Mavericks!

Ah, but yes, there is another reason to make the trip. If you read “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” and remember the chapter about my stint as GM of the Kansas City Attack indoor soccer team, you may recall that I hired a guy named Bob Rennison to be the radio play-by-play announcer for us. He was fantastic, and it was his first professional play-by-play job. He’s been a pro ever since, and is currently the announcer for the Mavericks. I’m going to get to the arena early on Friday so I can visit with Bob up at his broadcast position. We talked on the phone at length the other day, and it was Bob who told me about the two-game series on Feb. 1 & 2, and how the Mavericks have a long road trip not too long after that. Couple that road trip with my huge travel schedule in March, and it made perfect sense to get down there for these two games. I’m looking forward to it. Go Bob!

And speaking of Roseau, I traded emails with Roseau native and former NHL player Paul Broten the other day, and he’s going to help me once again with a list of “stupid questions” I have for that part of the book. Paul has been a phenomenal resource and he’s always willing to talk about anything I need to know. The fact he’s a real-live player from the Roseau Rams class of ’84 team makes him a “fictional teammate” of my character. I also sent an update note to Larry Guggisberg, the Superintendent of Schools in Roseau, and he sent a really nice note right back. Larry was the guy who orchestrated my entire three-day trip to Roseau, setting up all those meetings that opened my eyes to a fantastic hockey-crazy town. Larry mentioned that the Rams are having a really good year, and are hopeful of a long run in the playoffs. How cool would it be for them to make the State Tournament at the Xcel Energy Arena in St. Paul? Answer: It would be very cool and Barbara and I would most certainly be in attendance to root for them.

As for the book, I’m hitting a good sweet spot lately in terms of writing. It’s coming easily and I’m adding a lot of pages per week. I’m into Chapter 11 now (I’m talking about the book, not my finances!) when my two characters are teenagers and life is changing fast. It’s been mostly drama free for them up until this point, but that’s about to change very soon for both characters. When will I be done? When will it be published? What will the cover look like? All good questions without definitive answers.

I don’t have firm plan for how long it will be or how many chapters it will contain. I’m just writing it organically. I’ll know I’m done when I’m done. And Greg and I will certainly do our final editing as a team again. Once we do that, it’s a month or two to get it published and “out there” in print. As for the cover, I have a firm vision for it but it’s going to take a really talented illustrator to bring it to life.

As of right now, I’m planning on using Outskirts Press again. They did a great job on the first one, and they’re a one-stop shop for a lot of great resources. But, of course, if a traditional publisher comes along and wants to actually pay me for the publishing rights, we can talk. As for the screenplay… That’s kind a joke but people keep bringing it up. I’ve heard from more than a few who think it’s going to end up as a film of some low-budget sort. I’ll believe that when I see it, but we can dream!

OK, we have a bird feeder in our crabapple tree, and the little birds that live here for the winter go nuts over it. The thing is supposed to be squirrel-proof, but that is now a proven falsity. There are two squirrels who have figured it out. It’s designed so that the perches the little birds sit on to eat will only hold their weight. If a squirrel puts his little feet on there, it’s supposed to close a door so he can’t get to the seed. These two guys have found a way to grip onto a nearby branch with their hand claws, and then stretch out fully horizontally to grab the feeder by the perch, but then the pull it toward them without pushing down. Stupid squirrels are actually anything but stupid.

Finally, why shouldn’t we talk about my new sandals. We should!

Back in 2005 I got a pair of Mephisto leather sandals. It was quite a story, actually. For Barb’s birthday we did a little “staycation” by going to a fabulous hotel in downtown Minneapolis, for two nights. During the day, we rode the almost brand-spanking-new Light Rail train from downtown to Mall of America, so that Barbara could have a birthday shopping spree. She did that, but she also spotted the trendy leather Mephisto sandals at one of the big stores there, and she insisted that I buy them. Up until then, I was a flip-flop or rubber soccer sandals kind of guy. The Mephistos were luxurious, but when I looked at the price I about fainted. It actually made me very nervous. I don’t remember exactly how much they cost back then, but I remember thinking “I’m not sure I’ve ever paid that much for shoes!”  Barb was adamant, though, saying “You’ll love these and they will last a long time.”

She was right. I loved them and they lasted from 2005 right up until our Hawaii trip in December. So, they made it about 13 and half years. The leather straps were still perfect. They’d aged a little, as they should, but they also adapted and molded perfectly to match my feet and I loved them. And then, on Kauai, on the exact same day, both soles cracked and broke. I was heartbroken, and also stunned that both sandals picked the same day to die.

I was also sure that Mephisto most certainly would have long ago changed the model. Shoe companies do that all the time and it drives me nuts. I was on a longterm adidas kick in the early 2000s, but then they changed my favorite model because, well, I don’t know. So I switched to the new Reebok Zigs, as did a lot of NHRA guys, and I bought four or five pairs of those. And then Reebok changed them because, well, I don’t know. Lately I’ve been 100 percent loyal to Asics, and so far (knock on wood, or Asics gel) they’re still making them basically the same with only some fun cosmetic changes.

I wasn’t even sure Mephisto was still in business, but I found their website and found the “Sandals – Men” section. There were a lot to choose from, but I didn’t see anything like my old reliable pair. And then I looked at Page 2. There they were! Almost exactly the same. Bravo Mephisto! I applaud you. Buying them direct saved me some money, as well, and the UPS guy just dropped them off on the porch. I’m already breaking them in to perfectly mold to my feet, and they’ll be perfect by the time I get back to Kauai in March. Standing ovation for my new Mephistos! While actually wearing my new Mephistos!

So there we have it. Yet another in the longstanding tradition of blogs about nothing, full of random scattered thoughts and digressions. I’m pretty good at it, I think.

I’ll be back next week on our regular day, and hope to have a gripping and compelling story to tell. We’ll see about that.

As always (you know the drill) if you read this Slip-and-Slide of a blog and enjoyed it even one iota, I hope you’ll click on the “Like” button at the top. I can combine “Likes” with blog credits to hopefully reach my goal of a free pack of gum.

See ya next week!

Bob Wilber, at your service and wearing his new Mephisto Sandals around the house.

Well look at this! With enormous help from our web guru Laura I am back up and running after being unable to get anything posted yesterday. Laura has come to my rescue numerous times since we moved the blog to this location, and she was able to do it again today. I contacted her yesterday and despite the fact she was on a business trip she got right back to me. She shared an informative link about the new “upgrades” to the WordPress system that were all befuddling me, and the story made it clear that WordPress was aiming to totally revamp the whole program in one big move. I didn’t like it.

I’m not typically “that guy” who just hates change because it’s change. The trouble with this change was that the overhaul was so big and vast, and most of it was aimed at web developers who do much more technical and complicated stuff. It required unlearning a ton of stuff that now comes naturally to me, and learning stuff that was like a new language. All I need here on Bob’s Blog is a quick and easy way to type some text and drop in a few photos. The old way made that simple and easy, right in my sweet spot. I did notice, however, a link in the story Laura sent along that indicated you could reload the old “classic” program if you did not want the new program.

This morning, Laura did that and now I feel like I’m home again, in my familiar neighborhood speaking my native tongue. And it bears mentioning that Laura was also instrumental and indispensable when it came to bringing the entire TPGF website into existence when my brother Del created the charity. She’s the best.

So, the following four paragraphs were what I started yesterday, on my duly appointed Thursday Blog Day. This was all that survived my attempt at new technology…

We’ve had a strange Minnesota winter, to this point. It’s been a seesaw kind of season, with temperatures ranging from “normal” cold to unseasonably warm. Or maybe it’s been a teeter-totter kind of winter. For instance, just a couple of days ago we started the day, early in the morning, with our high temp of about 30. By noon, we were approaching 12 degrees and the wind was whipping, creating a wind-chill of somewhere well below zero. By this weekend, we may be back to 40.

One thing we haven’t had is brutal bone-chilling frigid temps, yet. The operative word there is “yet” I suspect. And by merely typing that sentence I guess I’ve insured that it will happen. Right now, it’s 20 degrees and sunny. I’ll take it.

So here’s something interesting… Earlier this week it occurred to me that I was in a position, with Delta Airlines, that I could not remember being in since the beginning of time. Or at least since the Delta – Northwest merger. I had no listing for “Next Trip” on my account. The page was empty. There was nothingness to look at.

For the last 20+ years I’ve worked about three months ahead of time in terms of booking flights, and that means that I’d always have my first racing flight booked by early December, whether it was for preseason testing or Pomona. PomonaPomona.

See that, right at the end there! That was when the last paragraph and five or six more disappeared out of the box the system had me working in. I couldn’t find them and couldn’t see anything after the first Pomona. I kept trying to open things up and see what I was doing, but now it’s clear that all I was doing was erasing and retyping the word “Pomona” time and time again, in an attempt to make it magically reappear. It was pretty frustrating. It’s all good now, though. We’ll call it Friday Blog Day this time around, and next week we’ll get back to Thursday.

So yeah, by now I’m usually all the way out beyond Gainesville in terms of booking flights and hotels. It’s totally weird to have had no trips booked.

Now, I do have two trips booked but they’re not for races. This is what the “My Trips” page now looks like on Delta.com.

The first one is MSP to TPA, which would be Tampa. Our SIUE “Roomies Reunion” is all set now, for a Spring Training trip through part of the Grapefruit League in Florida. We’ll all arrive in the Tampa area on March 7, and I’ve booked an Airbnb private home on the water for three nights. If the photos and reviews of the place are anywhere close to accurate, it’s going to be pretty fantastic.

On the 8th, we’ll make the drive over to Lakeland to see the Tigers play at Marchant Stadium. If you’ve read my book “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” you’ll understand why I wanted to get to that ballpark so much. It’s the only one left down there that I actually played in. When we approach it in the rental car, and I see the massive light towers, I guarantee the hair on my arms will stand up.

On the 9th we’ll see the Pirates play a home game at historic McKechnie Field in Bradenton. How historic is it? It was originally built in 1923. That’s pretty historic. It’s undergone renovations in 1993 and 2013, but the bones of the place are really old and it’s really cool. I have a connection there, as well. When my dad was the manager of the Minnesota Twins team in the Florida Instructional League, during much of the 60s, they played their home games at McKechnie Field. I, therefore, shagged fly balls and acted as the bat boy for guys like Rod Carew and Graig Nettles, on those teams, when I was 10, 11, and 12 years old.

On the 10th we’ll get up early and make the drive down to Fort Myers, and we’ll head straight to Hammond Stadium to see the Twins play the Blue Jays. Yeah, there are two more connections. We’ve scheduled an “off day” for ourselves on the 11th, to maybe go to the beach or find some good food, and then we’ll venture over to the east side of Fort Myers to see the Red Sox play in their incredible new Spring Training venue, Jet Blue Park. On the 13th, I’ll fly home from the Fort Myers / Naples airport.

Should be a great time, and we’re all looking forward to it. Four ballgames in five days, two different Airbnb homes, and lots more to do.

And for the record, Joker Marchant Stadium in Lakeland is now officially Publix Field at Joker Marchant Stadium, while McKechnie Field is now officially LECOM Park, and Hammond Stadium is officially part of the CenturyLink Sports Complex. Times, and names, do change. I don’t have any story to tell about Jet Blue Park, because it’s new and the airline has been the title sponsor since it opened.

On the photo above, you can also see a second scheduled trip. Yes, boys and girls, I’ve once again been “hired” to cat-sit for my sister Mary and her husband Lonnie, on Kauai, so they can come over here to see their kids and grandkids. I’ll head over on Sunday March 17 and fly back on the same red-eye we’ve been using for the last couple of years, out of Honolulu, on the 26th. I’m sure Biscuit cares not one bit that I’m coming, but I also swear that Maxie not only remembered me when were just over there for Christmas, he warmed right up to me immediately and even let me rub his little belly. It’s going to be another adventure, I’m sure, and I’m really looking forward to it. I’ve always felt I had a valuable mission to accomplish in my life, and now it is before me. I’m a cat sitter. But, I reserve the right to select and approve my cat-sitting locations.

After that, I have no idea. There will be races to attend, I’m sure, but my main focus now is on getting the new book “How Far?” finished and edited. I’m going to try to write for at least three hours a day for the next few weeks, and we’ll see “How Far” I get. See what I did there? I suspect there will still be writing and editing to do when I’m over on Kauai, likely quite a bit more writing and editing, so that will be a great time to get a lot done.

This is, indeed, a short one but considering I didn’t think I’d get one done at all this week, I’m good with it.

I’ll end it with this shot of my two executive assistants as they anticipate their newest assignments, waiting patiently on my desk.

They’re all clocked in and ready to use the litter box, crunch on some food, squawk at birdies, and crouch down when that pesky little red squirrel comes around. They usually clock out about an hour later. Attention spans being such as they are.

As always, if you read this short installment and “like totally dug it man, and thought it was groovy” please hit the “Like” button at the top. That would be totally groovy, if you would.

And finally, one more time…  THANK YOU LAURA! You have saved me once again.

Bob Wilber, at your service and happy to be “home” on the old WordPress program.

 

Well that was amazing. We’re back home in Minnesota after a whirlwind trip to paradise, and it was great. I know, that’s hard to believe. Four nights at the Lava Lava Beach Club, enjoying our private cottage on the beach, and four nights on Kauai, staying at a part of the island we’d only visited before. There was sun, sand, fancy drinks, sightseeing, body surfing, ukulele masterpieces, and family. All of the other stuff wouldn’t be as fun without that last part.

To recount… There were a lot of ways our travel plans could have gone haywire, but fortunately everything went smoothly. Barbara and I flew to LAX and when we arrived at the Delta Sky Club we found Kitty waiting for us. I’m really not sure what we would’ve done if one or both of the planes had been late. It was kind of a “book the tickets and hope for the best” plan and our friends at Delta delivered. We then flew to Honolulu, where we had a chance to munch and sip a little more at the Sky Club there, and then on to Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii, where we arrived right on time. Barbara and I had done the same itinerary last year, so we were better prepared for the dark drive up the coast to Lava Lava. It’s a hard place to find the first time, but we were ready and were in our cottage, the Hale Nalu, right around 9:00 p.m. That’s a bit of a long day, considering we’d left Woodbury at 10:00 in the morning and the 9:00 p.m. arrival felt like 1:00 in the morning to us.

The only hitch in our plan occurred when we brought our stuff into the cottage from the rental car, and we heard a bit of a chirp noise a couple of times. I thought it was my sneakers squeaking on the floor but then we all stood still and it happened again. Yep, the smoke detector was chirping to signal the end of its battery’s short life. That wasn’t going to work, in terms of sleeping.

We went to the restaurant, which was closing for the night (there’s no front desk or lobby at Lava Lava) and found a manager who sent a guy down to the cottage to replace the battery. Except they couldn’t find a battery. So, he took out the chirping 9-volt and unplugged the whole unit. We had to promise that we wouldn’t burn the place down before they could replace it the next day. We kept our promise.

The next morning was spent stocking up on supplies (there’s a great store very close to the resort) eating great food, and showing Kitty the area. We definitely wanted her to see the ancient petroglyphs carved into the lava, and that site is literally right by the hotel, so we did that first. Barb and I had wandered through there last year, and I remembered that the footing can get a little dicey in places. It starts out pretty smooth but if you want to see some really cool ancient carvings you have to get back into the site a little. One year sure made a difference, because all three of us were taking our time and really being careful on the rocks and lava. I remember thinking, and saying, “Let’s really be careful here. One slip by any of us probably ruins this whole vacation on the first day…”

We made it in and out of there,  but we cut the tour short a little once we’d seen some of the best petroglyphs. It was like “OK, nobody has slipped and sprained an ankle, or worse, so let’s go.”

Starting that first day, we were incredibly fortunate with the weather. Hawaii, in general, is a wet place. Even over in Honolulu on Oahu you know to expect an afternoon shower or two, and all-day rains aren’t rare. Kona is on the “dry side” of the Big Island, but rain is common there too. In all, this trip featured only one total wash-out of a rain day, and six really wonderful days. It’s hard to get that lucky, and last year it was almost the other way around. I know it rained every day last year, but we still got in a lot of great stuff. This time it was just a bonus.

We swam, we walked in the water, we laid under towering palm trees, and we enjoyed the snacks and drinks the Lava Lava staff brought to us before dinner each night. Appetizers in Hawaii are called pu pu platters and they usually feature some meat, veggies, fish, or sushi. They’re fabulous, and a great way to get ready to enjoy the Lava Lava Beach Club restaurant, which is incredible. There’s nothing like sitting out under the palm trees, all trimmed with festive lights, listening to the waves gently roll onto the shore, while eating world-class fare.

Our main plan on the 23rd was to show Kitty the Captain Cook sites further south on the island. This is where I take 100% of the blame for a frustrating outing. I should’ve mapped it out in detail before we left, but I was sure I remembered how to get there. I briefly looked at it on Google Maps to make sure I knew how far away it was, but I didn’t commit it to memory. When we came to the first big fork in the road, my gut told me to turn left and I did. But after a few miles on that road it seemed like we were getting farther and farther away from the water, which was where we needed to be, so I backtracked. Basically, after making that turn-around, I had no clue how to find the place and the GPS on our phones wasn’t helping much either. We stopped at a McDonald’s and Barbara talked to some people in there, who helped us out with directions that sounded easy enough.

They weren’t easy enough. I again went against my gut and we ended up on a very long and very winding road, which got smaller as we went. To the point where you couldn’t help but wonder if it was technically still an actual road. I was really getting frustrated, and crabby, and it only got worse as we continued to fail in our quest to find Captain Cook’s fatal last stop. He could get there on a sailing ship from the mainland. I couldn’t get us there from 20 miles up the road in a rental car.

We finally did find it, thanks to a guy who was organizing kayak trips, but it was a really complicated way to go. When we got there, with the government shutdown in effect the park was closed, but you could still go in. There were just no programs going on or park rangers around. I still feel bad about that whole ordeal. Sorry Barbara and Kitty. Your tour guide usually doesn’t fail, but I did this time.

We did stop in Kailua-Kona town, a quaint little village we’ve been to many times before, but even that was harder to get to than I remembered. The GPS units on our phones did a much better job with that than they did with the Captain Cook sites. Later that evening, we had dinner at the Macaroni Grill that’s just around the corner from Lava Lava, just to mix it up a little. Barbara and I did that last year, too. We love all the fresh fish at the resort, most of it caught that day, but every now and then you crave some pasta.

On our final full day on the Big Island, we ventured north to Hapuna Beach, a place we also visited last year. In 2017, the beach was incredible and the body-surfing waves were the best I’d ever experienced. All you had to do was jump as the wave crested and you could get carried 15 to 20 yards, right out on the front of the wave, like a human surfboard. I was afraid we might have gotten the exception to the rule a year ago, but it was nearly as good this time as well. Just a little smaller, in the wave department, but just as fun. Plus, it’s a long beach and I used that as my reason for getting about 8,000 steps in, by walking up and down the full beach numerous times. I like being at the beach, but I’ve never been one who enjoys just laying there broiling under the sun. So I walked a lot and rode as many waves as I could. Finally, when it was apparent that all three of us were getting a little too much sun (the tops of my feet got it the worst) we packed up and said goodbye to one of the greatest beaches I’ve ever been to. In my book, Hapuna Beach is the best beach in Hawaii.

After another fine dinner and beautiful sunset, we were up before dawn on the 25th (yep, Christmas Day!). We had a 9:00 a.m. Hawaiian flight direct to Lihue Airport on Kauai, so we were rolling out of the Lava Lava resort by 7:00. Once we landed, we went straight to my sister Mary’s condo in Kapaa because we couldn’t check in to our rooms in Poipu until later that afternoon. Mary, Lonnie, and niece Leigh met us at the door with Mimosas. That’s a heck of a way to start your Christmas celebration on Kauai. We did exchange gifts, and enjoyed the lasagna feast Mary had expertly put together for us, then Kitty and Barb and I made the drive up to the two neighboring resorts where we were staying, in Poipu.

Even getting to the resorts after 3:00 p.m. we still had a hard time getting our rooms. Our first room had two queen beds, so we didn’t want that. The second one they showed us had a king bed, but it was directly above the bar and pool. That would be a firm “no thanks” as well. They finally found us another king room at the other end of the resort, but we had to wait about two hours for it to be serviced. Kitty, meanwhile, was going through the same thing at her place. It’ll make you a bit grumpy, for sure, but the rooms were great and both places were fantastic.

At the resort where Kitty was staying, a Marriott property, we even had breakfast vouchers and that was awesome. They had a great little bistro grill and the bacon and eggs were perfect. On the 26th we drove Kitty up to Princeville and Hanalei on the north shore of the island, and although the rain showers were intermittent, Kitty got to see her first massive Kauai waterfall, way off in the mountainous distance. The girls also found a shop near the restaurant we went to for lunch, and it specialized in Hawaiian clothes and swim suits for little kids. Needless to say, they found some adorable stuff for Stassi and Bella.

That afternoon, we had to get back to Mary and Lonnie’s place before 4:00 because Wednesday nights in Kapaa are special. That’s the regular night for ukulele virtuoso Aldrine Guerrero to perform at the wonderful Oasis By The Sea, near the condo. It is not to be missed.

Aldrine is amazing. He can play just about anything and it’s rarely classic Hawaiian hula songs. Put it this way, his version of “Purple Rain” brought the house down. It’s really a concert, as opposed to most of the time a singer/performer is playing at a bar or restaurant and a grand majority of the crowd pays no attention. Everyone pays attention to Aldrine, and the vibe at The Oasis is electric. If you ever get a chance… I’m just sayin’

Kekaha Beach was our main destination on the 27th, and it’s always a great experience. It’s a gigantic beach up on the northern end of the west side of Kauai. It’s at least five miles long, and very wide. There are picnic shelters there, and it was common for me to head up there from Mary’s condo when I was cat-sitting last year. Take a book or a magazine, stop at a deli and get a sandwich and can of guava juice, and just relax at one of the picnic tables then walk on the nearly limitless beach.

It’s not a great swimming beach because the waves are coming straight in from across the Pacific and the rip current is strong. We took a long walk and got in as far as our knees, but that was about it. Even when the water is that shallow you have to fight the rip current as it goes back out. The best part of our afternoon at Kekaha was the little 3-year-old girl we met at one of the picnic areas. Anna was her name and she was not only adorable, she also looked uncannily like little Bella down in Orlando, but just about six months older. She was so outgoing and talkative we were all laughing with her and having a great time. Then, another one of the picnic shelters opened up a few yards away, so we moved over there, but not before Anna Banana gave everyone hugs and kisses and said “See ya later alligator” to all of us. She was priceless.

As a huge added bonus, we saw some whales from the beach. Looked like a momma and her calf because the blow spray always happened two at a time and one was much smaller than the other. They were the only whales we spotted the whole time we were there, but we felt fortunate to have seen them.

Our final full day was the one where we mostly got washed out, but by then it was time to relax anyway. We had a fantastic dinner at the resort, had some fancy drinks with umbrellas in them, and started the process of figuring out how we were going to get all of our clothes and stuff into the small carry-on suitcases we’d brought, which were crammed to the breaking point on the way over. We had been able to do some laundry, thankfully, because Kitty’s room had a full-size washer and dryer in it, but we’d also bought a lot of gifts and souvenirs.

The answer was the same thing I did last year. Barbara stopped in at a post office and picked up a stack of Flat Rate Priority boxes. A lot of our dirty clothes went home that way, although they haven’t gotten here yet. Hmmm. Oh well, it’s just a bunch of sandy clothes.

We were flying out of Lihue on Hawaiian around 2:00, so we needed to have a plan. Mary had loaned me her binoculars for whale watching and I needed to get those back to her, but her condo is 20 minutes past the airport and we were going to be in a bit of a hurry. The plan was to go to the Lihue post office to drop off the boxes, then take the binoculars to Pier 1 where Mary works, to drop them off for her there, and then finally fill up the rental van with gas.

As we were leaving the Poipu resorts, it dawned on us that it was Saturday. We’d all kind of lost track of the days. Barb got on her phone and found the hours of operation for the Lihue post office, and discovered it closed at 12 noon. It was 11:15. If it wasn’t going to be open, we’d be in a world of trouble with all of our stuff. We had to hurry!

So, I dropped Barbara and her sister off at the post office, then drove over to Pier 1 and dropped off Mary’s binoculars, then finally filled the van up before heading back to pick up Barbara and Kitty. Everything worked out fine, but not without some more drama at the airport.

I’d picked up a sense that the airport might be a bit of a zoo when we were still at the resorts. A ton of people were checking out, since it was the Saturday before New Year’s Eve, and they all only had one way off the island. They had to fly. When we got to the National Rental Car facility, the line of returning cars was out of the lot and out onto the street. Even the shuttle bus couldn’t get in because the cars were so backed up.

We finally got that worked out and hustled to the Hawaiian check-in desk. Our “priority” status helped us avoid many of the lines, but the desk agent scoffed at us when we asked if he could check our bags all the way through to our final destinations, despite the fact that’s exactly what we did last year. I think he was just overworked and overstressed and didn’t want to do it. We had no choice but to check our bags, though, because we had some liquids in them and they were overstuffed beyond what the little Hawaiian jet’s bins could handle. Our only choice was to check them to Honolulu. That’s something you’d kinda sorta want to avoid at all costs. We weren’t happy about it, but at least we had a two-hour layover at HNL.

We landed, found baggage claim, got our stuff, and then had to get to the Delta check in area, which seemed to be about a mile away. I’m not kidding. There is an inter-terminal shuttle bus, but the guy at the information booth told us, “It’s quicker to walk. The bus takes forever…”  So we got some more steps in, walking seven terminal lobbies down the road. Then we had to get our bags checked and go back through TSA to enter the terminal. Remind me to sort that out ahead of time next year. Seriously. Don’t make that mistake at HNL. It’s a good thing we had such a long layover.

When it was time to board, Kitty headed to her gate to fly to JFK in New York, where she made her connection to Orlando. We flew nonstop to MSP, and for once I actually slept on a red-eye. I got about two hours of shut-eye, but the truth is we were all very jet-lagged. In just two weeks, Barbara and I had gone all the way to England for the three days, then all the way west to Hawaii for parts of nine days. We were officially “zonked out” by the time we got home.

It was about 6:00 a.m. when we unpacked, and then we both said “Let’s just lay down for a few minutes.” It was 12 noon when we woke up. We even slept another 12 hours the next night. I think I’m about back to normal now.

All in all, throughout November and December, Barbara and I flew a grand total of roughly 32,000 air miles. That would be a lot. Yes, with our elite Delta status we were able to be in the front cabin for almost all of it, with lay-flat seats on the longest flights, but that’s still a lot of travel. I need to be home for a while…

Finally, huge thanks to our friend Erica Moon who went to such great lengths to be here with Boofus and Buster throughout almost all of the Hawaii trip. She lives and works a long way from here, but she’s so good with The Boyz and such a great cat-sitter we can’t thank her enough. I’m not sure what we would do without her. Thanks Erica!

That’s it for this big wrap-up. As always, if you perused any of this and liked it even just a tiny bit, please click on the “Like” button at the top. Maybe I can reach Platinum “Like” status to match my Delta rank!

See you next week. No more Mai Tai’s for me, at least for a while…

Bob Wilber, at your service and still feeling the sand under my feet. Aloha!

BREAKING NEWS UPDATE!  Look what just showed up. Ask and ye shall receive, I guess. Time to do some laundry!

 

Hello blog faithful, and may I first wish you all a wonderful holiday season, no matter which holidays you observe or how you choose to observe them. Be respectful, be kind to others, pay it forward, think much more about giving without pondering what you might receive. It’s not about accumulating the most “stuff” it’s about spreading the message of love, inclusion, and respect. Do you know how easy it is to buy a Christmas dinner for a needy family? It’s far too easy to not do it. Shelters are more than happy to accept a check.

This will be one of those short blogs and unless I break my own vow to myself, there likely will not be one next week because I’ll be busy having tropical fun. The plan is for my next installment to be January 3, 2019.

Tomorrow morning we will head to the airport here in the Twin Cities and get on a flight to LAX. There, if all goes as planned, we will meet Barbara’s sister Kitty at the Delta Sky Club and then the three of us will get on another flight to Honolulu. We’ll make a dash there, from the Delta arrival gate to the Hawaiian Airlines holding pen, where people line up for dozens of island hopper flights. Ours will take us to Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii. We’re staying in the same cottage on the beach in Waikoloa, at the Lava Lava Beach Club. Kitty gets the pull-out couch bed in our private cottage (hale) the Hale Nalu, same one we had last year.

Last year, the extended weather forecast looked pretty cruddy for the whole stay at Lava Lava, and son-of-a-gun if it wasn’t mostly correct. It does rain a lot in Hawaii, it’s just a fact of life. This time, our four days and nights at Lava Lava look like they’re going to be pretty good. Fingers crossed for that. It will all be the same for Barbara and me, but that’s the beauty of taking Kitty with us. We get to enjoy it all over again and see the wonder of it all through Kitty’s eyes. It’s like a refresher course in all things Hawaii. Plus, last year we scouted out some good things to do and see, so we have that local knowledge in our heads. Much fun will be had. I’m suspecting a Mai Tai might be consumed. Maybe. I mean, anything is possible.

We’ll be there for four nights and then, on Christmas morning, we have a 9:00 a.m Hawaiian Air flight from Kona to Lihue, on Kauai. We’ll get there too early to check in, so the plan is to head straight to see my sister Mary and her hubby Lonnie, at their condo in Kapa’a. We can celebrate and share some small stocking stuffers, and hopefully find a place open for lunch.

Then, the three of us tourists will head around to the south side of the island to find the two resorts where we have rooms. We couldn’t get rooms at the same place, but the two resorts are very close together, in the village of Poipu. Again, we’ll be able to experience Kauai as if it’s new to us just by seeing it with Kitty, and the resorts will literally be new to us because we’ve never stayed anywhere but at the Marriott by Mary’s condo, in Kapa’a. Plus, on Kauai we have plenty of good local knowledge. Heck, I got to spend almost two wonderful weeks last winter when I went over there to cat-sit for Mary and Lonnie while they were on the mainland. I’m almost a local!

So much to see and do on Kauai, and when I was over there hanging out last February I took long walks along the coast every day and saw too many whales to count. It’s a cool way to get to meet people, because everyone who is out walking on the trails is scanning the ocean looking for the whales and you point them out to each other.

We’ll certainly make the drive up to Waimea State Park to try to see the incredible canyon and views from up there. So far, Barbara and I have gone up there with Mary and Lonnie three times, and have seen the incredible view for a grand total of about 15 seconds. It does rain there almost constantly, but it’s always worth a shot to maybe get lucky and be there on a clear day, even if the clear day part of it goes away in a minute or two. The clouds form and come up from the canyon so fast it’s stunning but hey, all those waterfalls around Kauai are there for a reason. They don’t turn the water on and have them run for the tourists, and then turn them off at night. We’re banking on Kitty’s presence being the key to making everything perfect.

We have to take Hawaiian Airlines back to Honolulu on the afternoon of the 29th, and then we get the joy of a nonstop red-eye from Honolulu right to MSP. We leave HNL at 5:45 p.m. and arrive at MSP at around 5:30 a.m. on the 30th. Here’s hoping there is some sleep involved, but it’s a tough flight to do that on. It leaves so “early” in the evening, and you’re fully acclimated to Hawaii time by then, so it’s at least four hours before you’re even slightly sleepy. By that time, you’re halfway home. We’ll see how I do. Kitty flies over to HNL with us, but then she gets on a mammoth nonstop flight all the way to JFK in New York. From there, she still has a long flight home to Orlando. That sounds brutal to me, but Hawaii is a long way out there in the Pacific. It’s hard to get to and just as hard to get back from. And, I’m just guessing, but I’m thinking the temperature change from when we board in Honolulu to when we deplane at MSP will be pretty stout. That could easily be an 80-degree swing.

On one final weird almost creepy note, please note my ring finger on my left hand. I haven’t been able to get my wedding band off for at least two years, and it was really getting uncomfortable. Plus, I’ve basically been wearing it every day for the last 21 years. I’ve tried heating it up to see if it would expand a little. I’ve tried soap. I’ve tried oil. It just wouldn’t budge. Barbara thought it would be a good idea to have it cut off before the trip, so I went up to a little local jewelry store and they cut it off just about an hour ago. The woman said, “Now don’t wear anything on this finger for at least a month. Maybe two months. And even with that your finger is never going to look fully ‘normal’ again. But, in a month or two bring the ring back and we’ll resize it. You won’t be able to tell we did it.”

So the little cutter gizmo was kind of neat. It has a little slightly curved metal prong the slides under the ring, on the palm side of your hand. Then it has a small cutting wheel on top that’s manually operated by turning a wing-shaped key that looks just like the one on any old-school can opener. Took about ten full turns to cut through it, but the bottom prong acts like a guard so your finger doesn’t get cut. It’s a relief to have it off finally, but I can’t wait to get it resized and back on. It’s weird to see that finger “naked” now. I’m also glad I followed my instinct to NOT try to cut it off myself with some snippers. That might have ended poorly. And hey, who knew that 18-carat gold shrinks so much. Just like so many of my shirts and jeans. I mean, there can’t be any other reason, right? Sheesh.

OK, that’s it for this week and our scheduled hiatus next week. Oh, there is an update regarding my next book “How Far?” which continues to come along. I finished Chapter 9 last night, so I’m probably about 100 to 120 pages in. I’m taking my laptop to Hawaii just in case we do get stuck inside one day, due to rain. I hope that doesn’t happen, and I’m not planning on writing until we get back from the trip and adjust to Central Time again, but you never know.

As always, if these words about islands and ring cutters resonated at all, please click on the “Like” button at the top. I’m trying to join the “Million Likes Club” one of these days. You even get a member’s only card. Or maybe not.

Be good. Be kind. Pay something forward and share a hug or five. Happy Holidays to everyone. See ya next year!

Bob Wilber, at your service and still with a bit more shopping to do.

 

Well that was a whirlwind! Welcome back blog faithful. I’m here to tell tales of Jolly Old England and too many miles in the air. I think I’m finally close to being somewhat normal after all the jet lag, both going out and coming back. It does take its toll on you.

First off, though, is a quick story about a jacket. Last year, when we went to Edinburgh and London, I saw the weather forecast and decided to take a big heavy overcoat. I was glad I did, especially up in Edinburgh where it was indeed cold but something about the air there always makes it feel colder. This time, I saw the London forecast and it was showing highs in the low 50s, so I figured I’d take a leather jacket instead.

At one point in time I had three leather jackets in the closet. One didn’t fit very well, and it wasn’t the highest grade of leather, so it was donated to charity during a coat drive for the homeless here in the Twin Cities. I don’t know what happened to the second one, although it’s likely stuffed in a closet here somewhere. There was one in our main hall closet and it fit nicely and felt about right, so it went with me. I remember thinking, “Back in the heyday of the CSK sponsorship, they gave us all leather jackets. I wonder what ever happened to that one?”

When we got on the plane and I had my jacket on my lap, so that the flight attendant could hang it up, I looked down and saw this faint outline on the back of the jacket. It’s alive! You’ll probably need to click on this photo to actually see the Checker, Schuck’s, Kragen logo, which was very subtle. It was stamped onto the leather rather than stitched. I always liked that they did that because it made the coat sort of an any-occasion jacket, rather than strictly a racing jacket. Now I’m wondering where that other leather jacket ended up.

As I reported in the quick blog I did last week, I didn’t sleep at all on the flight going over. That was really frustrating and it set me up for the same struggle I had last year. I was dead tired after we arrived, but managed to stay up past 8:00 London time. I was actually on my laptop in one of the chairs in our room when the tiredness hit me so quickly it surprised me. All I could do was close the laptop and go to bed. Then, of course, I woke up at 4:30 in the morning. I did fall back asleep, and Barbara had to head out at 7:00 for meetings that were scheduled to last until 5:00, but by 8:00 I was tossing and turning . I had no choice but to get up.

My plan was to do as much walking as I could on Friday, and I actually was aiming for a walk all the way around and through Hyde Park, which is directly across Park Lane from our hotel, the JW Marriott Grosvenor House. It’s a nice place. When I got up I opened the curtains and what did my tired eyes see but pouring rain. It was coming down in buckets. I had no desire to go out walking in that slop but I checked the forecast and Accuweather.com assured me that the skies would clear by 2:00. So, I went downstairs and hung out in the lobby for a while, grabbed some snacks and orange juice in the Executive Lounge, and just generally relaxed while keeping an eye on the sky. Sure enough the rain began to dissipate and before long the people walking on the sidewalks below my window began to lower and stow their umbrellas. Within 20 minutes, the sky was blue. Good work Accuweather!

So, I put on my jacket and headed out, walking up to Marble Arch. There’s a Tube station there (it’s the closest one to the hotel) and I knew we’d be riding it later in the weekend, so I almost went in there to buy a prepaid card for whatever Tube riding we’d need to do, but I made a rational decision to not do that. My thought was “If I get that Tube card now, and I’m way out over at the other end of Hyde Park, I might be tempted to use it for a ride back instead of finishing my walk.” I know myself all too well.

Early in the walk I was thinking the leather jacket might not be warm enough. It was about 45 degrees, but the wind was whipping pretty strongly and at first I was a bit chilled. That didn’t last long. I walked nearly to the other end of Hyde Park and then turned left through the gates to enter the park itself. It’s a huge park, and it’s crisscrossed with sidewalks, but fortunately there are map kiosks located all over the place, so I plotted a path back to end of the park that’s across from the hotel. By then, my gloves were off and I was unzipping the jacket. It’s nice leather, but man does it hold in the heat when you’re out walking around burning calories. I was steaming.

From that point forward, I was pretty miserable. It was like a trudge getting back as I got sweatier and sweatier. It’s lovely to feel your shirt totally stuck to your back when it’s just a bit too chilly to take the jacket off. By the time I got back to Grosvenor House, I couldn’t wait to get up to the room to take a shower and dry off. I should’ve taken two jackets. It would’ve been nice to have a lighter one.

Barbara’s colleagues from her company, HB Fuller, asked her if we’d like to join them for dinner at the incredible and historic Wilton’s restaurant. It’s the place that actually invented the meal Dover Sole. That sounded great, but then Barbara called again and said “They couldn’t change the reservation, so we’re on our own.” But then (yes, another “But then”) when one of the gentlemen had a quick change of plans we found out they could, indeed, seat three of us in the bar. That was fine by us, and off we went. Wilton’s was exactly as advertised. Amazing old English ambiance, incredible food, and a pretty good bartender to go along with it. Plus, our conversations were magnificent while we enjoyed it all. And we took taxis each way, so still no need for that Tube card.

We had all of Saturday free, with the highlight of the day being a matinee stage show in the theater district. First, though, after a good night’s sleep and a fine breakfast at the the hotel, we did go up to the Marble Arch Underground station and buy those cards. Then, off on the Central Line to make a connection at Holborn to the Piccadilly Line, then down to Covent Garden.

Covent Garden is a well known area of London that’s full of shops, kiosks, bistros, and stores that sell everything from hand-made jewelry to Premier League soccer scarves, plus everything in-between. It’s also very popular. The Tube cars were packed, too, and the Covent Garden station is one that doesn’t have escalators.  You can either climb 15 flights of stairs to get up to the street, or cram into one of three elevators (lifts). Between the Tube and the lift, it was everything a person with claustrophobia would hate. Fortunately, I rarely feel that stuff but Barb does get pretty stressed when it’s really bad, and the crowded lift was really bad. We were jammed in there with absolutely no space between any of us. It felt good to get out of that box and onto the street.

What was funny was that all those crowded spaces made sense of something I’d seen at the Holborn station, when we disembarked that train to get to the Piccadilly line. Covent Garden is one stop down the Piccadilly from Holborn, but as we exited the Central Line train I saw a sign that read “Walk To Covent Garden – 15 minutes” with an arrow pointing toward the exit. We thought that was odd, at the time. Now it makes sense. That short trip from Holborn to the Covent Garden station, and the sardine-like ride up the lift, was way worse than walking 15 minutes, and it probably took just as long.

And all the stress from the last Tube ride made the crowds throughout Covent Garden much more difficult to deal with. We were both feeling like “Get us out of here” so we strolled through a couple of shops and then got back outside. There was one more thing I was looking for, though, and it was fun to see it still there.

My buddy Lance and I went to England and Scotland back in the mid-80s, and we got to be ace Tube riders who would spend nearly every evening up at Covent Garden because there was a lot of fun nightlife there. We usually started each evening at a place called Punch & Judy, and it had an outdoor patio that overlooked the busy street scene. I had a vague memory of where that might have been, and when we popped out of one end of the shopping area I had a feeling I should turn around and look up. There it was. And it’s still open and still has the same name.

Our matinee was at 2:30, and it was getting to be around the time we needed to head that way. Again, a quick look at a map kiosk got us headed in the direction of the Duchess Theater, a small and cozy venue in neighborhoods full of huge theaters.

We were early, so Barbara offered to show me the Savoy Hotel, which was just a few blocks away. She’s stayed there before, and was making a bee line for it, but I had a hard time keeping up because my head was on a swivel taking in all the sights in that part of the city. I don’t believe I’ve ever been to that area, and it was fascinating.

The Savoy was fascinating too, and we were lucky enough to get a quick table for two in the appropriately named “American Bar” where we could have a sip or two before the show started. The hotel is REALLY historic and the bar was full of incredible photographs of all the great movie stars and stage actors who have stayed there. Barb insists it’s haunted, too, but she added “They’re not bad ghosts. They tend to just walk around the halls at night.”

I made the request that the next time we go to London, we stay at the Savoy. I just loved the vibe in that part of London. Really fabulous and fun.

When it was time to get to the theater we walked back a few blocks and joined the queue of people waiting to get in. The play is called “The Play That Goes Wrong” and all I knew about it was that it’s a comedy and it gets rave reviews. The short version of the premise is this: It’s a play put on by a small community theater troupe, and from start to finish nothing goes according to plan. Right after we walked in to check our coats, one of the cast members ran into the room shouting “Winston, Winston!” and then he looked at me saying “Have you seen a French Bulldog come through here?”

I quickly played my part by immediately responding, “Why yes! He’s right there…” as I turned and pointed across the small room. “Ah, he’s gone now,” I said. “But he was just there seconds ago” and the cast member said “Did he go that way?” and when I said yes he took off running again. The funniest part is that Winston is supposed to be in the play, but they never find him so every time he’s supposed to be on stage one of the cast just holds a leash with no Winston attached to it.

The whole play is like that, with lots of outstanding acting, physical comedy, and improvised interaction with the audience. I’ve never laughed so hard at a stage performance in my life. Funniest play I’ve ever seen, and it’s not close. If you ever had a chance to see it, get tickets and go. It’s on Broadway in New York and I assume it tours. Go see “The Play That Goes Wrong” and be prepared to laugh out loud for two hours.

After the show it was dark outside, and we decided to walk back to Grosvenor House. I had a general idea which direction it was, and our failsafe was going to be getting on the Tube at Green Park station if the walk was taking too long. We fired up the walking directions on my phone and within a mile it had taken us down not one, but two, dead ends. We never got to the Tube stop and we surely weren’t up for getting too lost trying to get back to the hotel, so a taxi was hailed. There’s a lot to be said for big cities that have enough taxis for you to flag one down on just about any street at any time.

There’s a great restaurant in the hotel, so that’s where we ate on Saturday night and then we capped it all off with a glass of wine in the lounge. All in all, it was a great trip.

A hired car picked us up at 9:00 in the morning and off to Heathrow we went. We were in the front cabin on the Delta flight, and that meant we could use the super-cool Virgin Atlantic concierge lounge at the airport, where you are met at the curb by an attendant who takes your bags and checks them, after which you enter a private security area where there’s never more than a dozen people in line, while the rest of the passengers stand in a maze of lines to get through Passport Control.

In the lounge, they have a great menu and servers come right to your seat to take care of you. A couple of glasses of champagne started our return trip off well. Once on the plane, I actually did sleep for a few hours, because, well sure I could. It’s the return flight. Almost nine hours later we were home, and the boyz met us at the door. I then slept 11 hours Sunday night.

Our friend and loyal cat sitter Erica had been there with them while we were gone and it’s abundantly clear that they are getting very comfortable with her. She posted pics on Facebook of Buster playing with one of his crinkle tubes in the living room. He would absolutely not do that if he was stressed out. We feel so fortunate to have Erica for these trips, because we couldn’t possibly travel this much without her being here. She’ll be coming down here for many of the days and nights when we’re in Hawaii.

And speaking of Hawaii, it’s almost here! We actually leave next Friday! We’re certainly earning our share of Delta miles these day. All in all, this trip was about 8,500 miles. The Hawaii trip is going to be roughly another 8,200 miles and that doesn’t count the three island-hopping flights we’ll take on Hawaiian Airlines.

So that’s it for this week. A wonderful trip to London, a play that still has me laughing, a smooth trip home, and two boyz who were happy to see us.

As always, if you just perused this blog and enjoyed even a tiny part of it, please click on the “Like” button at the top. A million more likes and I get a free Hot Wheels car!

Bob Wilber, at your service with just a wee bit of a new London accent. Ta Ta!

 

 

 

Greetings from the Delta Sky Club at Detroit International Airport, as we await our connection to London Heathrow. Everything seems to be on-time and the big Airbus is at the gate, so (knock on wood) we should be good to go. I’m typing this at 7 pm on Wednesday, knowing full well that we have a long overnight flight ahead of us and should land in London around 9 tomorrow morning. My goal is to take a few iPhone pics between now and arrival, and finish up this mini-blog after we get to the hotel, which would allow me to actually get this blog up on Thursday Blog Day in terms of North American time zones. This time, I actually feel like I might get some sleep on the red-eye over the pond on our way to the UK, but I probably should’ve not mentioned that. I’m terrible at sleeping on planes unless the last thing I need to do is sleep on the plane.

While we’re here in the Sky Club, I can give you an update on one thing that really had me jazzed up this week. I’d hit a lull with the writing of my new book “How Far?” over the last couple of weeks, due to a hectic travel schedule and a bit of writer’s block, but I’m pleased to report that another conversation with Paul Broten (the youngest of the Broten boys from Roseau) got me fired up this week and today I finished Chapter 8, which gets my Roseau character all the way through 8th grade and ready to enter Roseau High. What happened that winter, as he was finishing 8th grade? The “Miracle On Ice” team won the gold medal at the Winter Olympics in Lake Placid, taking out the “unbeatable” Soviet Union team on their way to doing that. Paul’s brother Neal Broten was on that team.

Paul’s a really outgoing and easy to like guy, and all you have to do is to get him started on something like Roseau Rams hockey or the 1980 Olympic team and then you’re scrambling to write notes as fast as he talks. Great dude, great stories, great background. And sure, it’s a little surreal to have a casual conversation with a former NHL player who is the brother of one of the true American heroes who made up the 1980 “Miracle” team. I, once again, feel fortunate to have grown up around Hall of Fame baseball people, like Stan Musial, Ted Williams, and more, because it makes it a lot easier to have a chats with people who have done great things.

So now, I’m going to have a bite to eat here in the club and an hour from now we’ll be heading to our gate for the long overnight flight. When we land, it will be morning in England. Every time we make trips like this, the overriding goal is to power through the jet lag and stay up until at least 9 pm local time after we arrive. If you can do that, you’re golden. I’m rarely golden.  See you again soon!

BREAKING NEWS:

We made it, landing at Heathrow around 9:30 on Thursday morning. I did not sleep a wink. I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi, then the truck backed up and ran me over again. Ugh. I was actually tired after we were served our dinner on the flight, but then as more and more people started to lay their seats flat and turn off the videos and lights I could feel the insomnia taking hold. I just can’t sleep when it would be the best thing for me. I tried, but the guy seated in the row directly behind me sounded like he had the Bubonic Plague, coughing up a storm all night long. The ear plugs I had with me didn’t stand a chance.

And now I’m so screwed up I can’t stand it. We did get out of the hotel for a long walk right after they gave us the keys to our room. It was a big long 10,000-step walk all around this area, on the east end of Hyde Park. It’s more than just a little kinda sorta posh around here, both in terms of the townhouses and the super-nice cars  parked on the curb. I saw more Rolls Royce, Buggatti, Range Rover, and BMW badges today than I’ve ever seen, and that includes Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive.

The hotel is nice (same place we stayed a year ago) and we got an upgrade to an “Executive Room. This is the view out our window.

As much as I’d like to keep this blog rolling, I’m going to have to figure out whether or not I can eat or if I have to take a power nap. I’m afraid if I fall asleep I’ll fall all the way asleep and then wake up at midnight. It’s 3:45 right now.

I’ll see you next week!  Time for some serious pillow time.

Bob Wilber, at your service in Jolly Old England.

Welcome back! I only had that brief chance to drop a “Happy Thanksgiving” note on you last week, so now we’re all back here in one place. At least for a while. We’re really traveling a ton these days, which is great because we’re seeing family and going to fun places, but it also really slows down my progress on the new book “How Far?” because there is so little time to sit quietly in my office and write. Today is Thursday Blog Day, so this takes precedence and hopefully I’ll finish the chapter I’m currently working on, when I carve out some time tomorrow.

We’d already gone to Cincinnati and gotten back home when I posted last week, so let’s tell a few of those tales, shall we? We went down to see nephew Colin who took a new job in Cincinnati and has an apartment there. He’s a great guy and we share a similar quirky sense of humor, so it’s always fun to see him. And it was great to see his new apartment. It’s in the city and just about a block away from a major street full of bistros, coffee shops, and bars. We walked all around and really loved it. Great vibe!

I hadn’t been to Cincinnati since probably 1994, if memory serves me. I remember thinking there was nothing really remarkable, good or bad, about the place but this trip was a very positive eye-opener. It seems like a great town, and the downtown urban scene is very vibrant. It’s also home to the renowned Cincinnati Zoo and that was one of our primary targets during our short visit. Barbara followed the adorable baby hippo Fiona, online, from right after she was born at the Cincinnati Zoo, and we were hoping to see her. Unfortunately, by the time we got there on Saturday afternoon she was no longer out and about in her outdoor area, and the public isn’t allowed inside to see her there. It was still a fun trip to what is obviously a great zoo. It was also their big holiday tree-lighting ceremony just after sunset, and that was pretty epic. They do it right!

I mentioned briefly last week that I had a ferris wheel story to tell. This is that story. Currently, there’s a big ferris wheel (it tours the country) on the riverfront in Cincinnati. We were downtown on Sunday to find a fun sports bar so Colin could watch his beloved Steelers play the Jaguars, but when we exited the parking garage we saw the ferris wheel and Barbara really wanted to ride on it. The line was short, so we bought tickets and got into one of the pods. It took a while to get to the top, as it usually does on a ferris wheel, because they had to fill the pods five at a time while rotating the big wheel. Finally, when all the new riders were in place (us included) it spun freely and we were surprised it went around four or five times before stopping again. When it did stop, our pod was one spot past the platform where you get off. That seemed odd.

We did the stop and go thing for another orbit, and then figured we’d get another few trips around the circle and we’d get off to go find that sports bar we were after in the first place. And as the wheel slowed to let people off, our pod went right past the departure point again. And again. And again. They kept skipping us! It was really getting frustrating, but worse than that it was really getting hot and stuffy in our little pod. It was about 50 degrees out, but the sun was shining and the little glass pod was heating up. I found a way to slide open some vents in the doors, but we were all sweaty and ready to get off the crazy thing. And then they skipped us again, and again, and you see where this is going.

We were all sure that each time it stopped to empty a set of pods that we’d be in the next group. It just never happened. Finally, Barbara had enough of the overwhelming fun and she pressed the “Emergency Call” button. When a voice was heard she said, “We’re in pod 12, and you’ve skipped us at least five times. We want off this thing, and we want off now!” When the wheel went around without stopping, she called again.

Finally, mercifully, they stopped the wheel with us in position to exit, and I’ll give them credit for having the manager of the touring ferris wheel meet us when we got out. He said “We thought we were right on target but somehow we got out of sequence. I’m so sorry we missed you for a while.”

Barb’s response was something along the lines of “Well, thank you for getting us off, but it was way more than just a while.” We were on that thing for an hour!!!

Man, it felt good just to get out of that little bubble and get some fresh air. We walked about a block and were on a street where we had multiple options for having some lunch, enjoying a drink, and watching the game. Colin had been to one of the sports bars before, and it was perfect in every way except the part about it being in Cincinnati while Colin is a lifelong Pittsburgh Steelers fan of the highest order. The Steelers may have been playing Jacksonville, but the Bengals were on most of the TVs and just about everyone in the bar was decked out in their Bengals gear. For the record, the Steelers and Bengals rivalry is on a par with Yankees – Red Sox but if anything maybe a little less civil (if that’s possible). Colin doesn’t back down, though, so he was proudly wearing a Steelers t-shirt that was actually aimed at Bengals fans, while in a rowdy room filled with 100 people wearing tiger stripes. Everyone was friendly, though, so it was all good. And we had a ton of fun. It was great to see Colin and stay with him in his great apartment. So glad we went.

We were only home a couple of days, though, because on Wednesday we flew down to Orlando for Thanksgiving. I need to start this part of the blog right at the most important part. Todd and Angie’s twin daughters are incredible, and so adorable. They are also not starved for stuffed animals and other toys, most of which are educational while also being fun. The only hitch for me is that Stassi (short for Anastasia) is terribly shy around me. Last year, when they came up to our place she finally warmed up enough to at least bat her eyes and flirt a little with a cute smile, but if I came too near she got nervous. The same thing happened last time we were in Orlando, when she really had a bad case of “the shy syndrome” and would cover her eyes if I so much as made eye contact.

That’s how it was for many hours after we arrived last week, with shy Stassi being the counterpoint to outgoing Bella (short for Arabella) who talks up a storm and laughs at everything. After many hours on our first day down there this time, out of the blue Stassi grabbed her favorite stuffed animal, a little puppy, and walked across the room to hand him to me. It was wonderful. Before long, both the girls were emptying the bin where the stuffed animals live and bringing them all to me, one after another. And then they joined me on my corner of the sofa.

I thought we were over the hump at that point, and we were for the rest of that day, but in the morning it was as if it hadn’t happened. The ice had to thaw all over again. And that’s how it played out every day we were there, until we left on Sunday.

Over an incredible feast on Thanksgiving, I made the comment “Did you all see the movie ‘Fifty First Dates’ with Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore? This thing with Stassi and me is like our own version of ‘Fifty First Dates.’ I need to make a video of her and me interacting so I can just show it to her every morning.”

If you haven’t seen the movie, Drew Barrymore plays a young woman who has brain damage from a car accident. The symptoms make it so that she never remembers anything that happened the day before when she wakes up in the morning, and her dad and brother go to extreme lengths to make every day seem like the same day, over and over. Adam Sandler falls in love with her, but each time they connect and it seems like he’s met the girl of his dreams, she has no idea who he is the next day.  In the end, he makes a video of the two of them having a great time together, obviously very much in love, and she watches it every morning to figure out who he is and why he’s with her. It was a good movie. Stassi and I need our own version.

For the Thanksgiving record, my contribution to the epic feast was the making of my new signature appetizer dish. I made salmon cakes, and every one of them was consumed ravenously. I do have to thank Angie, though, because without her getting up very early and baking the fresh salmon for me, we wouldn’t have had enough burners or stove space to all be in there together. All I had to do was take the two 8 oz. filets she baked and turn them into cakes. There’s actually a lot more to that than it sounds. Lots of ingredients to chop and mix in just the right order. Just before dinner, I put the cakes on the cooktop, made some Bearnaise sauce, and plated my delicacies. Yum.

The next big adventure in Orlando was really fun, and a little humorous for two Minnesotans. Whether it’s local Floridians or visitors from other places, there are a lot of people in Orlando who really don’t know what a serious winter is like. So, they create one! It’s called “Ice” and it fills a huge convention space at the Gaylord Palms Resort. Somehow, they use massive refrigeration units to get it down to just 9 degrees (yep, you read that right, they get it down to 9 degrees) and as you walk through the winding path you see fantastic ice sculptures. You’re basically surrounded by ice, and it’s legit cold in there. They provide everyone with a parka, but I was not totally understanding just how cold the place would be. Gloves would’ve been nice. Actually my hands only got cold at the end of the 20-minute stroll through the sculptures (the theme was the classic movie “A Christmas Story”). The Floridians? They were freezing, but the twins loved it. They slid down the ice slide over and over.

Everybody enjoyed that, and around 1:45 we needed to find a place for lunch because the girls were getting really hungry. The sports bar at the Gaylord was too crowded (no way we could wait 20 minutes for a table) so they called the big buffet restaurant for us and then told us “They said come on over. They have tables available.”

It’s not all that easy to even walk 200 feet with the twins (no strollers on this excursion) because they like to wander around and someone alway has to keep tabs on them. We managed to get over to the buffet only to find the doors closed. We couldn’t figure out how to get in, then Barbara noticed the sign that read “Lunch Served From 10:00 am to 2:00 pm.”  It was 2:05. What the heck…

A manager saw us and our frustrated faces and came to the door immediately, saying “We’re closed but we’re still serving and we’re actually waiting for your group. We have a table all set up.” That was nice of them.

Usually when you think of a buffet you envision stuff from a cheap casino. This place was actually stellar. Carving stations, fresh salads, fish, and all sorts of sides. We gorged and it was really great.

Some additional notes…

On the right are Gus and Gracie, two of the four cats who allow Todd, Angie, Stassi, and Bella to share their home. These two are incredibly lovable, and crave head and belly rubs. Very cool felines of the highest order, as is Cocoa the Siamese. Cheeto, the fourth cat, is friendly and fun too, but a little more shy than the other three. I had a riot with these guys. And yes, Gus and Gracie are both big kitties, and are actually litter mates. There’s a lot of hair involved with both of these two.

Bella and Stassi both love to dress up, and thanks to Angie, Kitty, and Barbara they are not at all in any danger of running out of cute costumes and outfits. They are HUGE Disney fans, and watch Disney Junior TV most of every day. I’ll admit I got a little hooked on it too. I think the girls have at least six Minnie Mouse stuffed animals. And they can name just about every character on the short movies they watch.

But what they really love are princesses. And since that’s pretty much what they are, they get to dress up as princesses a lot. So much so that everyone calls them “the Twincesses.” How adorable is this? Answer: 100 percent adorable.

One afternoon we went out to the backyard with some small rubber soccer balls, and Stassi showed me some great skills for a little player who is just a few months past her second birthday. She can run and dribble and kicks the ball really well. I kicked it around with her for a good 20 minutes, maybe more, and I think I had as much fun as she did. She’s definitely a little athlete.

Bella, on the other hand, seems not to care much for kicking soccer balls. She does like to swing on the swing set though, so we finished our time in the yard by having Barbara and me push them in their swings and the laughing never stopped. These two love to laugh. It was big fun.

So, in summary regarding our Orlando adventures, I ate too much, I fell in love with two Twincesses even if Stassi had to learn who I was all over again each day, we went to a make-believe winter wonderland that was legit winter in a hot place, we consumed mass quantities of leftovers, and we watched a lot of Disney TV. In other words, it was all good.

And one last story from the last two weeks. I met an astronaut! A real honest-to-goodness astronaut. Did we meet in Florida? Nope, we met in the Sky Club at MSP before we got on our plane to Cincinnati.

It was pretty crowded in the club and there was only one open seat at the dining bar inside the club, so I stood up and let Barbara have the seat as we munched on some food. I looked to my right and saw a well-built and handsome gentleman, and next to him on the bar was a ball cap that had “Endeavor – STS 113” embroidered on the front. That would be a Space Shuttle mission.

Being a bit bold, I asked him “Were you involved with the Shuttle program?”  He replied in the affirmative, so I said “What did you do for the mission?” and he said “I flew on it.” I’ve met a few astronauts in my life, but it’s always in a setting where they are guest speakers or VIP attendees. This was a first for me, and it was an honor.

His name is John Herrington. He’s a retired naval officer, and he flew in space. This is the backside of his ultra cool business card.

We talked for quite some time, and he was as gracious and forthcoming as anyone could be. He was scheduled to do a mission on the International Space Station, as well, but while in training over in Russia he found out he had a bit of osteoporosis and that got him scratched from the trip. Bone density would be pretty important for someone spending weeks or months in a weightless environment. He was definitely bummed he couldn’t make the trip.

So that was cool. The whole last two weeks have been cool. Now I need to crack my own whip and get this current chapter finished for “How Far?”

Our traveling adventures still have the two biggest trips yet to come. Next Wednesday we fly overnight from MSP to London Heathrow (with a layover in Detroit) and will return on Sunday. That’s just enough time for the jet lag to finally settle down before you turn around and fly back this way.

Then we’ll be home almost two weeks before we head west, first for the Kona side of the Big Island of Hawaii, and then over to see my wonderful sister Mary and her husband Lonnie, on Kauai. And Kitty gets to tag along on that trip. Much fun awaits.

So that’s it for this week. There were lots of tales to be told and I left out as much fun stuff as I wrote.

I you read this and liked it, please do the entire planet a favor by clicking on the “Like” button at the top. We’re saving the world, one “Like” at a time. OK, maybe that’s not true. But still…

See you next week!

Bob Wilber, at your service riding endless ferris wheels, hanging out with Twincesses, visiting a fake winter, and meeting an astronaut.

 

If a person can be, say, “a day late and a dollar short” could said person also be “a day early with a buck in the bank?” Just asking for a friend. No real blog this week, with Thanksgiving falling on Thursday Blog Day. Thanksgiving wins that tussle. Plus, Barbara and I are at MSP awaiting our flight down to Orlando. Hence, I’m posting this little “Thank You” a day early.

Next week, at our appointed date, I’ll have plenty of material to work with. We were in Cincinnati this past weekend and had a blast with nephew Colin. Wait until you hear the ferris wheel story! We’ll spend the next four days with Kitty, Todd, Angie, the twins Stassi and Bella, and other members of Angie’s clan. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about. Family, and thanks.

I have too much to be thankful for to even attempt a quick list. In terms of what I’m doing this precise second, putting fingers to the keyboard and watching words appear on the screen, all I can say is that “Thanks!” doesn’t come close to describing how I feel about 13 nonstop years of blogging, knowing how incredible and wonderful my reader base has been. And that morphed into “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” over the last couple of years. These days, the new book “How Far?” is well underway and the process is exhilarating, watching two characters I made up out of thin air come to life.

I’m not just thankful, I’m incredibly fortunate. Thank you all, for caring, and being there, and staying in touch, and appreciating the nonsense I produce. It’s an honor.

THANK YOU!!!   Have a wonderful Thanksgiving and a great week. See you next Thursday!

Bob Wilber, at your service and humbled by all that’s happened.

It’s always a challenge to sit down on a Thursday and come up with 2,000 or more semi-coherent words about something, when there’s really just random disconnected “somethings” to string together. So I ad-lib it. I just start writing in the hope that it will all magically come to me, and usually it does. We’re going to find out, once again, if that’s a winning proposition for this particular installment.

Let’s start out with something Barbara and I did over the past weekend. We love our new Alamo Drafthouse Cinema, here in Woodbury, and I probably love it just a little more than she does. Why? Because I’ve been anti-theater for decades. People can be so rude. And they’re noisy. They’re also inconsiderate. And, the joy of movie watching on the big screen is severely infected when they’re like that. Who raised these people?

The Alamo Drafthouse wins on a number of levels. 1) All the seats are recliners. 2) The serving staff brings food and drinks to you before and during the movie. 3) The food is great. 4) The seats are reserved, on your phone, so you pick where you want to sit and that’s where you go. 5) They make a big production out of the final thing they show before the movie begins. They change it up a little, to keep your attention, but basically it alerts patrons to turn off their phones, to keep conversation to a minimum, and then warns the audience that anyone annoying anyone else will get one warning. After that, you will be evicted from the theater with no refund. Guess what? It works. Despite the fact many people are eating and drinking, the place stays almost totally quiet. It has made movie going fun for me again. Plus the sound system in each theater (the place has seven or eight screens) is phenomenal.

I’ve had a theory for a long time about the human psychology of good behavior, and it stems from a flight I took many years ago, when I was traveling constantly when working for my brother Del’s sports marketing agency. I was at the gate waiting for my flight, and the inbound aircraft was delayed. The gate agent got on the P.A. and said something like this, in a stern and easy to understand voice: “Folks, this is how this is going to work. If you want to get back to Washington D.C. on time, you’re going to follow my instructions. If any of you don’t follow my instructions, you’ll all be late.” She then went on to tell everyone to stay seated, and don’t even think about all gathering around the door and the desk. When your rows are called (that’s how they did it back then, boarding by rows from the back of the plane forward) you can get up and proceed to the door. She was very clear about it, and although she wasn’t mean at all she made no attempt to be funny or nice, or the even worse “fake nice” and she got everyone’s attention. When it was time to board, she used the same voice and, amazingly, it worked. We boarded that plane in about 10 minutes. It can be done.

When some human beings are given the impression that instructions are really just guidelines, they tend to abuse the system. If the speaker’s voice is quiet, or disinterested, or hesitant, people don’t pay attention. I should be hired as a consultant by the airlines to teach the gate agents how to make everything go smoother. There’s nothing worse than when half the passengers crowd around the door as if they’re going to bum rush the agent when it’s time to board, while the other half sit in the gate area without listening to anything. Drives me nuts.

Alamo Drafthouse proves the theory works. The instructions are clear and forthright and people respect them. It’s a great experience. I’m actually willing to go to movies again!

And what made this weekend’s trip to the theater an even greater experience? We saw Bohemian Rhapsody and it was stunning, stellar, and incredible. On a 1 to 5-star rating system, I give it 10 stars!

To be fair, I was a fan of Freddie Mercury and Queen from the first time they were played on KSHE-95 in St. Louis, when I was in high school. The band blew me away. Barbara, on the other hand, knew a lot of their songs, mostly from the later years in their career when they were a little more radio friendly (also known as more pop rock than hard prog rock) but she loved the movie as much as I did.

In the spring of 1974, I had already bought the first Queen album and then Queen II, and my buddy Bob Mitchell and I were nuts about both of them. They were the kind of albums you’d buy on vinyl, and on 8-track, and on cassette, just to make sure you could listen just about anywhere you went.

Funny thing was, Queen didn’t come to the US until right after Queen II was released. Their first album sold OK, but it didn’t make them stars. Queen II hadn’t had time to sell much when the tour started, so the first time I saw Queen in concert (and I think I eventually saw them six times) they were actually the opening act for headliners Mott The Hoople, who had just scored a big hit with All The Young Dudes. I liked Mott The Hoople, and had that album too, so it was cool with me. That night, though, I knew exactly which of the two groups were going to become mega-stars. It wasn’t the one that had Ian Hunter as their front man, and that’s meant with a ton of respect toward the talented Ian Hunter. There was something very special about Queen. There was something mesmerizing about Freddie Mercury.

As for the movie, I can only tell you that my personal opinion is that it’s a masterpiece. I’ll watch it again. The attention to detail is staggering. The movie culminates with the final concert the band ever played, at Live Aid in London. Freddie was seriously ill by then, and had very little time left to live, but only a few insiders knew how bad it was. He, and the band, were allotted 20 minutes on stage at Wembley, as were the other performers, but it was the most incredible 20 minutes many people have ever witnessed. Multiple music critics have described it as the greatest rock music set ever played live, and I don’t dispute that. That Freddie could find the stamina and the energy to perform at that level is mind boggling.

For the film, they built a fully accurate recreation of the Live Aid stage at an old airfield in England. Every detail, from the basic lights, to the location of the instruments and amplifiers, or the photographers pit right at the foot of the stage, was made exactly as it was. The random Pepsi cups on the piano, along with the single plastic cup of beer, are just right. Watching the movie, I wasn’t thinking “Gosh these actors are doing a great job.” Instead, I felt like I was watching Freddie Mercury, Brian May, John Deacon, and Roger Taylor at Live Aid. The computer generated 100,000+ crowd and Wembley Stadium were both perfect, as well. Throughout the movie I felt like I’d been transported back in time to hang out with Queen throughout their career. It was that good. Fabulous acting, a touching story (bring Kleenex), great music, and plenty of drama to go around. Loved it.

OK, next subject. Last Friday our front yard looked like this. We got our first real substantial “plowable” snowfall of the season. It’s a good thing I had put my snow marker sticks in the ground the day before. The storm kind of sneaked up on everyone a bit, because there wasn’t much of a forecast for it and early November is still typically not the time for this sort of thing. So, even the crack Woodbury plow crews were a little late and it took a while for them to clear all the streets. You can see they hadn’t gotten to our street yet, in the photo.

And speaking of snow sticks, there’s a bit of a rub there too. Our HOA hires a contractor to plow the snow and cut the grass in our neighborhood. They like to put in their own snow sticks, but they’re just little 18-inch plastic straws. Last winter, their little red straws lasted about three plowable snowfalls. Their own plowing crew couldn’t seem to avoid them, and once it’s really winter and they knock down the little straws, you have a zero percent chance of getting them in the ground again. So, I say “the heck with you guys” and put my standard 36-inch sticks along the edges of the driveway and sidewalk. That’s showing ’em, right?  Of course, they also have a 2-inch rule before they plow, so I’ll still have plenty of opportunities to push the snow around with my big scraper. I’m sure the contractor’s idea of a perfect winter is one with nothing but an endless string of 1-inch snowfalls.

The beauty of this time of year, though, is that today it looks like this outside. We’ll hit 45 today, and were over 40 yesterday, after having been in the teens and 20s the last week, even hitting single digits a couple of nights.

If the storm caught the city and its residents a bit by surprise, the legit cold snap did too, and I was one of the Woodbury residents to be caught off guard. There are a number of things to do before the snow starts to fall and the temperature drops, and I was paying the price yesterday for not being prepared.

We live in a rather wet part of town, in terms of the soil, and every house in our neighborhood has a sump pump. We had one at our previous Woodbury house but it never ran once in the 10 years we lived there. In this house, if it rains our pump might go off every 10 minutes. I have a hose connected to it, and that hose runs along the side of the house to where one of our gutter downspouts goes directly into a collection box. The hose does that too. From the box, there’s a drain line that runs underground straight out to the middle of our backyard, where it empties into another drain line that runs straight south to a retention pond. It’s a flawless system from spring through fall, and it fixed a real moisture problem with our yard, but in the winter there’s a problem I learned the hard way a few years ago.

When it gets well below freezing, the collection box can freeze solid and that means the water stops flowing. After that, every time the pump activates the water starts to back up inside the hose until it finally backs up all the way to where the sump pump’s PVC pipe comes out of the foundation. That’s not a good thing. The last couple of days, it sounded like the furnace was acting up and it was really loud. Finally, yesterday I was just about to call our heating and air conditioning company, but when I went into the utility room I noticed that the furnace sounded fine when I stood next to it. The sound was coming from the pump. I unplugged it and everything went quiet. I knew what the deal was.

I went around to the side of the house and sure enough the black hose from the pump was frozen. I took off the metal hose clamp (which fell apart in my hand because it was rusted out) and the ice went all the way back into PVC. It must’ve gone quite a ways back too, because I couldn’t get to the back edge of it with any drill bit I had. Once I got about four inches of ice out, with a bit, a screwdriver, and the time-to-time use of a hammer, I was about to give up. But then I figured hot water was my friend, since it was up to 40 at the time. I filled a squeeze bottle full of scalding hot water and emptied it into the PVC pipe five or six times. Then I dashed out to Home Depot to buy a new clamp. When I got back, I put my winter hose set-up on and clamped it down with the new piece. When I plugged the pump back in, it worked right away.

The winter set-up is a much shorter hose that does not empty into the collection box. It just runs down onto the river rocks we have along the side of the house, near the hot tub, and with a couple of pin holes right near the top of the hose, it doesn’t back up. So now we’re good to go. Every year I’m reminded of how much you have to be on your toes if you live this far north.

Next subject, and then I’ll wrap this up.

We have plenty of travel plans in our immediate future. Keep the word “plans” in mind, however, because that’s kind of how things have to go. We’re usually prepared to be flexible. First up is a quick overnight trip to Cincinnati this Saturday and Sunday, to see Barbara’s nephew Colin. If you read “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” you’ll remember that Colin was my intern at a couple of races when he was still in college. Great kid, who really isn’t a kid anymore. He took a new job in Cincinnati so we want to get down there to see him.

Next up would be Thanksgiving in Orlando, with Barb’s sister Kitty, nephew Todd, his wife Angie, and their two incredibly adorable twin daughters. With Kitty and Angie in the kitchen, we will eat like royalty. I’m planning on contributing some scratch-made salmon cakes for the feast.

Next on the agenda is London. Barbara has to be there for business so I’m going to tag along for a few days. This one would be the most apt to change, since it’s based on her business agenda and if that gets altered we might not go or we might reschedule it. I hope it all goes according to plan. I love London! And with her meetings, I’ll be on my own the first full day we’re there. I’m sure I can find plenty to do, and I’ll burn up another prepaid fare card for The Tube without any problem.

After that, we have plans in place for Hawaii over Christmas. The first four nights are set for the Lava Lava Beach Club on the Big Island, and our reservation has us staying in the same private beach cottage we had last year. Then we head over to Kauai for another four days, to see my sister Mary and her husband Lonnie again. To make it all the more fun, Kitty is coming with us. She’s a great travel partner and she’s a lot of fun, so that should make it a very special trip for me and Barbara, who loves traveling with her sister.

All of that should happen. I hope so, anyway. By the time it’s all over in a frantic sort of way, it will be New Year’s Eve. Time is flying by…

I leave you with this Buster portrait, because why not? He’s such a sweet boy. Today he’s right by my side down here in my office. Twice he’s tried to get between me and my laptop (which is on my lap because I’m not at my desk) but now he’s accepted the fact that sitting next to me on the ottoman, watching the leaves blow around on the patio while the occasional scampering squirrel keeps him entertained and crouched low, is how this has to go.

So that’s it for today. More nonsense than you needed, more info on movies and bands than you asked for, and everything you need to know about snow sticks, sump pumps, and snow scrapers in case you want to move to The Land of 10,000 Lakes.

Finally, big congratulations to all the NHRA champions crowned out in Pomona this past weekend, but I send a slightly larger salute to J.R. Todd on his Funny Car championship. I’ve known J.R. for a long time, and many people don’t remember or never knew that he worked on Team CSK for a while, before he became a successful, famous, and popular driver. Congrats, buddy! Well earned.

As always, if you read all this and got this far without totally disliking it all, I hope you’ll click on the “Like” button at the top. Or, as that one gate agent so effectively put it, “Folks, this is how this is going to work…”

See ya next week.

Bob Wilber, at your service and listening for the sump pump.

 

Right about now, many of my friends and colleagues are gathering in a place far from here. They’re in Pomona, where unlike Minnesota it most likely did not snow yesterday and they didn’t have a hard freeze last night. I’m not there, and that’s more melancholy than I expected it to be. I could’ve gone, and in Vegas I heard the “Will you be in Pomona?” question a lot, but it’s an expensive race to get to and at some point you just have to say no to spending that much money when you’re not going there to work. Especially after having done just that when I went to Las Vegas.

So, with that in mind I think today I’m just going to ramble about a lot of Pomona memories from over the years, and I’ll sprinkle in various photos from 2010 through 2015. Why those years? Because that was the range of time during which I was regularly shooting photos with my Nikon, and downloading them into iPhoto on my laptop. Prior to 2010, I shot a lot of pics with various other cameras but most of those photos are on thumb drives or memory cards and it could take me all day to go through those. Some are still in a stack of floppy discs, from back in the early CSK days, and I don’t even have a way to get to those anymore. So the Nikon years it shall be.

I was shooting with the Nikon right up through the Finals in 2015. That would’ve been my last race as a professional PR guy prior to me becoming an amateur author. Since these photos don’t have to be in any chronological order, I shall begin with the last one. I didn’t take this, obviously. I think Marc Gewertz from National Dragster took it, as I stared down track after Wilk smoked the tires in round one on the season’s last Sunday. I think the look tells it all.

My first Pomona experience was documented in “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” to some degree. It was the Winternationals in 1992 (I think. It was a long time ago) and I went out to the race to interview with NHRA about joining their Media Relations staff, after my year at Heartland Park Topeka. I helped out writing notes throughout the race, and actually got paid to do that, and I wrote a couple of press releases as well. It sounded like a great opportunity but it didn’t address the one thing I wanted to do most. I wanted to get back to working for a team, and winning or losing as a team. Working for the organization wouldn’t be a lot different than working for the track. I decided not to do it. The price of housing in that part of SoCal played a part in the decision, too.

Just a few months later, I’d be back for the Finals. I was, by then, working for the guy in New Jersey who represented Chuck Etchells. On Sunday, we won the race. I thought it must be easy, and I remember thinking the Winner’s Circle photos were no big deal. I had a lot to learn, clearly.

I went to the Winternationals and the Finals in 1993 and the Winternationals in 1994, before taking the job as GM for the Kansas City Attack. While in Kansas City, I was too busy with the indoor soccer team to attend the ’94 Finals or the ’95 Winters or Finals. In 1996, I joined Whit Bazemore and the consecutive streak of Pomona visits began. From the 1996 Winternationals to the 2015 Finals I never missed a trip to Pomona. That’s two races a year for 20 years plus the one year we had a midsummer race there too. Add in the 2017 Finals, the last race I attended to sell and promote the book, and I think that all adds up to 46 races at the venerable facility, but math is not my strong suit.

I’ve had lots of highly valued guests in attendance with me over the years. Nieces, nephews, friends, and celebrities. Both annual races are always fun, but it’s the Finals weekend that is in a league of its own. Championships are decided, parties are included, and goodbyes are exchanged. And then there’s the banquet. My first one of those was back in ’92 with the Etchells team. It was at the Red Lion Hotel by the Ontario airport. Since then, we’ve celebrated at the Cerritos Center for the Performing Arts, Universal Studios, the Kodak Theater, a big hotel on Avenue of the Stars in Century City (Century Plaza?). and the ballroom at Hollywood and Highland, where you might just be able to see the HOLLYWOOD sign from your room.

There was 2001, when Del Worsham lined up against Whit Bazemore in the final round of the Finals, and the CSK car smoked the tires at the hit. We were all crestfallen for a second or two, but then we noticed that Bazemore had fouled. It was a weird way to win a race, but not the weirdest. Also at the Finals, in 2003, Del won in about as crazy a way as you can. Running our teammate Cory Lee, who was driving the Artisan Entertainment car, Del fouled at the start. We were all pretty dejected when that big red light was staring at us, but then Cory crossed the centerline. He could’ve coasted to his first career Wally, but he didn’t realize Del had red lit and he let the car get away from him. We stood at the starting line for what seemed like 10 minutes but was probably just 20 or 30 seconds, until the announcement was made official. Del had won. It was nuts.

There was the Winternationals in 2010, when my NHL hockey buddy Jeff Finger came to the race. How did he do that in February, when the NHL season is in full swing? Well, the Winter Olympics were that month in Vancouver, and since NHL players were allowed to play the NHL took a hiatus right in the middle of the season. Jeff loved NHRA enough to fly out for the race. He was playing for the Toronto Maple Leafs then.

MegaRita was a big part of our annual Worsham Racing pit parties at the Finals. Over the years, the party got so big and so close to out-of-hand we finally had to make it invitation only and put up fences, and we asked the biggest and strongest guys to wear bright yellow shirts that said SECURITY on the front and back. Still, making about 12 gallons of margaritas with a full Nitro motor was always a crazy way to cap off the season. And I don’t seem to have any photos of it, because they would be on one of those floppy discs. That’s too bad. Maybe some day I’ll find a way to save all those old digital pics. Plus, my scanner is nonfunctional so I can’t even scan old prints right now. These days, printer/scanner/copier machines are so cheap they’re almost throw away pieces, and the scanner function always seems to be the first to go. They sell them to you cheap so they can make a huge margin on all the ink cartridges you’re going to burn through.

There was the Finals in 2010 when the LRS Funny Car suffered a major engine explosion and was burned beyond use. The weird thing was we didn’t have a backup body in the LRS colors because we had run a special edition Summit Racing Equipment body in Vegas. It was a beautiful body, with super-cool airbrush art on it, but all the vinyl was Summit.

It happened during the Friday Q2 qualifying run and somehow John Fink and I found a vinyl shop out in Ontario that was still open. And somehow we managed to get our vinyl guy back in Springfield, Illinois to email the digitized Levi, Ray, & Shoup artwork to them. Then the guys at the vinyl place worked late and stayed open until John and I could drive over there.

We stripped the Summit logos off that body (good thing they weren’t painted on) and got to work creating a new LRS car.

We were pretty darn proud of ourselves over the whole escapade. Just finding a vinyl shop at that time of the evening seemed impossible enough. Getting it all printed and stuck on the car was magic. I’m not sure how we managed to make it look as good as it did.

It was a lot of work for a car that lost in the first round, but it was an accomplishment for the Finkster and yours truly. It ended up being a really beautiful car.

Typically, the weather for either race in Pomona can range from “not bad” all the way to “awesome.” But, over the decades we’ve dealt with rain, hail, fog, snow up in the mountains, and even some nearby wild fires that made the sky glow red. The rain would often be of the strange variety. We’ve been rained out when the drops were so sparse and so small they didn’t even appear on radar. We once lost a key qualifying run when Wilk was trying to bump into the field in 2009 at the Winternationals, which was my first race with Team Wilkerson. It rained us out of Friday and then Saturday looked fantastic. We weren’t in the field going into Q4 under blue skies, and then one renegade dark cloud rolled in and parked itself right over the track. It just stopped. And then it dumped a big shower on us and the session never happened. There’s something about Pomona that can provide you some seriously goofy weather.

It’s a truly historic place. It’s the kickoff and the final whistle of every season. It’s SoCal at its most SoCal. It’s avid fans who haven’t missed a race in more than 20 years. It’s Pomona. And I’m not there. I hope my PR and racing colleagues have a wonderful and safe Auto Club Finals, and congratulations in advance to all the World Champions. And then enjoy the dress-up party on Monday night in Hollywood. I’ll be looking for photos.

This was a quick blog today, but I’m really into the writing process for my upcoming fictional book “How Far?” and want to get back into that. I’m starting Chapter 8 as soon as I post this blog. It’s coming along great!

As always, if you just read this rambling blog about Pomona, and you kinda sorta maybe liked it, please click on the “Like” button at the top. Thank you!

See you next week, blog nation.

Bob Wilber, at your service and typing as quickly as I can while NOT in Pomona.

It seems like I haven’t been very busy lately, because I’ve had to dip into the “Blog About Nothing” well a few too many times. This installment will be different. I’ve actually been on the go pretty much nonstop since last Thursday, and there’s a lot of good material to cover. “But what’s the challenge in that?” Right? It’s fun to write about great stuff that just happened, but sometimes it’s as much fun to come up with 2,200 words about absolutely nothing. Very Seinfeldian, you might say.

Anyway, on Friday I had an 11:00 flight out to Las Vegas and that was an odd enough thing to kick the weekend off. I have gone to a few races, in recent years, where I never made it out to the track until Saturday, but it still feels enormously odd. In 2017, when I spent the second half of the NHRA season doing publicity work for “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” I’d only go to the track on Saturday, and I’d try to maximize my time signing books, chatting with fans, or talking with Alan Reinhart on the P.A. This year, I went to a few races for Del Worsham, to help him out with some social media and PR, and I felt like I needed to be there all three days but it would be OK if I got there on Friday and went straight to the track, at least getting there in time for the night session. After 20+ years of flying out on Thursday and back on Monday it all seemed a little off. With Vegas now going with a new and kind of odd “early schedule” in terms of Friday qualifying, I wouldn’t be able to get to the track until they were done.

This time, I’d be hanging with the Wilkersons again, since Del wasn’t racing. I did get to see him, and we had a great long chat. I also had to return a parking pass he’d loaned me for the Brainerd race. That was important, because Pomona is the only race left this year and that’s his home track. There aren’t enough parking passes in captivity for Del when either Pomona race rolls around. He was in Vegas helping out as a new set of eyes on Shawn Langdon’s car, for the Kalitta group, and I don’t think there’s any doubt he helped them. They ran pretty darn well after struggling at a few events.

Before that, though, I had to pick up my rental car around 2:00 at the Las Vegas airport, and then drive up to North Las Vegas to get to my hotel. It seemed like the drive up I-15 was as long as the flight. It wasn’t, but it sure seemed that way. Traffic in Vegas appears to be a 24-hours-per-day thing, and it’s usually not a good thing.

And, the place I was staying was also a first for me. I’ve been going to Las Vegas for close to 30 years. My first trip to Sin City was in 1990, when I was working for Converse Shoes, but that initial trip was actually not Converse related. My buddy Pete Delkus was in Triple-A then, in the Twins organization, and his Portland team was in Vegas playing a series against the then Las Vegas Stars, who were the Triple-A team for the San Diego Padres that year. I wanted to see him, so I made the short flight over from Orange County where I was living then, but he never got into the one game I was able to see.

The Portland team was staying in downtown Vegas, near Fremont Street, for that series because the ballpark is just north of there. So, I got a room in the same hotel they were in. It was the Las Vegas Club Hotel and Casino. It seemed like it was 1960 in there. A total throwback. After that, when I’d go to Vegas to call on various coaches at UNLV, I’d stay at the old Imperial Palace on The Strip. It only seemed like about 1965 in there.

The point here is that I’ve always stayed in hotels that had casinos. Whether it was the Imperial Palace, the Monte Carlo, Caesar’s Palace, the MGM Grand, Mandalay Bay, The Cannery, Luxor, New York – New York, or the JW Marriott, there was always a casino. And that wasn’t necessarily an awful thing. Over the decades I’ve been pretty lucky on the slots. This time, though, I just got a room at the Springhill Suites on Craig Road. No casino attached. It was a very nice place, very convenient in terms of getting to the track and back, and I spent zero dollars on any machines. As a bonus, In-N-Out was directly across the street. After I got in and got settled, it was a Double-Double, fries well done, and I even broke with all tradition by having a few gulps of a chocolate shake. Let me say for the record that I absolutely demolished that Double-Double. It never stood a chance.

Being out at the track was pretty wonderful, and getting to spend two days with Team Wilk was fantastic. It was really great to hang out with them and feel “home” for a couple of days. The weather was also incredible. Warm without being hot, and calm breezes instead of the howling winds we often get out there.

I usually stress a bit when I go to a races these days, not being sure who will remember me or who never heard of me in the first place. The Media Center is populated by a lot of people who always seem to be around, especially in terms of the reporters who cover the sport, but the PR group does go through some flux on a regular basis. Just this year, two of my favorite PR reps took new jobs. Cody Poor, who worked for Kalitta, and Leah Vaughn who worked for DSR. I’ve known Leah since she was aspiring to somehow land an internship to get her foot in the door right out of college. She turned into one of the best PR reps in the business, and Cody was universally considered one of the hardest working people in the sport. He was tireless in his efforts to get the Kalitta team as much creative publicity as possible. I miss them both. They’re both great people and a ton of fun to work with.

But, all was not lost. Many of my other favorite colleagues were thankfully still in the room. Those hugs are always a great way to fit back in, if only in a non-working way. I was just there to see everyone and have some fun. Great fun it was.

And, I got to go to the starting line with the LRS team and enjoy that fringe benefit as well. A good blast of Nitro is good for the sinuses. And actually, just getting out to Nevada was really good for me. I’ve been battling my allergies really hard for the last couple of years (it doesn’t help that I’m allergic to cats, but don’t even go there.) The ragweed and other pollen in Minnesota has been pretty rough lately and I’ve been kind of nonstop congested, often with watery eyes that are so bad it looks like I’m crying. It wasn’t until late on Sunday in Vegas that I noticed all my symptoms were either gone or barely noticeable. So it was a great trip in that regard. The desert helped me!

What also made it a great trip was the Hujabre family, who were all in attendance on Sunday. Buck and Mary seem to never change at all, while Gibson and Hudson continue to grow like weeds. We still make it a point to remind Gibson that he took his first steps at our former Woodbury home. We should ask the new owners to put a plaque in the living room, or something.

Mary brought along some fantastic bagels for us, and I had just loaded one up with cream cheese when someone said “Let’s do our group shot!” Perfect timing. At least it wasn’t in my mouth and I didn’t have a cream cheese mustache going.

It really was marvelous, stupendous, wonderful, and fantastic to get to spend a day with the team, my dear friend Krista, the Hujabre family, and everyone else who stopped by and spent some time with us. It seemed like the reunion meetings in the pits, in the lanes, and in the Media Center never ended. There was always someone saying hi with a friendly face, a firm handshake, or a sincere hug. I loved it.

And no, I did not go to In-N-Out three days in a row. It took an enormous amount of willpower, but I only went once. Instead, I went to a nearby grocery store and stocked up on things like granola bars, nuts, and crackers to soothe the longings for another Double-Double. And I ate well at the track, thanks to Krista Wilkerson and the catering in the Media Center.

Another huge highlight was this car. It’s pretty much like nothing you’ve ever seen before, and it seemed like there wasn’t a minute during the weekend when people weren’t crowding around it and taking photos. “What is that monster?” you say. Well, Wilk and Richard Hartman put this bad boy together. It’s one of Tim’s former Funny Cars with a fabricated sort of AA Fuel Altered body mounted on it. That’s a full standard Nitro Funny Car motor mounted in there.

It’s an exhibition car, really, since there basically isn’t a class for this combination to run in. They thought it would be fun, so they built it. They wanted to see what it would do, though, so they displayed it during the race but then ran it on Monday when a lot of other teams were testing. Richard got to drive it, which I know he enjoyed. I wasn’t there but I’ve seen the videos of a couple of the runs they made and this crazy thing hauled butt, firmly planted and pretty much right down the middle. They never planned to make a full run, and didn’t, but I know Tim and Richard were really happy with how it went. They weren’t sure what it would do, but they had an inkling it would run pretty well if the tune-up was right. It pretty much earned straight A’s for grades.

Vegas was all fun. I’m thrilled I spent the dough to go out there and see everyone.

On Monday, my flight was going to board around 1:30 so I couldn’t go out to the track to see the new creation run. When I factored in Las Vegas traffic with the typical long lines and congestion at McCarran Airport, I felt I should leave the hotel super early just to be safe. So, of course, the traffic wasn’t bad and now they’ve added a CLEAR lane at the TSA checkpoint so I sailed right through. That was OK by me. I’d rather be early than be totally stressed out and stuck in either traffic or a TSA line, or both. Plus, there’s an American Express Centurion Lounge out by the D gates, so I got to hang out there for a bit and have some early lunch.

I didn’t get home until pretty late Monday night, thanks to a flight that’s more than three hours and the loss of two time zones, and I’m not afraid to admit that I was totally exhausted. The hot tub played a role in our lives that evening, and then I slept like a brick.

On Tuesday I worked on the new book some more, going back and adding some new flavor to a few of the completed chapters. I think that’s going to be a common thing until I’m done. When you’re writing about fictional characters new ideas tend to pop into your head at any given moment. Then you think, “Oh no, it would be so much better if I had him do this, rather than that.” It’s called character development, and I’ve never really done it before.

The first things I wrote for the book were the studies for Brooks and Eric, the two main characters. I did long outlines about where they’re from, their families, how and where they grew up, their personalities, and the time lines for their lives. Even those studies were adjusted after they were done, and now that I’m writing I’m really “getting to know” these guys. It’s more than just a little exhilarating, to be honest. And with so many people asking me about it out in Vegas, it really got me fired up to get home and get back to work. My best conversation was with my friend Kelly Wade Topolinski, who is a brilliant writer who loves creating fictional characters. We were both so charged up talking about the process and the wonder of it all, it was hard to stop. But, she was out there working for Summit Racing Equipment and all their teams (including Wilk) and I was just there to be there. Good thing she was working, or we might still be going on and on about this stuff.

On Tuesday, Barbara had to leave work a little early and I had to shut the laptop down by 5:00, because we needed to be in downtown Minneapolis by 6:15 or 6:30 at the latest. For the second time, we were headed to the phenomenal Dakota Jazz Club for dinner and a show. A few weeks ago it was Livingston Taylor, and his style and presentation were really great for that small intimate venue. On Tuesday, its was going to be very different. I was 125% excited to see this show, while eating a wonderful steak and sipping some fine wine.

Remember Emerson, Lake, and Palmer? They were a huge and very successful band back when I was in high school and college, playing extraordinarily technical and complicated progressive rock. Sadly, Keith Emerson and Greg Lake both passed away in 2016, but Carl Palmer is still playing the drums. He calls this tour his Carl Palmer ELP Legacy tour. With him on stage are his amazing drums, and two other musicians.

Paul Bielatowicz is the guitarist on the left side of the stage, and Simon Fitzpatrick is the guy playing a very interesting instrument on the right. They are both nothing short of World Class. The interesting instrument is the Chapman Stick. It has 10 strings and can be made to sound like such a seemingly endless array of things it was mind boggling to watch Simon play it. His fingers were a blur and he powered all 10 of those strings.

And the show was made better by two things: 1) Carl Palmer came out from behind the kit after every song to tell us what the next song was about, or how it had been written, or how it impacted their careers as ELP, such as when he said “Without this next song, I wouldn’t be standing here. People like you made it our first real hit, and it changed our lives.” It was the ELP classic, “Lucky Man” and the crowd went crazy. 2) The crowd itself filled the venue, but we were literally right in front of the stage. We were no more than 20 feet from the drums, in a private booth. It was stunning, and the sound in there was absolutely perfect. It was loud and powerful without being too loud. The mix was right on, with the two amplified guitars perfectly matched with the acoustic drums. And other than a few sung vocals, it was all instrumental.

Barbara was never a big ELP fan, although she knew a lot of their songs. I don’t think she knew what to expect, and frankly I didn’t know what to expect either. What we both experienced was a musical masterpiece. It was incredible to hear this ridiculously complicated music played by three virtuoso artists, with such power and coordination, in a venue this small. Blown away doesn’t come close to describing it.

Early on, the look on Barb’s face when they got into their first flat-out riff, and then changed time signatures all at once to head off in another musical direction while all being within a micron of each other in terms of arrangement, was one of stunned amazement. She turned and look at me with eyes wide open, just kind of shaking her head while saying “WOW” but I was just as busy doing the same thing.

I’ve seen a ton of amazing concerts through the years. I’m officially labeled a “music freak.” I’d alway considered concerts by Genesis, Supertramp, The Who, Yes, and (of course) Rush to be at the top of my very long list of “best ever” shows. I need to let this one digest for a bit, but it would not be out of the realm of real possibility that this would be in the Top 5. It might even be the best show I’ve ever seen. The players and the venue had everything to do with it, and with the place being so intimate we all got to meet Carl Palmer before heading home. A night I’ll never forget.

And that brings us all the way up to yesterday. At 12:30 I headed over to a local restaurant called the Tamarack Tap Room (because it’s part of the Tamarack Village shopping area on Tamarack Road) here in Woodbury, to meet a very important guy for lunch. A few minutes after I got there, former Roseau Ram and NHL star Paul Broten walked in. For more than 90 minutes we shared conversations about Roseau, hockey, the NHL, junior hockey, and other stories of his life as the youngest of the three Broten brothers. It was amazing. This whole last week has been amazing.

Paul is a great guy, so that really made it special. He was just as interested in me, and my life story, as vice versa, so the conversation never slowed down. Plus, he told me a number of great stories about what it was really like to grow up in Roseau, and what the winters were like up there. But, as he said, “We never really thought about it. You just dealt with it. It was home. It was a great way to grow up.”

This morning, I was looking back over the notes I’d scribbled and within an hour I’d gone back into Chapter 4 and added some the stories I’d just heard yesterday, thanks to Paul. They were so rich they had to be included, and as I write more about my Roseau character Eric, there are plenty more Broten stories to add. As a matter of pure coincidence, my character Eric is going to graduate from Roseau High in 1984. Paul Broten graduated from Roseau High in 1984. He got a huge kick out of the fact he’ll be a “teammate” of Eric’s in a fictional way.

We had a great time together, and I after lunch I presented him with a signed copy of “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts.” I think he’ll enjoy it. Today, his brothers Neal and Aaron are joining him for a trip back home. They’re headed to Roseau to see their parents, Newell and Carol, some friends who still live there, and to do some hunting. That last part is the most important, I think. The Broten boys out hunting back up by Roseau is about as rich as it gets. The last thing I told Paul was, “Tell your folks that crazy guy from Woodbury who is writing a book said hello.” That time I spent out on the Broten family porch was priceless. So was my lunch with Paul. We’ve already made plans to have dinner with our wives some night, when it works out for all of us.

So that’s 3,177 words right up until now. And the process of writing this flew by at warp speed. What a great week in my world. I can’t wait to keep cranking on the book. To that end, here’s something that’s been secret up until this moment. Only a few close confidants have heard the working title for the new book. And now here it is in writing.

It’s “How Far?”

When you read it, and I hope all of you will, that title will make sense about six different ways. I’ll just leave it at that, for now.

That’s all for this week. My fingers are tired!

As always, if you perused this string of sentences and thought it wasn’t too bad, please do me a favor and click on the “Like” button at the top. I’m trying to get into the “Like” Hall of Fame, Eastern Woodbury Division, Dancing Waters subsection.

Bob Wilber, at your service and still beaming about the week that just was.

 

 

Yes, I’ve watched the first two games of the World Series. No, I really don’t have a rooting interest, but that’s never mattered to me. Many times I have had one of “my teams” in the Series, but just as many times I haven’t and I’ve never willingly skipped a game. I’ve had to miss more than a few due to other obligations, but I’ve never once said “I’m not watching tonight” because I didn’t care to. I have many friends who are Dodger fans, and many (including my nephew Del III) who are diehard Red Sox fans. I’m a baseball fan. It’s in my blood.

I think the first World Series I was aware of and more or less cognizant of was 1963. That seems a little wrong to me, because I have a ridiculously good memory when it comes to such trivia, but I’ve researched the 1962 Series and none of it really rings a bell. In ’63 I would’ve been seven years old, so it sure seems like I would remember ’62 or even ’61, but I really don’t. And if I would’ve been paying attention and watching the 1960 Series, the way game seven ended would be seared into my memory. I only know what it looked like because I’ve seen the grainy black & white video a zillion times. Bill Mazeroski hit a walk-off for eternity and the Pittsburgh Pirates beat the Yankees 10-9. That’s one of the reasons Lance, Oscar, Radar and I visited the remaining piece of the old Forbes Field outfield wall when we were in Pittsburgh.

Here’s an interesting bit of trivia about the 1960 World Series. The Pirates won it four games to three, but in the seven games the Yankees outscored them 55-27. It doesn’t matter how many runs you score, it’s when you score them. And boy, the Yankees were dominant back then.

So, we’ll go with the story that ’63 was the first Series I was really mentally involved with. Part of that had to do with the fact the Cardinals (my home town team) were in the pennant race right until the end. They were eliminated so late we actually had a few 1963 World Series collector pins that had the Cardinal logo on them. The manufacturer tried to recall them all but somehow my parents got a few. At the age of seven, I just thought they were funny mistakes. And then I clearly remember the Dodgers sweeping the Yankees in four straight games. Sandy Koufax won games one and four, Johnny Podres and Don Drysdale won the other two. I remember feeling a bit cheated that the Series didn’t last longer. To this day, I want every Series to go seven, because after it’s over there’s no baseball until next spring, and it’s not even winter yet.

1964 was the big year for me. I remember the Series in great detail, and I’ll never forget game six. That was the first World Series game I attended in person. The Cardinals had the four home games, and our parents made sure my brother Rick, my sisters Cindy and Mary, and I each got to go to one game. My mom took me to game six. My oldest brother Del, who was already in college at Purdue, wasn’t home to get in on the fun.

When were kids we’d go to Cardinal games all the time, at what then was being called Busch Stadium after decades of being known as Sportsman’s Park. It was a cool old ballpark, and by the time Mary and I were seven or eight, they pretty much let us have the run of the place. Our regular seats were in the lower boxes, above the Cardinals’ dugout, but once we passed through the turnstiles Mom or Dad would say “Be back at our seats by the sixth inning.” We had a lot of fun.

For the World Series, however, tickets were at a premium and we were fortunate that the Cardinals gave us a pair of upper deck seats out near left field. I only ever sat in the upper deck there twice. Once for that game six and once on a field trip during summer day-camp. I remember Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris both hitting home runs (Joe Pepitone hit one too, but it was Maris and Mantle who had my attention) and the Yankees won. This great old photo shows Maris at the plate while Mantle kneels on deck. Our seats would’ve been right above the umpire’s head. I don’t recall being too upset about the fact the Cards lost that game. The next day, they won and I although I was at home listening on the radio, it was my first taste of a World Championship for my favorite team.

The next year was another big one. My dad worked for the Minnesota Twins throughout the 1960s, and they were very good for most of those years. There were especially good in 1965, and they played the Dodgers in the Series. I didn’t get to go to any of the games, but I watched all seven on our big living room TV set, with all of the games on NBC. Interestingly, NBC used Ray Scott (Twins announcer) and Vin Scully (Dodgers’ announcer) for the broadcasts. Both gentlemen had to be on their toes to at least sound impartial, but the good news was the two of them were very familiar with their teams. Sandy Koufax was the hero for L.A.

Jim Kaat was the ace for the Twins then, and the incomparable Koufax was the Dodgers’ star. Game one fell on Yom Kippur though, and Sandy sat it out to observe the holiday. The Twins started Mudcat Grant in game one, against Don Drysdale, and that matched up Koufax and Kaat for three of the seven games. Kaat won game two for the Twins, but Koufax out-dueled him in games five and seven. In that final game, both Koufax and Kaat were pitching on only two days rest. When game seven ended, I got to feel the other side of the equation, as compared to the year before. My team had lost. I honestly remember being crushed.

My mom worked for the Cardinals, in their front office, in 1967 and 1968. She must’ve been good luck. They played in both the ’67 and ’68 World Series, and were generally the best team in all of baseball. We had four box seats right behind home plate, and got to keep them for each Series. So, I saw all the home games in both years. And both years, with all the games being day games, the nuns at Mary Queen of Peace rolled big black & white TV sets into our classrooms so we could watch the games in Boston (’67) and Detroit (’68). The Cardinals won the ’67 World Series in seven, with the final game being at Fenway Park. As 11-year-olds we went crazy in our classroom.

That team featured many Cardinal legends, including Lou Brock, Bob Gibson, Tim McCarver, Curt Flood, Mike Shannon, and “Cha Cha” himself, Orlando Cepeda. Thanks to Cepeda, they were dubbed the El Birdos (despite the fact “birdos” is not real Spanish). It seemed like everyone in St. Louis had an El Birdo hat and button.

Sadly, I was also at game seven in 1968, at Busch. The Cardinals won three of the first four games and were dominating the Tigers. Gibson struck out 17 Tigers in game one and it really looked as if the Tigers were lucky to not strike out 27 times. They truly could hardly touch him.

When Bob Gibson was on, he was nearly untouchable. He was so good in 1968, Major League Baseball changed the rules starting in 1969. They lowered the pitching mound. In ’68, his stats were made up of numbers that seem utterly impossible today. They probably are impossible. He went 22 – 9 and he allowed only an otherworldly 1.12 earned runs per game. But those major stats don’t tell the whole story. Throughout the ’68 season Gibby pitched 28 complete games, out of the 33 he started. 13 of his wins were shutouts. He was pinch-hit for a few times, but he was never replaced by another pitcher or a reliever all year because the manager wanted someone else on the mound. Not once, all year. He was incredible.

He was also incredibly intimidating on the mound. He’d buzz one under your chin as a matter of normal operations, just letting you know who was in charge. He was “scary good” all year.

In game seven, though, the Tigers completed their comeback from being down three games to one, and I was in my mom’s office when it ended. I saw grown men scream and cry when the final out was made. I’d never seen that before. I didn’t like it one bit.

The 1969 World Series was memorable, as well, thanks to the Miracle Mets who went from being the worst team in baseball for a decade before going all the way to the mountain top. I think the nuns were just expecting another Cardinal pennant that year, but when it didn’t happen we all seemed to adopt the Mets. They brought the big TVs into our rooms for the whole series. I remember that so vividly, the way they’d turn off the lights and close the blinds. Then we’d all sit there and watch every inning of every game. For three straight years. And we were happy the Mets won. It was a great story.

I watched every year, but the next Series that really grabbed me was actually three World Series in a row, when the Oakland A’s beat the Reds, the Mets, and the Dodgers in 1972, ’73, and ’74. I thought the A’s were cool, with their mustaches and wild uniforms. I never dreamt I’d wear that uniform one day.

Then there was the fall of 1975. We were sophomores in college, living in our SIUE apartment, and Steve Novak, Kent “Cornpone” Wells, Tom Hill and I watched all seven games. It was game six when baseball was handed one of its greatest games of all time. The scoring went back and forth until the 12th inning, and that’s when Carlton Fisk hit the home run that established forever one of the greatest moments in baseball history. We were watching on TV when he did it, and couldn’t believe what we were seeing, when he leaped out of the batter’s box to “wave” the ball fair in Fenway Park.

A lot of people don’t remember that the Reds then bounced back and won game seven the next night. The Fisk home run kind of overshadowed that.

The next number of years were fun to watch, but I didn’t have much of a rooting interest. I think my favorite of that era in the late 70s and early 80s had to be the Pittsburgh Pirates “We Are Family” team in 1979, with their goofy hats and garish uniforms. Willie Stargell, Kent Tekulve, and the rest of that cast of total characters were easy to root for. I was happy they won it.

In 1981, I was living in California working for the Blue Jays when Toronto GM Pat Gillick surprised me by inviting me down to L.A. to watch games three, four, and five with the Dodgers hosting the Yankees. I wrote about that week extensively and in great detail in Bats, Balls, & Burnouts and it’s still fun to remember that World Series. Riding back to the Hyatt with Yogi Berra next to me one night, telling me Del Wilber stories, was only one of many highlights.

Then came 1982. I was still working for the Blue Jays, but by September it was pretty obvious the Cardinals were very good again, and I was living back home in St. Louis by then. The Jays were incredibly gracious enough to provide me 12 tickets for all four home games at Busch Stadium, including two right behind home plate in the box seats. I watched every minute of the games from Milwaukee on television. Ozzie Smith, Willie McGee, Keith Hernandez, George Hendrick, Darrell Porter, Bruce Sutter and all the rest were easy for a St. Louis boy to root for.

As I also detailed in Bats, Balls, & Burnouts there was an upside and downside to the two tickets right behind home. I was surrounded by executives, managers, and scouts for just about every other team in MLB. They were there to see the games but also to represent their clubs, and I was there as an official representative of the Blue Jays. So…  Despite my deeply held rooting interest, I couldn’t cheer. I couldn’t even clap. It was very difficult to restrain myself, but fortunately by the end of game seven, when Bruce Sutter struck out Gorman Thomas and catcher Darrell Porter leaped into Sutter’s arms, all the other baseball men had left to beat the traffic. Oscar and I made up for all the innings of having to be quiet.

In 1985, we had the I-70 Series, as the Cardinals faced the Royals. I had been away from the Blue Jays for a couple of years and was working for Converse Shoes at the time, but GM Pat Gillick in Toronto was once again beyond gracious. He got me two tickets for all the games, in St. Louis and Kansas City. That would make 1985 the only Series I’ve seen in its entirety.

Of course, it was a tough one for any Cardinal fan. The Redbirds won the first two games, in Kansas City, and we thought they were rolling. The Royals came back to win game three at Busch, but when the Cardinals again bounced back to win game four they were up three games to one. We all know what happened, and the missed call that was a central part of the Royals winning the last three.

In game six, neither team scored until the Cardinals got a run across in the top of the eighth. Cardinals closer Todd Worrell was on the mound in the bottom of the ninth. When a ground ball was hit to Jack Clark at first, his toss to Worrell as he covered the base was a little off the mark. Replays showed Worrell did keep his foot on the bag, but umpire Don Denkinger call Jorge Orta safe. There was no replay rule then, so even though all of America saw the mistake, Denkinger would not change his ruling. The Royals scored two to win the game and then blew out the Cards in game seven. I still feel sick about that one.

Two years later, the Cardinals were back in the Series again, but I was living in Reston, Virginia working for my brother Del’s agency, DelWilber+Associates. The Cardinals would take on the Minnesota Twins. I still followed the Twins but I’d never set foot in the Metrodome at that point. What everyone learned that fall was just how loud the Dome could be with all those screaming Twins fans going nuts, waving their Homer Hankies.

So loud that all seven games were won by the home team. What was bad for Cardinal fans was the fact the Twins had four home games and the Cardinals played at Busch for three. My gosh I thought I was going deaf just watching on TV. It was incredible.

I remember being a little detached that year, because I was living in DC and I hadn’t been able to follow the Cardinals that much. Plus, I liked the Twins anyway and had scouted Kent Hrbek when he was dominating Class A minor league ball in the California League. I didn’t really have any reason to root against them, but I think I agreed with many St. Louisans when I thought the home field advantage with all that noise seemed almost unfair.

Of course, once we moved to the Twin Cities I saw it as a perfectly fine thing. We did our share of screaming in the Metrodome and let me tell you, it really was loud. Painfully loud. Easily as loud as being in the front row at a Led Zeppelin concert.

And the Metrodome… Was it a dump? It was, but it was our dump so don’t put it down. And it had the great advantage of providing us a near guarantee that we’d see baseball whenever we went down there. The Vikings didn’t quite get that guarantee the time the roof caved in, but we watched Twins games in thunderstorms and blizzards, dry and warm as could be. Yeah, it stunk when it was 80 and beautiful in July and we had to enter through the airlocks to go inside, but it was still our dump.

Over the intervening years I’ve watched them all. There was 2002 when the Angels won over the Giants and we were at a big dinner in Las Vegas with all the Team CSK guys and a bunch of our sponsors from Checker, Schuck’s, Kragen during game seven. Del Worsham and I got up from our huge table at Smith & Wollensky to watch the ending of that game on TV in the bar. When the Angels won, Del was as giddy as I’d ever seen him for something not drag racing related.

And in 2004 the Cardinals were swept in four games, but it almost didn’t bother me. I hadn’t lived in St. Louis for 10 years by then, and like the rest of the country I was enamored with the Red Sox, when they kept refusing to lose to the Yankees in the ALCS. It was amazing to watch that series, and the World Series seemed pretty much anticlimactic.

There was 2011, when the Cardinals were facing the Rangers and I was at dinner in the Mandalay Bay resort with Tim and Krista Wilkerson. Tim kept going out to the bar to check the score and it was obvious the Rangers were pounding them. And then the Cards mounted a ridiculous and ridiculously tense comeback. David Freese doesn’t play for the Cardinals anymore, but he’ll never be forgotten for that game six when the Cardinals blew my mind by coming back after being behind in both the ninth and the tenth innings. I had time to get back to my room and watch the whole thing unfold, trading texts and emails with my brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews throughout it. We all still have Cardinal DNA.

I’ll be watching again tomorrow night when the Dodgers try to break through for their first win in this 2018 World Series, against those same pesky Red Sox. And coincidentally, David Freese plays for the Dodgers. Maybe he can be a World Series hero again. I’ll be watching.

Because it’s the World Series. The Fall Classic. It’s in my blood and it’s in my DNA. I can’t help it.

Thanks for reading, And, as always, if you read this and liked it, please click on the “Like” button at the top.

See you next week!

Bob Wilber, at your service and a World Series guy since I was a kid.