Remembering Things

The past couple of days I have been pondering and remembering various things in my life. You know, a variety of experiences - some pleasant and some very complex. But all of it tugged at my heart. During this deep thought, I was asked by a friend to find a certain blog I had posted.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the specific blog requested. However, I did come across a blog that sort of sums up the way I am feeling. And it made me smile. Smiling is good.

For two years I had been writing a “My Turn” column for the Kenosha News every 13 weeks. January 16, 2014 was my last column. Here is that column:

Simple Gestures Remind Us Of What’s Really Important

Tonight No. 1 Florida State takes on No. 2 Auburn in the BCS National Championship game. I suppose this means the holidays are now officially behind us. Hopefully everyone had a wonderful and fulfilling holiday season. Mine was special for a reason that I never expected. I never saw it coming. The holidays and especially Christmas have never been the same since my dad passed away on February 3, 2010. For me, besides the obvious, there has been something missing since then. It was something that I just couldn’t put my finger on; an intangible if you will. That is, until this Christmas. The Saturday before Christmas, Kenosha Softball Hall of Famer Jack Zimmerman came bearing gifts. Along with a large poinsettia and a huge gift basket from Tenuta’s, he also brought a dozen red roses for my mother. Zim has always been a charmer and evidently has a little Eddie Haskell in him. And he wasn’t done. The best was yet to come. As unexpected and gracious as those presents were, Zim blew me away with one final act of kindness. As he reached into his pocket, he told me that he checked with his mother and received her blessing. He then handed me an old baseball that had the following inscription: “6-30-1961 — Roosevelt Road 23 Kwik Kafe 0 No Hit, No Run Game Pitched By Jack Zimmerman” Zim told me that he wanted me to have this treasured little league memento of his because of what I had done for him. He told me how important I had become in his life. Moved by this heartfelt gesture, I wiped away the tears that were streaming down my cheek long enough to ask if he would sign the ball. After Zim left three hours later, it hit me. I finally knew what had been missing from Christmas for me since Dad passed away. It was a gift that I didn’t ask for or even need. Yet it touched my heart dearly. That’s what my dad was all about. Whenever you asked him what he wanted for his birthday or for Christmas, you always got the same answer — “I don’t need anything.” Until Zim’s unselfish deed, I never quite understood what he meant. Now I do. You really don’t need “things.” My dad was the greatest man I ever knew. He bravely served our country in World War II from age 19 to 21. People like him are the reason his generation is referred to as “The Greatest Generation.” He never intended to be a hero, but he was. And the most important thing to him was his faith. It was always the most important thing in his life. I so dearly miss praying with him in the morning. That is why I keep his rosary next to my bed. If Dad wasn’t touching you with his actions, he was doing it with a corny joke or that silly look that he inherited from his pop, my Grandpa ’Noni. Dad had an exceptional ability to express his love without uttering a single word. You just knew he loved you. It was a wonderful thing. I started this column by mentioning a football game. Years ago, Dad would often tell me to calm down when I would start hollering and stressing out while watching a Packers game. He would tell me that it’s not worth getting sick over, and that it’s only a game. Was he kidding? At the time, I couldn’t grasp his lack of passion. After all, it was the Green Bay Packers! I knew Dad loved the Pack just like I did; he brought me up watching them. I just didn’t get why he never seemed to get as upset when they lost as I did. Well, now I finally do. Dad, after all these years, I now understand there are other things much more important in life. Yes, the holidays are finally over. Jack Zimmerman’s no-hit little league ball is now in a protective ball cube on the shelf in my bedroom. And Dad’s rosary is still beside my bed. I will always cherish both of these items for different reasons. Now I get it.

*  *  *  *  *

Since I wrote that column, Jack’s mother joined my Dad in heaven. I know they are smiling down on their respective sons. They always got it; they knew what was most important - making people smile. Until next time…from the booth.

30 Years Later…

In 1975 it was legal to purchase and consume alcohol at the age of 18 in the state of Wisconsin. And that’s exactly what I did, usually in the form of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Lots and lots of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The truth be told, I was consuming alcoholic beverages before the legal age of 18. Today’s blog deals with the warm summer of 1975 and involves the infamous Arno Schubert. 

Arno first graced this blog in “My First Labor Day”. After that he also showed up in “Arno: A Koos Legend”, “A Koos Christmas Story”, “A Special Secret Weapon” and “Attack Of The Chainsaw”. If you haven’t read these entertaining blogs, I encourage you to take the time to do so. They will help you to appreciate the enigmatic man named Arno.

Let’s get back to the summer of 1975.

I had been working at Koos Inc. for a couple of months when I finally felt comfortable enough to tell my co-workers where I lived. Keep in mind, this was the first time I was exposed to wild characters like Virgil Tucker, Ziggy Gutowski and of course, Arno Schubert. So, you can understand my reluctance in revealing such personal information.

When I first mentioned that I lived off of Highway C in Pleasant Prairie, just down the road from the Nobby Lobby tavern, my worst fears were realized. The words had barely left my lips before Danny Fliess blurted out, “No shit, Puddles. Arno lives right by you!”

Great, I thought to myself, that’s all I need. And I was right. As soon as that crusty old German discovered where I lived, he was hitting me up for a ride home. So, for the rest of that summer I gave that foul-mouthed curmudgeon a lift home. Each and every miserable night.

At first, the 15-minute trips were fairly uneventful. A typical drive home consisted of me continually turning the volume of the radio up in an attempt to drown out Arno’s incessant cursing. I’m not sure if he ever even noticed.

Then it happened. After a particularly hot day, Arno climbed into my car and announced that he was going to start compensating me for giving him a ride home. I am quite sure he didn’t use the word compensate, but you get the idea.

All right! I wondered just how much he was going to give me. Five bucks would be nice. Ten would be even better. Well, it wasn’t ten and it wasn’t even five. Nope.

The compensation came in the form of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

As soon as I had turned on to Washington Road, Arno instructed me to turn into Andy and Phil’s parking lot. Andy and Phil’s was a small neighborhood bar located right behind Big Star’s parking lot.

As I pulled in, I quickly informed him that I had no intention of sitting in a bar stinking of fertilizer. He promptly told me to shut the “f#ck up” and jumped out and ran inside. Moments later he appeared with a brown paper bag and a toothless grin going from ear to ear.

While I pulled back onto Washington Road, Arno reached into the bag and produced an ice-cold bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. I shrugged my shoulders and accepted the payment for my transportation services. Arno, still grinning, removed a bottle for himself, cracked it open and started gulping it down.

Well, at least he wasn’t swearing. If there was one thing that Arno enjoyed more than swearing, it was drinking beer. And I enjoyed the quiet. The beer wasn’t bad either.

By the time we turned onto Highway HH we had finished the six-pack. It was at this point that Arno gathered up the empty beer bottles and began to hurl them out the window into the ditch by the cornfield.

This didn’t last forever, a couple of months I think. But every night for those two or three months we stopped at Andy and Phil’s so Arno could buy that six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon for the ride home. And every night he tossed the empties out the window into that ditch by the cornfield.

There must have been over 400 bottles in that ditch before I finally stopped giving Arno a ride home.

I know, I know. Not only was I drinking while driving, Arno was littering as well. What can I say, I was young and dumb and Arno was… Well, Arno was Arno.

That was 40 years ago. For the next ten years I continued to consume Pabst Blue Ribbon on a regular basis. Sometimes on a “more than” regular basis.

However, on August 4, 1985 that all came to an end. I was in the booth announcing a morning league game at historic Finney’s West when I decided that I had had enough. And I haven’t touched a drop since then.

Happy 40th anniversary to you Arno Schubert, wherever you might be. More importantly, happy 30th anniversary to me. Until next time…from the booth.

Where Has Kenosha Softball Gone?

The other day on Facebook, my friend, Mary Uhlich, asked me why I thought softball wasn't as popular now in Kenosha as it once was. I thought about it for a bit and couldn’t really put my finger on it. However, I did recall this “My Turn” column that I wrote a couple of years ago. Maybe it will shed some light on the subject.

City League

Back in 1976, I managed the Sands softball team in the Continental league of the Department of Recreation of Kenosha Unified School District No. 1. A rather verbose title, don’t you think? That’s why it was more commonly referred to as “City” league.

During the 1980s, the Golden Age of Kenosha softball, the City league was active Monday through Friday. Men and women played 12”, 14” and 16” games at Lincoln 1 and 2, Red Arrow, Roosevelt, Petretti, Poerio, Petzke, Columbus and both Anderson diamonds.

With eight teams in a league and up to eight diamonds being used on a given night, there were enough spots for over 250 teams. With more than 170 of those spots being relegated for men’s 12” slow-pitch teams, you would think that there would be no problem getting your team into a league.

Well, you would be wrong.

Despite all of that availability, getting your team registered to play City league softball was a crapshoot. Spots were at a premium and there was no guarantee that your team was going to get one. The archaic system that the Recreation Department used to register teams in those days made things quite challenging.

Even if your team had played the previous season, it was first-come first-served each year. Your team might have been playing for ten straight years - your spot was still up for grabs, it didn’t matter.

The way you made sure your team got a coveted spot was to arrive at the Recreation Department bright and early the day registration opened. I had better clarify that. While It behooved you to get there early, there was no way it was going to be bright. Not at 2:00 a.m. in late February.

Looking back, I still remember standing in that small parking lot located at 2717 67th Street on those dark, bone-chilling winter mornings, freezing off my considerable backside. Joining me in this harebrained endeavor were numerous fellow softball zealots, all hoping to secure a treasured spot in one of Kenosha's City leagues.

We would stand in line, shuffling from one foot to the other, pretending not to be cold. We made small talk as we tried to figure how many teams were ahead of us. But mostly we were just shivering and feeling extremely miserable.

Around 7:30 a.m., the doors to the Rec Department would open and over 150 of us would appreciatively scramble to get into the warm building. Then we would wait some more. Depending on your place in line, you might not get to register your team until after 11 o'clock. But it was well worth it if you were able to acquire that seemingly priceless spot for your team.

If it’s any consolation, the Recreation Department finally changed their antiquated registration system, adapting a method that yours truly proposed. Rather than doing the first-come first-served routine, teams that played the year before had a designated date when they could register. After that, any openings that resulted from teams not returning were made available using the old process.

Ironically, while the Recreation Department had ultimately pulled their head out of the sand and updated their system, it no longer really matters. Along with the Golden Age of Kenosha softball, the demand for a spot to play is long gone.

A phone call to the Recreation Department reinforced this. I was informed that there are only 44 teams playing this year, thirty of which are men’s teams. The two Lincoln diamonds are the only parks used, with no games on Wednesdays.

When I mentioned to the person giving me the information that in the ‘80s there were over 250 teams registered, she responded, “There wasn’t a Rec Plex back then.” I told her maybe not, but there was the Bullpen, Bat ‘n’ Brew, Finney’s West, Furlan’s Dugout, Hooker Lake Inn, Louie’s Waterhole and Shane Rawley’s. She replied, “Oh. Well, then you have your information.”

Yes indeed, I had my information and it proved the ardent desire for Kenosha City league softball no longer exists. Too bad I am no longer managing a team. It would be so much easier to register my team over at 2717 67th Street. I wouldn’t even have to freeze off my considerable backside.

Until next time…from the booth.

Young and Dumb, Looking for Fun

It was 5:00 on a blustery Friday afternoon in January. I was a senior in high school looking at the entire weekend in front of me with no homework to worry about. I didn’t have to work and the only plans I had was a Kenosha Flyer hockey game on Saturday night. But I needed something to do tonight; after all it was Friday night. I wanted to have some fun. Little did I know how much this fun would end up costing me.

After a bit of deliberation, it came to me that there was a basketball game at school starting at 7:00. After the folks said it was okay to borrow one of their cars, I called up my buddy Dave to see if he wanted to go. He said sure, it sounded like fun.

Yes! Fun, that’s what I wanted. I grabbed my jacket, jumped in the yellow 1970 AMC Rebel and sped off to pick up Dave. There was fun to be had.

When Dave got in the car he immediately asked if I brought anything. Being a bit naïve at the time, I asked him what he was talking about. He said, “You know, do you have anything to drink?” I told him no, not to worry, I knew where to go.

Full disclosure number 1. Before going on, there is a “minor” detail that you should know. In 1975 the legal drinking age for the state of Wisconsin was 18. At the time I was only 17 years old.

There was an Italian restaurant (that shall go unnamed) on the northside of Kenosha that had a liquor store. Being large for my age, I never had a problem obtaining adult beverages at this particular establishment, even without a state ID.

On that night, I picked up a 6-pack of Schlitz Tall Boys and a pint of Southern Comfort. We had about an hour before the game started to consume the purchase. We were going to have fun.

Having successfully accomplished the task of pouring all of the alcohol into our young heads, we arrived at the game with time to spare. Staggering up the bleachers, a loud “Hey Paul” greeted me. It was Lori, a junior that sat next to me in our typing class. She waved for Dave and I to come join her and her two girlfriends. Of course we obliged.

Full disclosure number 2. I had a thing for Lori. What can I say? She was quite fetching, plus she was Italian.

Most of the basketball game was somewhat of a fuzzy blur. I’d like to say it was the fluorescent lights in the gymnasium, but it was more likely the half pint of Southern Comfort and the 48 ounces of Schlitz that I demolished in less than an hour. I can’t say I remember if we won or not. Nonetheless, we were having fun.

Leaving the game, we “happened” to run into Lori and her friends in the parking lot. With a collective smile, they asked us if we could get some more alcohol. Obviously they had detected that we were slightly intoxicated. I said sure and the three of them jumped into the Rebel. Heading back to my favorite northside Italian restaurant, I thought to myself, now we are really going to have fun.

Having grabbed four bottles of Boone’s Farm Apple wine, I was back in the car in the blink of an eye. I know, I know, Boone’s Farm Apple wine. It wasn’t my idea. It was the drink of choice for our three female guests. I wasn’t about to argue with them.

Unfortunately, the Schlitz and Southern Comfort that was already inside of me did argue with the Boone’s Farm. The toxic mixture of the three different types of booze quickly took effect of me in a bad way. Let’s just say my judgment quickly became alcohol-impaired. Severely.

What happened next made this brutally evident. Having just passed Park View Tavern on north Sheridan Road, I turned right and drove up the hill, supposedly to cross the railroad tracks. But that never happened.

Instead, I took a sharp left. For some unknown reason I decided to take the family Rebel and it’s five passengers for a trip down the railroad tracks. It must have been the Southern Comfort. And the Schlitz. And the Boone’s Farm Apple wine. But we were having fun. Weren’t we?

Full disclosure number 3. This railroad crossing no longer exists in Kenosha. It was eliminated a few years later. I guess timing is everything.

The trip down the railroad came to a rather abrupt halt when the rear end of the car became hung up on the tracks. The five of us were stuck high up on the hill, directly across from St George’s Cemetery. Kind of creepy, huh?

We did everything humanly possible to get the car off of the tracks. Nothing worked, not even the jack. It was getting colder and the cemetery was getting creepier. I was beginning to wonder if I was still having fun.

As things were beginning to look hopeless, a station wagon pulled up at the bottom of the hill. Four guys popped out and asked if we needed some help. Relieved, we shouted back, “Yes, please!” They climbed the steep hill to offer their assistance.

While we were attempting to lift the back end of the car off the tracks, we were interrupted by some bright flashing lights. Looking behind us we saw a police car back at the railroad crossing. The cops had gotten out and were headed our way. I began feeling this wasn’t going to be so much fun after all.

Despite being somewhat alcohol-impaired, I did some quick thinking and was quite gallant. Not wanting Lori and her friends to get in trouble, I asked the guys in the station wagon if they would give them a ride. They scurried down the hill and left just as the cops arrived at the car.

The cops told us in no uncertain terms that we had to get out of there right away. It seems there was a train scheduled to be coming by in a little bit and the car needed to be towed away.

The policemen waited for the tow truck and instructed us to get into a second police car that was waiting for us at the bottom of the hill. Now I knew this wasn’t going to be fun.

Stumbling down the hillside, I tripped and landed in a disheveled heap halfway down. Adding insult to injury, my glasses flew off my head when I fell. A brief search proved fruitless, I couldn’t find them anywhere. Besides, the police were hollering at me to hurry up and get over to the car.

The ride in the police car was less than pleasant. Needless to say, the officers were not impressed that we were underage and extremely intoxicated. They were rather persistent in their questioning about where we had purchased the alcohol. I am proud to say I didn’t snitch. I might have been only 17, but I knew all about omertà.

When we got to the police station, I was prepared for the worse. However, things weren’t as bad as they could have been. Sure, we received a stern lecture, but, remarkably, we didn’t even get a ticket. The officer told us he was going to strongly suggest to our parents that they take away our driver’s license for a while. Then he called our folks to come pick us up.

I guess things could have been a lot worse. Especially for Dave. His folks weren’t home, so the police allowed my dad to drop him off. You guessed it. His parents never found out. He got away scot-free, unscathed and unpunished.

That wasn’t the case for me. I had to face my disappointed folks, which was pretty tough. Dad did what he always did when one of us let him down. He was completely quiet. It was a stoic silence that seemed deafening. Mom, on the other hand, was a hysterical mess. That was also to be expected.

However, there was one refreshing moment that occurred during all of the drama. After Dad left to pick me up from the police station, Mom frantically interrogated my brother Mike about when I had started to drink. He replied with feigned astonishment, “Gee mom, this must have been the first time!” Evidently my younger brother also knew about omertà.

 And, yes they did take away my driver’s license. I also had to pay the towing charge for the Rebel. On top of that, I never found my glasses and had to buy a new pair. It was tough watching that Flyer hockey game without my specs.

Full disclosure number 4. My parents gave me back my driver’s license as soon as they needed me to go to the store for them.

Not having my glasses for a while wasn’t the only thing I had to deal with after my trip down the tracks. I wasn’t looking forward to facing Lori in our typing class on Monday morning. Remember, she sat right next to me. I fully expected her to act as if I never existed.

When Monday came I made sure to get to class before Lori did. Nervously, I kept squinting at the door, anxiously waiting for her to arrive. Finally she entered the room and quietly walked to her desk, clutching her books tightly to her chest.

Before sitting down, Lori stopped in front of my desk. I thought to myself, here it comes, she’s really gonna let me have it. After a pause that seemed to last an eternity, she finally spoke.

In a soft, almost timid voice, Lori said, “Paul, are you mad at me?” Before I could reply, she added, “I don’t blame you if you are. We should have never left you Friday night. I’m really sorry.”

After the initial shock wore off, I managed to blurt out, “Aw, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you didn’t get in trouble.” With that, she smiled and sat down next to me.

As class began, she leaned over to me and whispered, “Do you want to take me to the basketball game in Muskego in two weeks?” I told her that I probably could. Then I thought to myself, yep, I’m gonna have some fun.

Until next time…from the booth.

They Made Balls and Strikes Their Business

From my book, More Kenosha Softball:

Over the years, Kenosha has had a multitude of teams competing against one another. Some teams were very good, playing at a high level. There were also teams that were playing merely to justify getting together with the guys for a couple of beers in the middle of the week. Some teams were able to accomplish both. But regardless if a team was playing in the Classic League at Finney’s West or in the Continental Division on Tuesday nights in the city, all of them had one similarity. There was a common denominator. All of these teams needed umpires.

That is why I felt the need for a set of umpires to adjudicate the games being played by the Most Popular Kenosha Softball Team I Ever Saw. Here are the results from the poll used to select that duo:

Ernie Pascucci – 28%

Dick Cairo – 21%

Jerry Herrick – 17%

George Pflueger – 6%

Ron Soulek – 5%

George Becker – 3%

Jim Steinhoff – 3%

Don Newport - 3% 

Imagine that, Ernie Pascucci and Dick Cairo garnering the most votes! Kind of fitting. Why you ask? Here is an excerpt from Some Kenosha Softball that will explain why:

The #1 duo was Dick Cairo and the distinguished and colorful Ernie Pascucci. When Pascucci decided to cut back on the amount of games he worked, Cairo had to choose a new partner. His choice was long time Kenosha schoolteacher George Becker. With Cairo’s many years of experience and Becker’s “George Hamilton-like” good looks, Finney’s West had a new top crew.

It should be noted that Cairo will join Pascucci, Soulek and George Chromcik in the Kenosha Softball Hall of Fame on July 12. Not bad company.

If you would like to read more about the Golden Age of Kenosha Softball, you should read my books. Both Some Kenosha Softball and More Kenosha Softball are available at the Kenosha History Center and RK News. Live outside the Kenosha area? More Kenosha Softball is available online at Amazon.com. If you would like a signed copy of either book, contact me at (262) 671-4251.

Until next time…from the booth.

What’s Next?

I know it’s been a while since I updated this blog site, and I apologize for that. The last Most Popular I Ever Saw Tournament was for outfielders. I have left the polls up so that you can see the results.

Your choices for the four outfielders completes the Most Popular Kenosha Team I Ever Saw. Here it is:

Rocky Tirabassi P

Craig Stewart C

Tom Beth 1B

Mike Higgins 2B

Bill Griffiths 3B

John Pitts SS

Steve Hess MF

Richie Baumgarten OF

Tom Klappa OF

Jack Zimmerman OF

Ron Benhoff OF

With the “fantasy” team being completed, I was at a loss for another poll or tournament. Perhaps that is why I have been so lackadaisical in posting something new.

Then it hit me! Since we have an entire team of players, why not choose the top two umpires? So, starting today, the Most Popular Kenosha Umpire I Ever Saw Tournament is officially kicking off.

Please vote carefully, as the top two vote getters will be assigned the privilege of officiating the Most Popular Team’s games. Oops. Who will they play? Hmm…

While I ponder their potential opponent, let the voting begin! As usual, he poll is located just to the right of the blog. Remember, if you are using a smartphone, make sure you scroll to the bottom and click on view web version to find the poll. The voting will end Sunday at noon.

Until next time…from the booth.