Chapters from "TIME TRIALS"
• 5 •
Fits and Starts
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Much of life in my elementary school years was spent playing games and with sports on make-shift ball fields and in the original, high school gymnasium with an enchanting balcony to host spectators, squeezed at the railing. By 4th grade, I was feeling in the groove and becoming an athlete, which didn’t necessarily bode well for my teacher, Violette Schultz, a wonderful lady but jittery schoolmarm. Dan Morrow, the other gifted athlete, and I at recess would toss the football precariously near her head, as we stood in front and back of her.
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The other boys were hardly less civilized in the classroom. When the end of the quarter grading period arrived, Ms. Schultz got her revenge. One section of our report cards was reserved for “Personality” grading (i.e., deportment) and our cards were loaded with “x’s’, which is not good.
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When I delivered the grades to my parents that evening, I was reprimanded and grounded from attending movies for a month. One must understand that a primary entertainment for Elkhorn kids in the 1940s was Friday night movies that inevitably involved the latest western film starring favorites Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and Randolph Scott, among other B-rated actors and their horses. When the boys learned of my penalty, I was derided as an unfortunate soul.
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Upon returning to school on Monday morning, Violette Schultz went around the class asking each boy how their parents responded to their miscreant behavior. All merely shrugged their shoulders saying it was fine with mom and dad, until she got to me. Whereupon, I noted my fate for the next month. To my surprise, and delight, Ms. Schultz looked squarely at me and then to the class, remarking, “Now there is a young man who will grow up some day to be a good person, thanks to parents who care about his character.”
Fourth Grade Rascal
I couldn’t have been prouder, as we convened to the playground that morning. The chiding subsided and others looked at me with a modicum of envy—at least so I thought. Four weeks of Fridays passed and little did I suffer. There is life after cheap movies on the weekend.
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Soon basketball competition would begin with “Friendly Indian” contests for 9 to 11-year-olds, and “Pioneer” games, ages 12 and 13, as part of YMCA program outreach. All this for boys only, as girls were relegated to less strenuous, discriminatory activities.
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During two summers in the upper elementary years, I attended camp at Phantom Lake near Mukwonago, some 20 miles to the east of Elkhorn and midway to Milwaukee. There, I was introduced to intense sports activities, adventure, and competition. It was a natural fit.
Phantom Lake, Mukwonago, Wisconsin
The first summer attending the YMCA camp on Phantom Lake was serendipitous. As kids in Elkhorn, we were bused to Janesville, a larger city of about 25,000 residents then and home of the Parker Pen Company. A young man by the name of Lou, possibly a college student working at the Janesville Y, saw goodness and potential in me for some unknown reason.
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One afternoon, in early summer, Lou drove the 28 miles from Janesville to visit our home offering to pay the fee for me to attend a 10-day Phantom Lake YMCA camp. This was a life-enhancing experience filled with adventure, swimming, arts, crafts, and softball. As the youngest kid, I played left field for our Winnebago tent team. (The younger boys' sleeping tents were named after Indian tribes and the older boys’ quarters after Big Ten schools, e.g., Michigan, Northwestern, and Purdue.)
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It was a high, very high—real high—fly ball, or so it seemed, that I camped under and squeezed for an out. Instinctively, I knew that I was destined to play in the outfield. The expansive outfield green grass also had an aesthetic appeal along with the lure of racing to catch up to a line drive or camp under a towering fly ball. I fancied my play after the Philadelphia Phillies’ marvelous center fielder, Richie Ashburn, who bore my name and had a similar athletic build, so I fantasized. While he was a left-handed hitter, I swung from the right side.
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Or maybe it was because infield ground balls skipping off the uneven turf were more challenging. Our infields were hard dirt surfaces in contrast to the groomed grass turfs kids would come to enjoy.
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The next summer, my parents dug deep into cash reserves and sent both Roger and me to the camp. The cost for those 10 days was $25 each. In later life, I have contributed consistently to YMCAs remembering the generosity of Lou and designating that money to help support boys and girls to attend summer camp.
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Finances were critical for my parents, so the dollar amount is remembered. So does the $10 basketball that Don, age 16, bought for Roger and me at Christmas in 1947. This was money he earned working as an usher at the downtown Sprague Theater and a car attendant at the Conoco Station on the corner of Wisconsin and Court Street. I admired Don’s work ethic, but realized he got to see movies nightly. We managed to put the basketball to good use playing on neighborhood courts even as winter cold set in, numbing fingers and hands.
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Roger and I benefited from having older brothers in Bob and Don, who introduced us to sports at an early age. They never had such a benefit. While athletic, neither was in the same league as the best of their peers. We, in turn, paid forward the benevolence to Alan, who may have been the best overall.
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My first professional baseball game came courtesy of Bob in the summer of 1945. On a beautiful Sunday, we caught a bus from downtown to Milwaukee for a double header in Borchert Field, where the Brewers took both games from the St. Paul Saints. This was triple AAA play, which in many respects was as good as the major leagues in the 1940s. What a memorable experience. I was five just out of kindergarten, and Bob soon to be a high school senior. Although only 11 months my junior, Roger was still a touch immature to accompany us.
Milwaukee Cable Car
Borchert Field, Milwaukee 1940s
The bus took us near midtown, where we caught a classic electric-operated street car to the ballpark at the juncture of Chambers and Burleigh sandwiched between 7th and 8th Streets. I remember the groomed field, towering left field wall, and roasted hot dogs with mustard. Bob shifted me on to his shoulders, when a Brewer hammered a towing home run. No instant replays and displays to light up decorative scoreboards in the 1940s or 1950s.
During athletic seasons of a school year, we would follow the high school teams particularly in autumn with air crisp and leaves turning. Roger and I would depart school for afternoon varsity football practices. There we assisted by chasing errant footballs that had been punted or passed and returned them to the line of scrimmage kicking, throwing, or running. On Fridays, we attended pigskin games under the lights at Harris Field erected in the fall of 1946. Early athleticism grew in the process.
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At the end of practice, the two youngsters would follow the coach into the locker room, when Lawrence “Bud” Baxter took us into the tunnel where old equipment was stored. Here, the coach would sort through the gear and keep Roger and me supplied with vintage leather helmets, shoulder pads and jerseys. There were no well-stocked sporting goods stores at the time to offer kid’s equipment, certainly not in Elkhorn. Anyway, few parents had the discretionary income to afford such luxuries.
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With old football togs, Roger and I would descend onto neighborhood Waterbury Field for rough and tumble play time. If other boys were available for scrimmages, great. If not, Roger and Richie would go one-on-one kicking or punting to each other and tracking down the opponent for an open-field tackle. This was a recipe for skill development and resilience that would prove handy in a few years.
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Particularly inviting were rainy days, when we headed to Waterbury Field to slip, slide, tackle and crash to the turf. Dad had installed a shower in the basement of our home, otherwise, reserved for a furnace, coal bin, and laundry tubs. We would go directly from the field into our kitchen and down to the basement, where we had our own locker room. Aside from Saturday night baths, and cloistered showers at the original 1906, now junior high, gymnasium, it was when we cleaned up.
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Not infrequently, perched on the cellar stairs, Roger and I would attempt to piss the 15 feet and hit the toilet. Oh, for that pee stream now, inhibited by a much larger prostate gland that has served a useful purpose for procreation.
Such was the nature of youth sports in the 1940s and into the 1950s. Little league teams and contests, as we came to know them, didn’t exist then. We convened our own games be it an ample yard or open field for football and baseball. Waterbury Field, named after the home of Charlie and Grace Waterbury at 115 N. Washington Street adjacent to the Van Scotter’s at 117, was a popular venue for neighborhood boys.
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On a lovely autumn afternoon, a group of kids gathered for a spirited game on Waterbury Field. On a pass pattern over the middle, Don’s overthrown ball crashed through the picture window. Charlie was at work but not an utterance from Grace, who watched from her living room.
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My assignment on such occasions was to track down Roger and keep him from running home to tell mother of our misdeed, a feat for which he was well-known. Too late! When I looked up, only his backside was visible dashing for our house.
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Don headed to the hardware store downtown for a new pane and putty, while we swept up broken glass. As he attempted to install the pane of glass, it slipped and crashed to the ground. A second try was successful, and we resumed play. Through it all, Mrs. Waterbury quietly observed and presumably told Charlie of the incident, who maintained his usual stoic disposition.
The only remarks uttered by the Waterbury’s all the years as neighbors were compliments.
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Grace Waterbury was the sweetest lady and also the smallest woman I had encountered until then. By third grade, I, at 4’5”, was as tall as she. Charlie was an equally wonderful, soft-spoken neighbor, who worked as the typesetter at The Elkhorn Independent downtown, a weekly newspaper owned by three generations of the F.H. Eames and Company founded in 1922.
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Waterbury Field was home of many joyful episodes, particularly one at age 9 on a beautiful spring day. That morning before school I entered the kitchen as dad was preparing his plumbing truck for the day’s work, and mother had yet to come downstairs. Dad inevitably kept several bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the refrigerator to be enjoyed after work. I knew that he kept an exact count of the number of PBRs cooling, but this morning I took my chances and sipped six ounces, after which I slipped the half-full bottle into the back of the refrigerator.
This was sheer curiosity and the intrigue of doing something forbidden. Upon returning from school for lunch, I polished off the remaining six ounces of beer and disposed of the bottle. I don’t recall any signs of inebriation during afternoon classes, just the refreshing taste of a cool brew.
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After school, Roger and I, along with several neighborhood kids, convened at Waterbury Field. I was unaware that Dad upon arriving home from work had noticed that one of his Pabst Blue Ribbons was missing. Anyway, Dad was an even-tempered man, very light on discipline. I don’t recall ever receiving as much as a spanking from him.
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I spotted Dad coming across Waterbury’s backyard at a pace I hadn’t seen before, heading straight for me. The synapses in my brain registered immediately, and adrenalin quickly flowed to my psychomotor system. This was a raw “fright and flight” response. I had never seen that look in his eyes before but knew it was for me.
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I began to circle the field, as Dad attempted to close in. Around we went. When he felt that I was cornered, I reversed direction, circling and taking the diagonal to avoid his rush. Dad was 38-years-old when I was born and this was 1948 putting him at age 47. He was trim and agile, but I was developing speed and quickness.
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Friends stood on the sidelines enjoying the spectacle. Roger, no doubt, headed home to tell mother of events unfolding on the field. Now, older brother Don had joined the hunt with dad, and the two collaborated to trap the kid. One more move and, perhaps, I could escape, but where was I to go. Eventually, the chase would be over and my destiny a foregone conclusion. So, I made a heroic decision, heading straight for dad and between his legs only to be snagged by Don on the other side.
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The subsequent thrashing was minimal, and I suspect all had a good laugh at the sight of a grown man and teenager taking several exhausting minutes to capture the wily kid. This event left me neither traumatized nor resulted in my being a nascent alcoholic. Mom’s primary concern was that my teacher would detect beer on my breath, report it to the principal, and our family would “make the evening news.” Only embarrassment went through her mind, and nothing about the wayward path her middle son might be taking.
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The exception to make-up sporting contests was Friendly Indian (grades 4-6) and Pioneer (grades 7-8) basketball held in the quaint gymnasium of the 1906 school. This school was adjacent to the 1887 elementary school and served as the high school for three decades. A balcony overhead ringed the gym floor and extended out enough to obstruct shots taken from deep in the corner of the diminutive playing floor. Its free throw arcs were contiguous with the center circle, so that any schoolkid with a decent set shot could score from midcourt.
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Those games on Saturdays during the basketball season were a highlight of my existence on winter days and cold nights. Roger and I spent many hours honing skills and competing against teams from nearby towns in the late 1940s and early 1950s. When we weren’t indoors on the 1906 gym floor playing, we were outside shooting hoops, often attached to garages, in whatever weather nature offered, even if it meant scaling snow drifts to dunk the ball or slamming into the wall or door driving to the basket.
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In third grade, a year before being eligible to compete with the Friendly Indians, I accompanied Don, a high school senior serving as assistant coach, to an end-of-season tournament in the city of Walworth 12 miles southwest of Elkhorn near the village of Fontana on majestic Geneva Lake. It was the final game of the basketball tournament in the Walworth High School gymnasium constructed about the same time as Elkhorn’s Kinne Gymnasium in the late 1930s.
1940s Gymnasium
Richie Baseball Kid • 1949
With 30 seconds remaining in the contest, Don told me to take off my street shoes and enter the game. No fancy Nikes in those days, just canvas sneaker Keds or Converse All Stars that no player would wear today. So, I hustled on to the floor in stocking feet, as the Elkhorn team brought the ball up the court. Rod Thorson, a 6th grader and team leader, charitably tossed me the ball, which I launched from aside the free throw arch that went “swish” through the net for a resounding two points, as the buzzer sounded.
Many years later when writing Thinclads, I visited the old school in downtown Walworth, now a middle school. The building was locked, but I peered through the window, when the assistant principal came to the door thinking that I might be an intruder. When I related my story, I could sense her heart melt, and she let me into the gymnasium. Indeed, it looked the same. So, I stood outside the free throw arch, and imagined the shot taken 65 years earlier.
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Two boys who would be friends and teammates during those early grades and into high school were Bob Klitzkie and Bob Ward. Both had fathers who died when they were in elementary school. When Bill’s mother departed for Milwaukee with his younger brother, Jim, to be near her family, Bill remained in Elkhorn living with the Klitzkie family. They were like brothers, and as Bill commented later, the town raised them. What he meant is that we all had teachers and neighbors, who had our best interests at heart. Shopkeepers, police, and clergy who were honest and trustworthy. It was safe to ride bicycles on streets and games in athletic fields. No edgy overprotection needed.
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By 5th grade something was stirring, and girls now also captured my attention. A dark-haired cutie, who lived north of town and transferred that year to our elementary school. I was smitten by Helen (Froehlke), so when May Day (May 1) arrived I convinced Dad to drive to her home on Wandegeya Lake. Helen’s parents operated the White Horse Inn, an establishment for high-end diners. When I arrived with a basket of candies, Helen came out and accepted my gift offering a sweet kiss on the cheek. I was enchanted, and as she described later, one surprised girl who nearly tumbled down the outside stairs.
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Back to reality. My first memory of high school football was as a 1st grader, when I walked across the schoolyard to Harris Field. It was the fall of 1945 and last season before lights were installed. The Elks had all purple uniforms with gold trim around the numbers, over the shoulders and down the sleeves—a 1940s fashion statement. Bob was a senior halfback with number 35.
The basketball team wore all gold uniforms with purple trim numbers 3 through 12. The team lost only once during the regular season and came a game from the eight final teams at the UW Camp Randall Field House (in a one-class system then) before losing to Racine Park in the sectional final at Nathan Hale High School in West Allis, a Milwaukee suburb.
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Regional tournaments in the early 1940s were held in the Kinne Gymnasium, where over 1000 spectators could be packed in. I remember at age five waiting with my mother in line at 5:00 a.m. on a bitter cold March morning to purchase tournament tickets. I insisted on accompanying her for the thrill of being part of such an event.
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At that point in life, my goal was to get to high school, get in the game, and don the “purple and gold” school colors.