Beyond the Margin

By Joe Spear

What I did on my summer vacation

I’ve not written a summer vacation essay since I was in grade school, so I’ve got a lot of catching up to do – 50 summers’ worth.

The back-to-school tradition was a good exercise to refresh our writing skills and remains today a worthwhile craft that has brought me some benefit. They say summers are for building memories that last longer than the all-too-short season itself.

We remember things that bring smiles and mark milestones, like our first time away from home and our first encounter with law enforcement. So I’ll take a ballpark swing at making the narrative interesting or at least mildly amusing.

The Twins played their first world series in my first summer before school started. At 4 years old, I started kindergarten a few weeks before my 5th birthday. I think the school administrators took pity on my mother who had seven children in 10 years.

I remember sitting in the grass next to Dad who was in his lawn chair having a beer as we listened on the radio to the exploits of Harmon Killebrew, Jim Kaat, Mudcat Grant, Bobby Allison, Tony Oliva and Earl Battey.

“Tony O” led the team with a .321 batting average that season and had 98 RBIs, while Killebrew blasted 25 home runs into the seats. Oliva won the American League batting titles in 1964, 1965 and 1971. After that, he began to see competition from Twins teammate Rod Carew who won it seven of the next 10 years.

There’s a calmness and rhythm to a baseball game

being heard on the radio where announcers can lull you into a nap. Ball 2. 2-2. Ball 3. Now it’s 3-2. Full count. Swing and a miss. Another strike out for Koufax.

The Twins and Dodgers went seven games in 1965 with Dodger’s ace Sandy Koufax giving up only three hits in a 2-0 shutout in the final game. Kaat lasted three innings giving up both runs. For me it would be the first in a lifelong series of heart-crushing losses for Minnesota teams that offered such promise.

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At 10 years old, I had my first “away from home” experience spending a week at the Catholic Youth Camp in McGregor. No cellphones and a bus ride so far that it created disincentives for parents to drive up. We were “on our own” for the first time.

We slept in cool Army tents on cots with eight or 10 to a tent and you could roll up the sides when it got too hot. We had a camp counselor who was from St. Louis and he taught us a folk song that was possibly not approved by Father Hennepin but sat just fine for the Kingston Trio.

“And I don’t give a damn about a greenback dollar, spend it fast as I can. For a woman’s song and a good guitar are the only things that I understand. Oh yeah. The only things that I understand.”

And the sixth graders got to yell the “damn” part.

Elementary school summer vacations at our home on Maywood Place involved stay-at-home-mom cooking three meals a day. Pickup baseball game at 10. A trip to Como Pool at 1. Kick the can at night. Repeat for 90 days.

In high school, we went to rock concerts. We’d pull Kevin Comiskey’s Dodge Dart Swinger into the back of the school surrounded by woods and railroad tracks. The space was strategic because you could see squad cars come around the school from a distance, giving you enough time to hide the beer.

Peter Frampton blared “Do you feel like I do?” on an 8-track player and the 1970s speakers set up in the back of the Swinger as we pre-gamed the J. Geils concert. Turns out police near the school weren’t going to be as big a problem as the police near the concert. They pulled up as we were parking and told us of reports of concertgoers relieving themselves on neighborhood trees.

As the police approached, I continued walking like normal, not making eye contact as instructed by others. But at 6 feet 4, I looked to be the oldest of the group and the officers summoned me with, “You in the striped shirt.”

With my best Wallace Cleaver demeanor, I assured him my friends and I were not involved in the reported public urination. But my friend Timmy Gerlach just then got some teenage attitude and said he had enough of these unfounded allegations, explaining to the officers his vast knowledge of the law.

The sounds of the handcuffs clicked loud as did the thump of his body against the squad car. We were then transported to the police station for questioning. While I was never officially arrested, it was the first time I was taken into custody.

Turns out Timmy was good at talking his way out of things. They asked us if we had any beer, to which Timmy said, “Maybe a couple.” He ended up knowing one of the officer’s friends and that got us off. They drove us back down to the concert just in time to hear J. Geils sing “Musta got lost.”

Fifty-plus summers can put a lot of water under the bridge. I no longer listen to Twins games on the radio and recently won some tickets to the 360 Skyclub at Target Field, this time watching guys with names like Maeda, Pineda, Polanco, Sano, Arraez, Buxton and Astudillo.

After a few innings, from row six, I turned around and saw No. 6. Tony Oliva, who appeared in the back row, rising like an image of Jesus on the Sea of Galilee. We shook hands, took a selfie and I told him how much I loved watching him, emulating him, when I was 10.

Tony never got enough votes to make the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, but he had my vote in the summer of ’65.

These are the things I’ve done on my summer vacations.

Joe Spear is editor of Mankato Magazine. Contact him at jspear@mankatofreepress.com or 344-6382. Follow on Twitter @jfspear.