1972-1974 Connecticut: Sports

Posted on January 15, 2021 by Mike

Athletic activities in the Hartford area: basketball, golf, etc. Continue reading →

Swimming: The apartment building in which I lived in East Hartford had an outdoor swimming pool. I brought a bathing suit with me to Connecticut, and I spent some pleasurable hours sitting next to the pool. I may have also entered the water for short periods once or twice.

Basketball: Tom Herget and Tom Corcoran had discovered that pickup basketball games were often held on the asphalt court near Batchelder School. After I had been working for a week or so, they invited me to join them. At first I demurred, but Herget was very good at shaming people into joining the fun. A bunch of us played there on a regular basis.

Batchelder School still exists, but the basketball court seems to be gone.

It was a good court. We played a full-court game without a ref. The court was neither as long nor as wide as a regulation court, but it was quite adequate for a three-on-three or four-on-four game. The rims were regulation-height and quite sturdy.

Sometimes so many guys were there that we had two one-basket games. As often as we could, we played full-court.

Guys would come and go. The teams were fluid. I think that we kept score, but no one cared who won. There were arguments about fouls, of course, but I can’t remember anyone getting upset enough to do anything about it.

I can’t remember the names of any of the players except for people from the Hartford. Here are my most vivid recollections:

A guy who played with us all the time had a unique shot. He was only 5’8″ or so, and he was not very mobile. If he got open, however, he would quickly bring the ball up over his head and launch a shot with virtually no arc that just cleared the front of the rim. When the ball made contact with the back of the rim it almost always dove straight down into the net. This was due to the fact that he somehow imparted an enormous amount of backspin to his shot. I was a great admirer of his shot; my attempts to emulate it were failures.
Herget also had a devilish shot. He liked to drive right into an opponent’s chest and then scoop the ball underhand toward the basket behind the opponent’s back. He beat me with this maneuver many times even after Tom Corcoran showed me how to defend it—by keeping one’s own arms down and once he started the scoop just placing the hand on that side on top of the ball. Herget usually passed the ball away if Corcoran was guarding him.
A couple of times an Emergency Medical Technician played with us a few times while he was on duty. He parked his vehicle near the court and left the radio on. I don’t think that he ever got any calls while he was playing. I wonder what he would have been doing if he wasn’t playing with us.
I remember one magical day in 1974 when, for some strange reason, I could do no wrong on the court. On most days I missed three or four shots for every one that I made, but on the magical day my shooting percentage was certainly in the eighties or nineties. I got several rebounds and made some good defensive plays, too. It never happened again.
Several times opponents—to their regret—brushed up against my very sharp elbows or knees. Once a guy’s thigh hit my knee harder than usual. I barely felt it, but he stopped playing and, as I recall, just limped to his car and drove home.
One day in late May or June of 1974 we were playing a full-court game. I had the ball, and I was running at a good speed and dribbling while looking for an open teammate. Somehow I slipped or tripped and fell forward. I landed on the heels of my hand, but the top of my right knee hit the pavement about as hard as one might knock on a door. I cried out in pain, but when I rolled up the leg of my pants to unveil a small scratch, I was ridiculed by the other guys for stopping the game. I played for a few more minutes, but then my knee gave out, and I limped to Greenie and drove home. That was my last game at Batchelder.

On the way home I had to stop to buy something for supper, cauliflower I think. By the time that I reached the apartment in Andover in which I was living my knee was so swollen that it looked like a cantaloupe was stuffed in my jeans. Sue Comparetto somehow brought me to a doctor whose name I don’t remember. He took X-rays and determined that my patella (kneecap to you) had broken into several pieces. The largest one could stay, but the others needed to be surgically removed.

An ambulance took me to the Windham Community Memorial Hospital in Willimantic. I was assigned to a room with three older men, all of whom were there for hernia operations. One at a time, they each went to the OR before I did. The scenes were similar. The anesthetic was administered. The patient counted backward from 100. The first two were out buy 97. The third guy, however, was down into the seventies when they told him he could stop. I am not sure how they ever knocked him out. Maybe they just gave him something to stick between his teeth.

I, who have a mortal dread of needles, was much more apprehensive about the injection of the anesthetic than of the carving of my leg. They gave me the shot, and the next thing that I knew was that I was back in the room with a cast on my leg. The surgeon came to see me a little later. He asked me to lift the leg. I couldn’t do it. He said that I could not leave until I could lift it by myself.

In the day or two it took me to find those muscles again I had a few visitors. I am sure that Sue came. So did Jim and Ann Cochran.

I had a view of downtown Willy from my bed. I could either see a sign for Kentucky Fried Chicken of one of the colonel’s stores. In either case it gave me a strong incentive to raise my leg. I really wanted some fried chicken. I was released before any of the hernia guys.

My injury had a good side and a bad side. The benefit was immediate. I had been called up for summer camp by the Army Reserve. I called the phone number on the notice to report that I had broken my kneecap and could not come. The guy who answered—I took down his name, but I don’t remember it—assured me that I did not need to come. Since 1974 was the last year that I was eligible, I never had to atten reserve camp. I was not dreading the duty, but I did not want to return to work at the Hartford with a military haircut.

The bad side was that the surgeon missed one small piece of bone, and it eventually adhered to my femur. It did not bother me much for twenty-five years, but in 1999 I was diagnosed with tendinitis of the IT band. The doctor attributed it to that tiny piece of my patella. Some stretching exercises made the condition manageable, but in 2017 I got arthritis in that knee. This in turn has made it more difficult to keep the IT band from bunching up. I am not complaining. I have averaged walking five miles per day in the ten months starting in March of 2020, but I need to do a lot more stretching.

Golf: I started playing golf with John Sigler late in the summer of 1972. We played together every chance that we got, and we tried nearly every public course in the area. He was better than I was at every aspect of the game, but I enjoyed our outings together immensely. In 1973 we even took off many Wednesdays during the summer to play golf.

On one of those days in the summer of 1973 we drove down to Cromwell to play the Edgewood Golf Club. The layout was later redone to suit the pros, and the name was changed to TPC River Highlands. It was the most difficult course that I had ever played then, and they made it much tougher when they made it a Tournament Players Championship course in the eighties.

In 1973 John and I also played together at the annual outing of the Actuarial Club of Hartford in Moodus, CT. I did not remember the name of the course, but the only one in Moodus seems to be Black Birch Golf Club. It was a miserable day for golf—or anything else. The rain started halfway through our round, and it was also very windy. I seem to remember that John played well enough to win a dozen Titleists. I think that I won three Club Specials as a kind of booby prize. The highlight of the round for me was watching Mike Swiecicki ride merrily around in a cart and swatting at his ball with little care about the results. I also enjoyed playing bridge with John and a cigar-smoking Tom Corcoran. I don’t remember who was our fourth.

At some point John and I added Norm Newfield and Bill Mustard to our golfing group. Norm, who was a star quarterback and pitcher at Central Connecticut and the Navy¹, worked in the Personnel Department. I think that Bill worked in the IT Department. Norm was a big hitter, and Bill was an absolute beast, but neither of them could control the ball’s flight like John could. I was definitely the wimp in this foursome. Most of the time we played at Tallwood in Hebron.

In 1974 John and I signed up to play in the Hartford’s golf league. The nine-hole matches were on Fridays at Minnechaug Golf Course in Glastonbury. I have always been better at team sports than individual ones, and it proved true again. Of course, John always played against the opponent’s better player. Still, we played seven or eight matches, and I tied won and won the rest. We were in first place in the league with only one or two matches remaining when I broke my kneecap. Our proudest achievement was defeating Norm and his partner, whose name escapes me.

I remember one match pretty clearly. We were playing against two guys whom we did not know at all. I think that I had to give up six strokes, and John had to give up seven in only nine holes. John’s opponent had a new set of really nice-looking clubs. My opponent was from India, or at least his parents were. When I recounted this story I usually called him “The Perfect Master”. We were afraid of a setup. Because of the handicap differentials, if they played at all well, we would have no chance.

On the first tee John’s opponent exhibited a monstrous slice, but the ball stayed in play. My opponent then hit the shortest drive I have ever seen. He did not whiff, but the impact was much less than Lou Aiello’s swinging bunt (described here). The ball rolled less than a foot! It was still in the tee box.

Neither John nor I could take the match seriously after that. We both played worse than we would have thought possible. Going into the eighth hole, the match was in serious jeopardy. However, the eighth, a short island hole, was always good to us. We both put our iron shots on the green. The opponents both plunked their tee shots into the water. The last hole cinched all three points for us when both of our opponents found the water again. We survived our worst match ever and, of course, enjoyed a beer afterwards.

Jim Cochran stepped in to take my place for the last few matches. Alas, John and Jim lost the championship match.

Buena Vista's swank clubhouse. — Buena Vista’s swank clubhouse.

There was one other interesting golf adventure. Tom Herget arranged for John, Tom Corcoran, and I to join him for nine holes at the Buena Vista Golf Course in West Hartford. Par for this course is only 31 or 32. It is much easier than Minnechaug.

Herget evidently wanted to try out the golf clubs that he had purchased (or perhaps found in an alley) somewhere. They were at least six inches too short for him, and he is not tall. When he went to hit the ball, his hands were at knee level. Danny Devito is too tall for these clubs.

The round itself produced few memories. I do not remember the scores, but I do remember that Sigler shot in the thirties, I scored in the forties, Corcoran in the fifties, and Herget in the sixties.

Baseball/Softball: I remember that several of us drove up to Fenway for a game between the Red Sox and the Yankees. Somehow we got box seats in the upper deck right even with third base. I have been to games in four or five stadiums. This was by far my best experience. I remember eating peanuts, drinking beer, and yelling at the players and coaches. We were unbelievably close to them. It was more intimate than a Little League game.

Dick Howser was third base coach for the Yankees for ten years!

I channeled my inner Bob Anderson to loudly rebuke New York’s third-base coach, Dick Howser², for mistakenly waving a runner home. He actually looked up at us. I remembered him as a so-so shortstop (after his promising rookie season) for the KC A’s. He had a goofy batting stance with his legs spread wide and his head about four feet off the ground.

I later felt a little guilty about my boorish conduct at Fenway when he became the Royals’ manager and in 1985 guided them to the my home town’s only World Series win. One must understand that people who grew up in KC in the fifties and sixties REALLY hate the Yankees.

I remember going to watch Patti Lewonczyk play softball a couple of times. I do not recall whether the Hartford had a team in a city-wide league or an entire league of teams like the men’s. Patti was a good hitter, and she did not throw like a girl. I am pretty sure that Sue took photos on at least one occasion, but I don’t know where they are, and I dasn’t ask.

Football: On September 23, 1973, a group of us went to a football game between the Patriots and the Chiefs at Schaefer₃ Stadium in Foxborough. I could not believe what a dump the place was. I don’t remember any details. The game was a real snoozer. The Chiefs held the Pats to only one touchdown, but they only scored ten points themselves, which was enough for a W. After that one magic season in 1969-70, the Chiefs quickly became an also-ran team for the next five decades!

I also attended several college games. The most entertaining one was on October 20, 1973. I rode to Providence in Tom Corcora’s Volkswagen for the game between Brown and Dartmouth. Dartmouth entered the game with an 0-3 record, but they beat the Bears 28-16. The Big Green went on to win all the rest of their its (their?) games that year. Brown finished 4-3-1, which was very good for Brown teams of that era.

I guess you could see the band’s formations from the Brown side. We were in the visitor’s bleachers.

The game was fairly interesting. There were no NFL prospects, but the Ivy League schools were famous for their trick plays. That is my kind of football.

Even more interesting was the rascally atmosphere that shocking for a deadly serious Michigan fan to experience. For example, one guy in the stands had brought a keg of beer as a date. The keg was wearing a dress and a blonde wig. This would never happen at Michigan Stadium. Alcohol was strictly forbidden at the games, and seats were precious possessions; nobody got two.

Dartmouth had never had an official mascot, but for decades most people called them the Indians. In 1972 the Alumni Association advised against this in favor of another nickname, the Big Green. The teams embraced this, but a set of alternate cheerleaders attended this game. They sat in the stands and wore identity-concealing costumes. One was a gorilla; I don’t remember the others, but none were Indians. Whenever the official cheerleaders finished a cheer for the Big Green, the alt-leaders rushed to the sidelines to lead the same cheer for the Indians. This went on without objection. It did not seem strange to anyone but me.

The Brown band played at halftime. Their uniforms were brown turtlenecks. Most people wore nondescript pants, but several had evidently played for the soccer or rugby team that morning. Their legs were muddy, and they wore shorts. A few of them also had comical hats.

The band formed itself into various formations, but our seats were too low to make sense of them. The stadium was not big. I doubt that many people could decipher them. The band members just ran to their spots for each formation. They did not march in the orderly fashion that I was used to. I think that the primary purpose of the entertainment was to make fun of Dartmouth.

This is the only picture I could find of Eric Torkelson in a UConn uniform.

The very next Saturday I drove to Storrs by myself to watch a game between UMass and UConn. Both at the time were 1AA schools and members of the Yankee Conference. I did not know exactly where the stadium was. I expect to see crowds of people walking toward the stadium. After all, this was their rivalry game. UMass had won last year, but UConn had a pretty good team in 1973. The star, as I remember, was fullback Eric Torkelson⁴. The conference championship was on the line. The weather was beautiful.

In fact, however, two-thirds of the seat were empty. Very few students showed up. The closest people to me were a guy and his young son. UConn won 28-7 and won the conference championship.

I also tried to play a little flag football. I bought some cleats at G. Fox in downtown Hartford. Norm Newfield was on a team in New Britain. Tom Herget and I went to their tryouts. I played pretty well; I caught every pass that I got a hand on. However, they were looking for blockers and rushers, and I did not fit their plans. Tom did.

I went to several of their games. Once I ended up sitting with Mel, Tom’s girlfriend at the time. I soon discovered that she knew surprising little about football. I explained about the first-down yardage markers and what Tom’s role was on every play. I was just mansplaining, but she seemed to appreciate it.

I played in one pickup game with Tom and some of his acquaintances. It might have been on a field near Batchelder School. Because no one could guard me when I wore my cleats, I had to take them off and play in sneakers.

I watched college football on television every Saturday. In those days I could even bear to watch when Michigan was playing. Jan Pollnow invited me over to his house to watch the Wolverines one Saturday. Michigan won easily. The Big Ten was then better known as the Big Two and the Little Eight.

I felt a little uneasy at his house, as I did the time in Romulus, NY, when the lieutenant in the Intelligence Office had me over for dinner.

Tennis: I brought my tennis racket with me from KC, and I actually played one game of tennis. It was on Saturday, August 18, 1973. My opponent was Jim Kreidler. I was “under the weather” from overindulgence on my twenty-fifth birthday the night before. Nevertheless, I was ahead in the match by a game or two when Jim twisted his ankle.

He wanted to quit. I argued that we should continue the match. I would not require him to stand on his ankle. He could just sit there and wave at the ball with his racket. I would retrieve all the shots on both sides of the net. We could probably finish in a half hour or less.

He stubbornly refused this most generous offer. So, I fear that I must report that I have never actually won a tennis match.

In New England there are three types of bowling.

Bowling: At least once I went duckpin bowling with Tom Corcoran and Patti Lewonczyk. It does not feel at all like tenpin bowling, and I have no idea what it takes to be a good duckpin bowler. It seemed like you just grabbed any old ball and let it fly.

On TV I also watched candlepin bowling from Springfield. In this version you get three shots, not two, and they do not sweep away the toppled pins until the third ball has been rolled. So, you can use your “wood” to help pick up spares. I never tried this version.

1. Norm is in CCSU’s Hall of Fame. His page is here. In 2021 his FaceBook page says that he lives in Winsted, CT.

2. Dick Howser died in 1987 of a brain tumor only two years after managing the World Series winners and one year after managing the winners of the All-Star game.

3. Schaefer was a popular beer in the northeast in the seventies. Its slogan was “Schaefer is the one beer to have if you’re having more than one.” No one that I knew liked it. We reformulated it to “Schaefer is the one beer to have if you’ve alreadh had more than one.”

4. Torkelson, although not drafted until the eleventh round, played seven seasons for the Green Bay Packers.

1967-1969 Part 4: Summer Jobs

Posted on November 11, 2020 by Mike

My introduction to the insurance workplace. Continue reading →

During my undergraduate years I worked all three summers at life insurance companies. I wore a suit every day. My dad had given me some ties that he no longer wore. Thus attired, I never acquired the valuable and character-building experience of flipping burgers or waiting tables.

My dad worked at Business Men’s Assurance (BMA) in Kansas City throughout his entire career. The company had a policy of offering summer jobs to the offspring of its executives who were attending college. My dad certainly did not start at BMA as an executive, but by the time that I was in college, he had risen to the level of vice-president. So, for a couple of years I took advantage of that situation.

1967: I think that I rode to BMA with my dad and his car pool.

I was assigned to work as a clerk in the company’s Policyholder Service Department. The area that I worked in dealt with policies that for one reason or another had been terminated. In some cases the amount of premiums paid in exceeded the benefit paid to the customer. Our group calculated this difference and initiated the refund or whatever other steps were indicated.

Our group consisted of about twenty women sitting in rows of desk and one female supervisor who had an office. I seem to remember that her name was Dorothy, but I could be wrong. My recollection is that she was BMA’s first female officer. She talked with me the first day, but we had few dealings thereafter.

The above is a programmer’s coding sheet. Our data sheets were similar.

The other twenty or so ladies in the section each had two items on their desks—a gigantic Friden (the first syllable is pronounced like “free”) mechanical calculator and a pad of eighty-column computer coding sheets. The work came to them in the shape of a policy folder with a small piece of paper clipped¹ to indicate the current status. The ladies then calculated the amount of the monetary element using actuarial formulae and filled out a coding sheet. Someone else checked the work and then forwarded it to the keypunch area, where another group of ladies converted the sheets into IBM cards that represented transactions for the mainframe to process.

There were no available desks in our section. Therefore, I had the dubious distinction of sitting in a row of desks just outside of the offices. The other three people in this row were the officers’ secretaries. At night my desk was used by a young man who telephoned customers whose policy had either lapsed or was about to lapse. I never met this fellow, but we exchanged notes left on our common desk. He told me about the person who previously sat in our desk. I had seen her name plate. It was a Greek name that ended in “itis”. The night shift guy called her “Mrs. Disease”. I told him what my name was and added the appellation “Now a name…soon a legend”². My communication with him was probably the most enjoyable aspect of the entire summer.

My role in the process described above involved calculating square roots, which I had learned how to do in Ms. Jancey’s math class at QHRS, as described here. Using the Friden this was a multi-step process. At least one of these steps required division, which was something to see and hear. The machine calculated each digit one at a time as its top section, which displayed the answer, chugged back and forth.

I had my own coding sheets. When I had filled one out I gave it to one of the ladies to check. She disliked the way that I made my U’s. To her they looked too much like V’s. She asked me to add a line to the right side of each U. I eventually made a habit, which I have perpetuated, of doing so. Subsequently, unfortunately, people have through the years often mistaken my U’s for Y’s.

There was not much work for me. I seldom did as much as twenty hours of actual work per week. I was told in the first week that this would probably be the case. When I did not have any real work to do, I was enjoined to “look busy”. This was, it was emphasized, especially important because the big bosses often came down to see the department head, whose office was not far from my desk. I was not allowed to bring outside reading material. For a while I tried to pretend to read the insufferably boring manuals that were on or in my desk. When that became unbearable, I amused myself by marking twenty-six columns on a piece of paper and counting the distribution of the letters in an article or pamphlet. For each letter I placed a tick mark in the appropriate column and totaled each column at the end of the article. Computing the final results killed time, but seldom did it yield any surprises.

I must have eaten lunch in the company cafeteria. I did not know anyone. I am pretty sure that I did not eat with my coworkers. Maybe I ate alone. It would not have bothered me.

To make extra money I also stayed late one or two evenings per week. The summer students were put to work looking on desktops, countertops, and filing cabinets for missing policy folders. We worked in pairs. One of us would “read” policy numbers on the folders; the other would “check” against the list of the missing in numerical order. If we found one, the checker recorded on the list where the folder was.

A startling event occurred one evening. A girl who was working in my vicinity received a delivery of a bouquet of flowers from her boyfriend. She just broke down and cried. This startled me because she never struck me as the emotional type. She had once laughed at my pronunciation of “secreted”, meaning “hidden”. I accented the second syllable. I didn’t say anything at the time, but I looked it up and discovered that I was right. Check it out here.

1968: In my second year at BMA I think that I rode in to BMA with Peter Closius, who was a year older than I was.³ I had never met him before, but his parents were good friends of my parents, and I knew his younger brother Phil from Boy Scouts. Peter treated the drive to work, most of which was on the three lanes of Ward Parkway, as a race. He made liberal use of all the lanes. We had many close calls but no collisions; I was often terrified.

Because I had passed part 1 of the actuarial exams, I was assigned to work for Reuben Johnson, who was the #2 man in the Actuarial Department. He kept me pretty well occupied with projects, most of which were mostly pedestrian. The one that I enjoyed the most was when he asked me to write a summary of the recent sales history of one of the company’s products. I discovered that one of the salesmen had discovered a loophole and had been taking advantage of intricacies of the system. The result was that the product had become unprofitable for the company. I don’t remember the details, but Reuben liked my writing style.

Oscar Klein died in 2020. His obituary is here.

I ate lunch with some of the actuaries. We wolfed down our food so that we could play a few hands of bridge afterwards. Sid Peacock and Oscar Klein, VP and Actuary, also played. The fourth player rotated. They liked playing with me because I played as fast as they did.

Sid and Oscar also played golf in the morning before work. They teed off at the crack of dawn, shouldered their own clubs, and jogged between shots.

Sandy Finsilver, whom I had met in Detroit on the trip with my dad in 1966 (related here), also worked at BMA during that summer. I had seen him once or twice in Ann Arbor, where he was attending the University of Michigan.

Sandy invited me to come with him to a party at his apartment complex. I brought some of my albums, including I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die by Country Joe and the Fish. Quite a few of the guys there who were in the Army Reserve or National Guard did not appreciate the vocal stylings of Joe McDonald, an avowed communist.

In 1967 the A’s were still playing at Municipal Stadium in Kansas City. In 1969 the Kansas City Royals, an expansion team, were scheduled to play there. In the summer of 1968 the Kansas City Spurs of the North American Soccer League took advantage of the absence of sports entertainment in KC. They not only played their regular-season games in Municipal Stadium; they also scheduled three friendlies against international opponents. On July 4, 1968, the great Brazilian club team, Santos, came to KC and played against the Spurs. My dad and I were among the 19,296 people in attendance. I can therefore brag that I got to watch Edson Arantes do Nascimento, better known as Pelé, at the height of his career.

Pelé was named the Interational Player of the Century in 1999.

I do not remember much about the game, which Santos won 4-1. I don’t think that Pelé scored a goal. However, at one point he took a shot from near midfield. It took off like a bullet, went over the goalie’s outstretched arms, hit the crossbar so hard that it shook visibly, and rebounded back into the field of play. I could not believe that anyone could kick a ball that hard.

That was the only professional soccer game that I ever witnessed. Over the years I have watched portions of a few games on television, but I never sat all the way through one. I did attend several games played by my four nieces and my nephew. Soccer is a fun game to play, but football and basketball have so much more action. It is not surprising to me that it has never achieved the degree of popularity in North America that it has everywhere else.

The Spurs had moved to KC from Chicago. They played for three seasons, 1968-70. They won the league title in 1969, but they did not qualify for the playoffs in 1970. The attendance in 1970 was less that 2,400 per game, which meant that there were over 33,000 empty seats. The team folded after that season.

1969: I don’t remember exactly why, but I was not allowed to work at BMA for a third summer. I wrote to Kansas City Life to see if they had summer positions in the actuarial department, and they offered me one. I recall that my letter included a facetious remark about my secretary being on vacation, and the actuary with whom I communicated thought that I might be serious.

My work at KC Life also was mostly mundane, but a few interesting things happened. The actuarial department had purchased from Burroughs what I would call a semi-programmable calculator.⁴ It was enormous for a calculator—perhaps three feet on a side and at least six inches high. It had a keyboard similar to that of a calculator—digits plus arithmetic symbols and, I think, a few others. Its output section was similar to that of an adding machine—a roll of paper a few inches wide. It had a third section for input and output of a strip of magnetic tape about an inch wide and six inches long. The tape was for storing the program. There was no limit to how complicated the program could be, as long as you could fit it into 64 bytes. Not 64 gig or 64 meg or 64K; 64 bytes.

I don’t remember what the actuaries actually used this machine for. Some actuarial calculations might have been time-consuming on a Friden. If five or six steps could be combined using this beast, it might have been valuable.

Morley Safer quizzes George Finn On 60 Minutes.

I wrote a program that took as input a date in the form MMDDYY. It spat out something that indicated what day of the week it was. I don’t remember whether it took into account the ten dates that didn’t exist when countries adopted the standards specified by Pope Gregory XIII. Probably not.

I know; George Finn, Rain Man, and other savants can do this in their head, but I can’t.

I worked with and lunched with two actuarial students named Todd and Tom. Once while involved in some work project I lost track of time and almost missed an appointment for lunch with the two T’s. At the last minute I rushed to join them because I had read Chaucer and knew full well that “Tom and Todd wait for no man.” I hope that you laughed or at least groaned. I have related this incident many times over the years, and no one has appreciated it.

Tom had played quarterback at Wyandotte High School in Kansas City, KS. He had injured his knee, but in no way did it limit his subsequent athletic activities. He informed us that his doctor had provided documentation of the injury and coached him on how to take the draft physical. He flunked it and was classified 4F, just like Trump.

On Monday morning, July 21, everyone in the actuarial department gathered around a portable television set and watched Neil Armstrong climb out of the capsule and take the first steps on the moon.

My time at the two life insurance companies did not excite me about the prospect of my putative actuarial career. The work was not awful, but there were other things that I would rather do.

1. Post-it notes were invented in 1968.

2. The Steve McQueen movie Nevada Smith was heavily advertised with this catch-phrase. I have never actually seen this film, but I remember the ads.

3. It is quite possible that I rode with Peter in 1967, not in 1968. Peter later owned and operated several companies in Fairfield County, CT. He died in 2003. His obituary is here.

4. I searched carefully on the Internet, but I could not find an image of this device.

1955-1961 Part 4: Vacations

Posted on September 1, 2020 by Mike

Two great trips Continue reading →

My dad very seldom took a day off from work. He saved up his vacation time for big trips that were always in the summer. We took several family vacations while I was in grade school. I think that our first big vacation probably occurred in 1955. I don’t remember my mom being pregnant. So, either I have the year wrong, I was oblivious of her condition, or we left Jamie with a babysitter or grandparents.

Our destination was the Colorado Springs area. Although Colorado is immediately west of Kansas,¹ Colorado Springs is over 600 miles from KC. My dad drove our ’54 Ford. Mom was navigator, an easy job in Kansas. The back seat was my domain. Of course we counted cows, right side of the road vs. left side. However, for much of the trip I stood up and practiced clapping as loudly as I could. It must have driven my parents crazy.

The Garden of the Gods near Colorado Springs.

I remember that they let me fish at a trout farm. It was like shooting fish in a barrel, which I thought was great fun. We drove up Pike’s Peak. We visited the Garden of the Gods and a place where we had a chuckwagon buffet, which I really enjoyed. We also went to a bar/restaurant owned by a relative of (I think) Grandmom Hazel. His name was Louis Something. He served me a Roy Rogers with a tiny umbrella in it. I thought that it was fantastic.

We also went to a race track. I found it fascinating that people discarded their losing tickets on the ground. I gathered up a bunch of them in hopes of finding a winner. No luck.

Before writing this, it never occurred to me that this trip introduced me to both bars and gambling.

I am pretty sure that I only played one card.

My most vivid memory of the trip was when we went to a huge bingo hall. I called out “bingo’ at the same time as one of the other players. There was some controversy. I don’t remember the details, but they ended up awarding the prize to the other person. I was upset about this. I may have even made a scene.

Somehow I came into possession of a Pinocchio doll that was as large as I was. Maybe it was a prize; maybe my parents bought it for me to shut me up. I don’t think that I liked it. I punched it in the nose quite often during the return trip.

All in all I had a very good time. I have always loved to travel.

Our biggest vacation was, I am pretty sure, in 1959. I would have been nearly eleven, and Jamie three and a half. My dad drove all four of us all the way to New England in our ’57 Ford Fairlane and then down the East Coast to Washington, DC. I sat in the back seat with Jamie. On the way there we took the northern route through Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York. I kept track of our progress on a map. I don’t remember what Jamie was doing.

The first day was an unqualified disaster for me. My mom had prepared a picnic lunch for us. Our first stop was was at a park with picnic tables in Mexico, MO. After lunch we drove east for an hour or so, at which point I realized that I did not have my billfold. I only had a few dollars, but that was a big loss to me. Each dollar bill could purchase 110 baseball cards, if one bought the packs enclosed in cellophane that held eleven cards and cost a dime,² as I always did. Besides, I had never left anything of value behind before, and I felt stupid and irresponsible.

I felt even more stupid when we stopped for supper. My dad ordered a steak, and so did I. I was later told that we could not afford the vacation if I ordered a steak every night. I didn’t much care what I ate; my tastes have always been pretty eclectic. I just wanted to know what was expected of me before I made more mistakes.

Most of the rest of the trip was delightful. My dad did almost all of the driving. The Interstate Highway System was only three years old. Therefor, large portions of our drive was on two-lane roads that served as Main Street in town after town. We started looking for motels without “No Vacancy” signs when my dad announced that he was getting tired. Since this was the peak season for automobile travel, the rest of us found this somewhat stressful.

Our first major stop was in Albany, NY, the home of my dad’s army buddy, Jake Jacobson. We spent one or two nights at his house. We got to meet his wife Ruth and his son Paul, who was a year older than I was. Jake took us out to eat at a restaurant that served something that I had never before encountered, antipasto. I remarked that it sounded like Andy Pafko, who played his last season in 1959 for the Milwaukee Braves. Jake liked my little joke, which in turn made me like him. Afterwards he showed some home movies. All that I remember about them was that they showed off Ruth’s legs.

The next day I got to play hardball with Paul and some of his friends on a field with fences and everything. I was very happy that I got a hit or two, and my team won.

We then drove up to Maine and traveled through each of the six New England states before we ended up at the Roosevelt Hotel in New York City. I think that we stayed overnight in a motel in Maine or New Hampshire. I remember that I slept through the entire state of Rhode Island.

The Jacobsons joined us in New York to watch a the A’s at Yankee Stadium. We sat near the right field line. We had a very good view of the “Pennant Porch”. Joe DeMaestri, of all people,³ hit a home run for the visiting A’s. The four Wavadas were the only people who cheered. It did not feel like it at the time, but this was the best of all the teams in the thirteen-year history of the A’s in KC.

All of us took the elevator to the observation floor of the Empire State Building, and Paul and I climbed the stairs to the crown of the Statue of Liberty. The most memorable event, however, occurred in our car. My dad got confused somewhere in the Bronx and ran a red light. A policeman pulled us over. When he saw on my dad’s driver’s license that we were from Prairie Village, KS, he could hardly contain his mirth. He let us proceed after lecturing my dad on the differences between driving in Gotham and on the prairie. For example, there are fewer buffaloes in NYC.

Our next stop was the Chalfonte Hotel in Atlantic City, which at that time was a thriving tourist town not yet overrun by casinos. We spent our time there on or near the boardwalk, but we did take the opportunity to watch the high-diving horse on the Steel Pier.

Stopping in Atlantic City was a good idea. New York City and Washington, DC, are intense places. I hate to drive in both of them. Atlantic City was fun and relaxing.

Our final major destination was the nation’s capital. We stayed at the Mayflower Hotel. We saw the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, the reflecting pool, the congressional buildings, and the White House. The most memorable aspect of this part of the trip was very puzzling. Somehow my mom and dad were unable to find the Smithsonian Institution. The Metro was not opened until seventeen years later. So, we couldn’t just get off at the Smithsonian stop. Still, …

In the above map the White House is at the upper left, and the congressional buildings are at the lower right. The teardrop shapes are Smithsonian buildings. Admittedly some of them did not exist in 1959 or were not part of the Institution, but it astounds me that we were unable to locate any of them, and we looked for hours.

Couldn’t find them? The Natural History Museum, which is the one that I really wanted to visit, was only 1.5 miles from our hotel, and we were much closer to our purported objective than that several times. I was very frustrated, and I may have shown it. Jamie tried to console me. To this day I cannot explain this experience (or lack thereof).

Our return trip home was not very eventful. We were all ready for home. My recollection is that because my dad had never been in South Carolina, we selected a route that allowed us to “dip a toe” there. Then we just headed west toward God’s country.

1. Kansas borders four states: Colorado on the west, Nebraska on the north, Missouri on the east, and Oklahoma on the south.

2. Bruce Smith Drugs in Prairie Village provided two options for buying baseball cards. For a nickel you could get five cards and a piece of gum in an opaque paper wrapper. For a dime you could get eleven cards but no gum. However, you could see both the top card and the bottom card. This could help you avoid the disastrous possibility of buying five cards that you already had. Nobody liked the gum anyway.

3. DeMaestri hit only hit six homers in 1959.

1955-1961 Part 3: Baseball

Posted on August 28, 2020 by Mike

Small-time ball in a big-league town. Continue reading →

Worst logo ever.

Kansas City officially became a big-league town in 1955, when the laughingstock of the American League, the Philadelphia A’s, moved to Kansas City. Arnold Johnson, the owner of Yankee Stadium, had been allowed to purchase the club from the long-time owner of the A’s, Connie Mack. If this seems bizarre, remember that major league baseball is not subject to any antitrust laws. Johnson intended to move the franchise west. He chose the town in which he already owned the stadium, Kansas City.

The people in KC were definitely ready. In the first year the team drew an impressive 1,393,054 fans, more than they ever had in Philadelphia. The team was very bad when it arrived, and over the years it got even worse as Johnson made one deplorable trade after another, mostly with the Yankees. The 1961 world champion Yankees, considered by many to be the most dominant team ever, boasted ten former A’s, including two-time MVP Roger Maris.

The A’s played in Municipal Stadium, the same stadium that had hosted the top Yankee minor-league team, the Blues. My dad had seen Mickey Mantle play there. The parking situation was bad, but no worse than at Fenway. By the time that the team left, the neighborhood was not too good.

This was the very card that I got in trade for my 1954 Mickey Mantle. My dad was aghast.

My dad took me to games every year, or at least nearly every year. When the team arrived, my favorite player was a Puerto Rican named Victor Pellot, who played under the name of Vic Power. He was the A’s first All-Star, unquestionably the best fielder in the league, and a decent hitter as well. I loved the way that he passed the bat from one hand to the other while waiting for the pitch. The A’s ended up trading him to Cleveland to acquire Maris.

When we went to the games, I always bought a program and kept score for both teams. We really got our money’s worth at my very first games, April 23, 1955. The Chicago White Sox edged out the home team 29-6. The gory details are here. At least I got to see Vic Power hit a dinger.

In later years I liked to follow Norm Siebern, Bob Cerv, and Harry “Suitcase” Simpson until they too were traded away.

My dad listened to the A’s games on his transistor radio while he was watering the front lawn on summer evenings. He really despised the team’s announcer Monte Moore, who would never say anything bad about the management. As year after year of frustration mounted, all of Moore’s optimistic talk became almost unbearable for dad. Everybody in KC thought that Arnold Johnson was crooked. If you don’t think so, you should read this list of his transactions with the Yankees.

For the last fifteen games of the disastrous 1964 season Charlie Finley, who had putchased the club after Arnold Johnson died in 1960, hired Betty Caywood to attempt to attract ladies to Moore’s broadcasts. It is definitely wrong to think of her as a dumb blonde. She had a masters degree from Northwestern. However, she had one big problem, which she admitted to her boss, “Charlie, I don’t know the first thing about baseball.”

The A’s stayed in KC for thirteen seasons. They never had a winning record. The worst year was 1964, when they were an appalling 57-105. Their best effort was just two years later, when they finished only twelve games under .500. In their last year in KC, 1967, however, they finished last in the American League. By then Finley was sponsoring all kinds of stupid enticements to try to get people to come to the games—absolutely anything to distract from the team’s abysmal performance.

Over the course of thirteen seasons the A’s tried nine different managers. I don’t think that their primary roblem was the manager.

The most frustrating thing for the long-suffering fans of Kansas City was that by the time that the A’s departed for Oakland in their Kelly green and Finley gold clown suits, the team had amassed a very impressive stable of young players. How could a team that had Reggie Jackson, Rick Munday, Sal Bando, Vida Blue, Bluemoon Odom, Rollie Fingers, Campy Campaneris, and Catfish Hunter have been so awful?

3&2: When I was growing up in suburban Johnson County, KS, there was no Little League. Is that surprising? Well guess what, we did not have McDonald’s either, and no one cared. Just as the local chain Smaks provided people in the KC area with low-priced hamburgers, 3&2 baseball in Johnson County took the place of Little League. The kids in my neck of the woods were (and still are) more than satisfied with 3&2.

This is PART of the current Johnson County 3&2 complex that includes 27 baseball fields!

The organization, which is now called the 3&2 Baseball Club of Johnson County¹, provided an opportunity for young people at all levels to play hardball (with bats made of wood!) in a well-organized and supervised situation. They now even have teams for pre-kindergaten youngsters! My precocious nephew Joey Lisella, who carried a bat around with him on his fourth birthday, would have loved it!

As many games as possible were played at Segner Field, a complex that included a handful of fields complete with lights, grandstands, dugouts, and refreshment stands. I considered this place paradise. I fell in love with it at first site. I could think of nothing that could possibly match the thrill of playing there, and I was right!

My baseball career did not get off to a great start. I began at the lowest level, Midget C. I think that this was after fourth grade, which would be 1958, but I may be off by a year. My team was sponsored by Sunflower Drugs, a local store that still had a soda fountain counter large enough to serve our whole team at once. Midget C teams dressed in ball caps, blue jeans, sneakers, and tee shirts. Our shirts were red and white, with our sponsor’s name prominently displayed.

I suspect that I was allowed onto the team because of the influence of Mr. Wood, who was, I think, one of the coaches. I was a good fielder and one of the fastest runners. However, my arm was weak, and my hitting left a lot to be desired.

We had a good team. We won most of our games. Whenever we prevailed we were transported to Sunflower Drugs to get free ice-cold cherry cokes. We often were ahead by substantial amounts, which let the coach put me in to play. We did not win our league. My recollection is that we lost to the winners because they bunted us to death.

I think that we played at Segner once or twice. Most of our games were at fields at nearby schools. We practiced at Tomahawk School.

One time near the end of the season our team’s entire practice was devoted to a fielding contest. Nine guys took the field. A coach hit ground balls and fly balls. You had to leave the field for a time if you made an error. I stayed on the field longer than anyone else. This was probably the highlight of my season.

In the games that I got to play in I did OK in the field, but I was atrocious in the batter’s box. I actually batted .000. I did get on base a few times with walks, and I even scored a run or two. On every other occasion (except two) I struck out. I never even hit a foul ball.

The first exception was the time that I reached first because of catcher’s interference. When I swung at a pitch my bat grazed the catcher’s mitt. I thought that I had accidentally done something illegal and dangerous, but the umpire firmly told me to take first base, which I gladly did. Who says that you can’t steal first?

After the coaches explained the rule to me, I could not help myself from thinking that the catcher’s mitt just a few feet behind me would be a lot easier to hit than most of those pitches. Nevertheless, I did not try to do it again. I was a Boy Scout and an altar boy, remember.

The other exception was my very last at-bat in that red and white tee shirt. I actually hit a weak fly ball over the first baseman’s head. Unfortunately he had time to take a couple of steps back. He then reached up and caught it. Nevertheless, I was thrilled that I finally had a chance to sprint down the first base line after making contact.

I tried out for Sunflower Drugs the next year, but I did not make the team. I thought that my ignominious baseball career was over, but my parents told me that other teams needed players. I ended up playing with some guys from QHRS on another Midget C team, Bauman’s Red Goose Shoes. You might think that our tee shirts would be at least partially red, but they were actually green and yellow.

By this time I had a season of experience under my belt and a pair of glasses in front of my very myopic eyes. I was just an average player on an average team, but at least I was not a laughingstock at the plate. I got my share of hits, but nothing exciting. I played every position except pitcher and catcher. My favorite positions were first base and second base because neither required a strong arm.

If you are wondering if our sponsor provided treats for us at the shoe store, the answer is no. No cherry Cokes, no free shoes, nothing. In baseball parlance, a goose egg.

In my third and last year I played for the Prairie Village Optimists Club. This was a Midget B team, which meant that we had real baseball uniforms with bloused pants, long socks, and cleats. We would also be playing more of our games at Segner Field.

I started almost every game even though I was not in the official starting lineup. My family did not take on a vacation that summer, but many of the other players did. I played seven positions again, mostly replacing whoever was on vacation at that time.

Our team had was peculiar in one regard. We had two starting pitchers. One of them was probably the best in our league. He was actually too old to play in Midget B, but because he had polio when he was younger, he was granted an extra year of eligibility. Whenever he pitched, we were at least in the game. The problem was that he was totally undependable. The manager, Mr. O’Neil, never knew if he would show up or not.

Our other pitcher was Mr. O’Neil’s son. He could throw strikes, but his velocity was not great, and he had no “stuff”. It was only one step up from batting practice.

With only a game or two remaining we faced the only undefeated team, Bill Cook’s Standard. Our shortstop was on vacation, and I replaced him. I could field grounders well enough, but if I had to move in either direction, the throw to finrst was difficult for me. To avoid putting my rag arm on display, we dispensed with fielding grounders between innings. Instead we just lobbed the ball around around the infield.

Our good pitcher took the mound, and he had a great day. With a couple of innings to play, neither side had scored. I had hardly been tested at shortstop, and I was the lead-off hitter when we took our cuts. I don’t remember to which field I hit the ball, but I got all the way to third base. I never hit a home run in 3&2; this was my best hit ever. I was so psyched.

The guy batting behind me then struck out. The batter after him popped up to an infielder. If either of them had even hit a ground ball, I was primed to race toward home.

Now, however, there were two outs, and I was still stuck on third. I decided to follow the advice of Egbert Sousé and take a chance while I was young. I broke for home on the first pitch. I was hoping for a passed ball or wild pitch, but I was prepared for a hot box. The catcher caught the pitch cleanly. He made a move toward me and then—a moment too soon—he threw the ball past me to the third baseman. I had not yet committed to going back to third. I put on a burst toward the plate, got past the catcher and scored before he could grab the throw back from the third baseman and tag me. We were up 1-0. Incidentally, the next batter made an out. My gamble was a good one, better than Og Oggilby’s.

The other team also scored in their half of the inning. We got two runs in the next inning to take the lead back 3-1. Our pitcher got tired in the last inning. I don’t remember the details, but they somehow had the bases loaded with two out. The batter hit a pop fly into short left field. I raced back as fast as I could. I thrust out my left hand and I nabbed the ball on the far end of my glove’s webbing. The ball looked like a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a cone.

Just then my parents were arriving at the field to take me home. They missed seeing my catch, but they arrived just in time to see my teammates literally carrying me off the field on their shoulders. I have had a few great moments in my life. I am not sure that any topped this one.

1. Johnson County abuts KC KS on the north and KC MO on the east. It now boasts a population of over 600,000—20 percent more than KC MO and five times the size of Hartford.

1955-1961 Part 2: The Neighborhood

Posted on August 23, 2020 by Mike

Life on a short street in Prairie Village, KS. Continue reading →

This is 7717 Maple in 2020. We moved into it in 1955. The house that I remember was much different:

It was light blue.
There was only one garage.
The window to the left of the door was a picture window, not a bay.
The shutters look different. I am not sure that there were any.
The addition on the right is new.
The trees are much larger. I am not even sure that there were any trees in the front.
A maple tree on the right between the houses is gone. It is possible that it grew into the huge tree on the right. It was small and skinny when we left in 1962.
Rooms have been added in the back, too.

Our version of the house contained three small bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. There was no basement. It was difficult to entertain company, but it was much more comfortable than the house on Thorp, and it was OURS.

The yard, especially in the back, was steeply sloped. Nall Avenue was at this point quite a bit higher than Maple. The best places to play on our lot were the two side yards, both of which have now pretty much been eliminated by expansions.

I remember an occasion on which my dad and I were playing catch in the backyard. He threw it to me with a lot of loft but not much distance. I ran downhill to catch it, which I did. Unfortunately I my momentum carried me into a corner of our barbecue grill, and it took a small chunk out of the left side of my forehead. It was not that big of a deal. Four or five stitches took care of it. It left a small scar that wrinkles have long since rendered invisible.

Pictured at the right is Maple Street. Nall Avenue on the right is a major street that runs north and south. Tomahawk Road, the street at the top is one of the few streets in the area that is not perfectly straight. To the left (west) it runs to Tomahawk School, which is where Jamie went to kindergarten in 1961-62. At this point it straightens and becomes a north-south street that terminates at 85th. To the right Tomahawk dead-ends at Nall, but at 75th St. it resumes its diagonal route northeast to the Prairie Village shopping center and beyond.

My recollection is that all of the houses on Maple Street were simple ranches. Some had basements, and some did not. The Nall Avenue end of the street was significantly higher than the Tomahawk end. The slope of the street that was south of our house was steep enough for sledding in the winter. The bottom of the cul-de-sac was also lower than the main road, but the slope was not as steep.

Car traffic on Maple was very light. Virtually always the cars entering from Tomahawk or Nall pulled into a driveway. Parking on the street was legal, but people seldom took advantage of this. Kids playing in the street were common. The residents knew to look out for them.

A creek (pronounced “crick” in our neighborhood) ran behind the houses on the west side of Maple. I am not sure of its function. I do not recall finding more than a few inches of water there. It certainly was no barrier to me and my friends if we wanted to go in that direction on foot. Occasionally it was a source of discovery and adventure. I remember that what we called crawdads occasionally appeared.

In 1955 our house was near the southern edge of civilization. A few blocks to the south of us were fields that had been farms only a few years earlier. I remember that while exploring a field I once discovered a mouse nest complete with babies. By the time that we moved the frontier was much farther south.

I inserted house numbers on the above map for all of the other houses on Maple. They may not be the right mailing addresses for some. My purpose was to simplify the references in describing our neighbors, starting with the side on which we lived, the east.

I am not sure who lived in the house labeled 7701. I have a vague recollection that it was an older couple with no kids. I do remember that the house on the Tomahawk side of 7701 did not exist during the period that we lived on Maple. The lot was vacant. I played football there with Don and Steve Wood and a fellow named Tuftadahl who lived on Tomahawk.

The Woods lived in 7703. Don was my age. Steve was one or two years older. They were both athletic and strong. I went down to their house many times through the fifth or sixth grade. I am not sure what happened after that. The family might have moved away.

There was no baseball field within walking distance, but we still spent a lot of summer days involved with the game. I remember many hours spent playing 500 with them. This is a baseball game that involves one player hitting fly balls to the other players. When a player on the receiving end had earned 500 points, he became the hitter.

Our other favorite diversion was hot box, which required three players. Two guys have mitts, and one of them has the ball. The other guy is “in the middle”. He tries to get past one of them. The guys with mitts try to tag him. They can throw the ball back and forth. This process is called a “rundown”. I was good at both aspects of this game, and it contributed to one of the greatest moments of my young life. It is detailed here.

I played on the Sunflower Drugs 3&2 League team with Don. Those adventures are detailed here.

Watching the All-Star Game together in the basement was the highlight of the summer. We all knew all the players from their trading cards.

The Woods were more into army games than cowboys. So, we staged quite a few mock battles with toy guns. I had a pretty realistic double-barreled shotgun that I brought to these engagements. As with the western scenarios the most important thing was to die heroically or at least spectacularly.

In bad weather we played games in their basement. They enjoyed a variation on Monopoly with which I was not previously familiar. The main change to the rules was that if someone rolled doubles, he (there was never a she) was not automatically awarded another turn. Instead, whoever could grab the dice got the free turn. Most of these games ended on a roll of doubles that quickly became a wrestling match over the possession of the dice. I never was involved in any of this grappling, but I did watch in awe when Don and Steve went at it. It usually ended when Mrs. Wood came down and yelled at them.

I don’t remember who lived in 7705. Kim, who rode on the Bluebird with us to QHRS, lived in 7707 or 7709. I don’t remember who lived in 7711, 7713, and 7715. No kids lived in any of those houses.

A family moved into 7719 a few years after we arrived. They had two boys. One was a little older than I was. The other was a little younger than I was. I can picture them, but I can’t remember their names. We played together pretty often, but I only have one really vivid memory. These guys each had a pair of boxing gloves. We had a series of boxing matches. Both of these kids and a few others were there. In the only bout that I was in I hit the other guy quite often, and he hit me almost never. The match was ruled a draw because the other guy “showed that he could take it.” I was upset for a minute or two, but I did not make a scene. Maybe I should say that if I made a scene, I don’t remember the details.

I only had one interaction with the lady who lived in 7721. One winter, probably 1960 or 1961, we had a pretty big snow, close to a foot. She hired me to shovel her walk. I did, but it took me a long time. It was almost dark when I finished. She paid me what we agreed on and added an additional dollar or two. I was grateful enough to remember the incident decades later but not enough to remember her name.

On the west side of the street I never met the occupants of 7702, 7704, or 7706. The Beesons lived in 7708. I think that the father, Bill, was one of our scoutmasters. There were two boys, John, who was one year younger than I was, and Mikey, who was another year younger.

PV Pool. There was no slide when I was there, but there was a regular pool, a diving pool with two or three boards, and a kiddie pool.

They must have moved in in the late fifties. I don’t remember them being around when I played with Don and Steve Wood. I spent a lot of time with John, however, after that. Both of the Beesons were strong swimmers, much better than I was. Since there was no swimming pool in the neighborhood, we must have gone up to Prairie Village Pool together. It was east of us near Shawnee Mission East High School. I did not really like to go there much. I always got cold, and it was embarrassing because my very flat feet left distinctive footprints—like a duck with toes.

I remembered that we played three-on-three football games on the island of the cul-de-sac. It was especially fun in the snow. I don’t remember who the other players were.

I don’t remember who lived in 7710. Michaelene Dunn, who also rode the Bluebird, lived in 7712. I don’t remember who lived in 7714.

7716 was the home of Ed and Ina Leahy. They were older than my parents by quite a bit, but they were probably their best friends, at least in the neighborhood. Ed was retired. He previously sold some kind of agricultural equipment.

One year Ed drove my dad and me to the Kansas State Fair in Hutchinson. It was 210 miles away, but driving west through Kansas you can make pretty good time. The roads are straight, and the traffic is usually light. I was in the back. I got very tired or maybe just bored. I tried to sleep in the car, but I could not get comfortable.

My clearest memory of the fair was when the guy in the dunk tank sang “The Old Grey Mare” when Ed walked by. He was trying to taunt Ed into buying tickets to rent a softball to throw at the target next to him. Hitting it would send him into the tank. Ed didn’t fall for it.

I was not too impressed with the fair. I had no need for a new harvester, but Ed knew a lot of the guys who had exhibits. The rides have never interested me very much. I never liked the scary ones, and the others are just stupid.

My .410 looked a lot like this one. The stock was plastic.

Somehow I had acquired a .410 shotgun. I had fired it at tin cans with Fr. Joe once or twice. Otherwise it remained mounted on my wall. I thought it was cool for it to be there, but I never so much as touched it or let anyone else touch it.

Ed took my dad and me hunting once. It might have been on the Hutchinson trip, but it might have been separate. We drove to a farm somewhere in Kansas to shoot at pheasants after the fields had been harvested. I fired at one at about the same time that someone else did. It came down, but to this day I do not know if I slew the bird, or the other guy did. He had a 12-gauge or a 16, both much more powerful than mine. So, I was probably blameless. I don’t know what happened to the bird’s carcass. I never went hunting again.

The Lotzkars lived in 7718. I think that they moved in a few years after we did. They had two or three kids, the oldest of whom was several years younger than I was.

One year there was a neighborhood picnic and party. I think that the Leahys sponsored it. Someone had a movie camera and showed the result later. I was the oldest kid there. I spent the time showing the Lotzkars how to slide like a ballplayer and climbing the T-shaped clothesline poles.

I babysat for the Lotzkars a few times. I recall that once the parents did not return home until pretty late. I watched Stars and Stripes Forever, the biopic about John Philip Sousa. on the Late Show. I have a low opinion of marches now, but I liked this movie well enough at the time.

Bob and Eleanor Anderson lived at 7720. If they had any kids, they were grown up. I remember my dad talking politics with Bob in the Andersons’ yard in 1960 after Kennedy won the Democratic nomination. My dad opined that the Republicans should have nominated Nelson Rockefeller. Bob replied that the only thing that doing that would prove was that somebody born with a silver spoon in his mouths could bedome president.

One summer day Bob took me to Municipal Stadium for an A’s game—just the two of us. It was a great time. We had very good seats on the first base line. Bob had a foghorn of a voice. Throughout the game he ruthlessly tormented the A’s second baseman, Jerry Lumpe. I did not like Lumpe either for reasons that currently escape me.

Bob’s voice carried so well that people all over the stadium were looking at him. Several ballplayers, including Lumpe, turned their heads in our direction.

I don’t remember the result of the game, but Lumpe went hitless. I think that he made an error in the field, too.

Lumpe was one of those players that the Yankees traded to KC when he seemed to be past his usefulness. To be fair, his best season was 1962, when he hit .301 for the A’s. He was a skinny guy, but he also managed to hit ten home runs that year. His average for the A’s was slightly better than his average for the Yanks. Lumpe died in 2014 at the age of 81.

I think that Bob died before we moved to Leawood. Eleanor continued to live in their house on Maple by herself.

The Wallaces lived across the street from us at 7720. I think that Mr. Wallace’s name was Ken. Her name was Jean. She and my mom were good friends. The Wallaces had three kids: Kenny, Sandy, and Gary. All were younger than I was. Gary was Jamie’s age.

I remember that one day I was for some reason home alone. Jamie must have been with my mom. I did not know where they were, and I got very upset. I think that I was even crying. Jean Wallace saw me and comforted me. A few minutes later our car appeared in the driveway.

Next to the Wallaces in 7722 was the Stivers family. Bill and Marie had two kids, Barbie was Jamie’s age, and Brad was a couple of years younger.

Bill Stivers claimed to have only one vice, fireworks. He bought a lot of fireworks for July 4, and he shot them off well into the night. For some reason this really irritated my dad. The dogs also hated it.

I don’t remember who lived in 7724 and 7726.

My first friend in the area lived in the house on Nall Avenue behind ours (7717). Michael was my age and the oldest son of Wally and Cherie Bortnick.¹ Michael also had a sister Donna who was a couple of years younger. There may have been one or two younger kids, too.

A big twister hit nearby Ruskin Heights in 1957. It killed 44 people

Their house had a basement. Whenever there was a tornado, which seemed to be every Friday in May, we would troop up to the Bortnick’s house (and I do mean up) and congregate in the southwest corner of their basement. This was a blast. The chances of getting hit by one of those midwestern tornadoes was minuscule, and if you did get hit, you were probably a goner no matter what. So, it was a great time to party, and we did.

I also remember that for a short while Wally and Michael and I ran around the Nall-Maple-Tomahawk block once or twice in the morning before school. This was in an era when nobody went jogging. I liked doing it, and it might have influenced my later decision to run regularly.

Michael had a chemistry set in the basement. We used to do half-assed experiments together. I enjoyed messing around with it, but it did nothing to inspire me to study the sciences.

The Bortnicks moved away after a couple of years. However, I think that they stayed in the KC area. Michael joined our class at Rockhurst High in sophomore or junior year and graduated with us.

I don’t know who owned the empty lot south of the Bortnick’s house. No one seemed to claim it. Vacant lots just seemed to exist in those days. That one was probably too small for another house.

A girl named Louise lived in the house north of the Bortnick’s. Her last name escapes me. Her mother threw a birthday party for her, and I was invited. All that I remember about it is that we played pin the tail on the donkey. No donkeys were injured. The paper tails were affixed with scotch tape rather than pins.

1. I was shocked to discover that Donna Bortnick died in 2013, and Wally, Cherie, and Michael had all preceded her. In all, Wally and Cherie had eight children—four boys and four girls.

Wavablog

Memoirs, bridge, popes, travel, and other stuff

Tag Archives: KC A’s

1972-1974 Connecticut: Sports

1967-1969 Part 4: Summer Jobs

1955-1961 Part 4: Vacations

1955-1961 Part 3: Baseball

1955-1961 Part 2: The Neighborhood