Those first years at Marcusen Ball Park, I sat with my dad, his sister Lilly and brother Ed along the third-base line, directly behind the coaches’ box.

Tuesday, June 27, 2000

Those first years at Marcusen Ball Park, I sat with my dad, his sister Lilly and brother Ed along the third-base line, directly behind the coaches’ box.

When the Packers were at bat, Emil Schied occupied the coaches box with his hands on his hips, one of them always holding a lemon – I don’t know why. He always had a smile if coaxed from the crowd.

Dad, Aunt Lilly and Uncle Ed constantly reminded the men in blue of their poor vision, especially on close plays at third, and called strikes.

"You jughead," was frequent and a bit embarrassing for me. The umpires were less apt to turn around and smile when these names were expressed, but Emil didn’t seem to mind. On occasion, Emil had his own words to share with them.

At the end of the third base bleachers sat kids in the Knot Hole Gang.

We got to Marcusen by driving down Bauman to the dead end. There, we parked the car, walked down the hill and hurried across the road and the swinging bridge to the park.

We came to see baseball – the greats in Class AA baseball.

I remember a game when I called to Bill Campau, then the catcher, to "hit one out." He did.

Jack LaVelle was a family favorite. We named our cocker spaniel after him.

I remember the day Moose Skowron hit four home runs in four at-bats on his way to the Yankees.

Red Lindgren was at first base. He made it look so easy.

Sam House was in center field for a spell, I think.

Dick Seltz played short. My sister and her friends sat in the crowd solely to see him play.

Roy Gilmore was one of the biggest pitchers in baseball when he played for the Packers.

We sometimes followed the team to Albert Lea, Rochester and a game or two in Waseca. Then the tournament was in St. Cloud. I still have a miniature bat from that event.

The Herald invited letters by kids expressing in so many words "why you wanted to be the Austin Packer Bat Boy." I submitted my first letter to the editor.

I didn’t get it, but I was one of the honorable mentions. That entitled me to spend one day with the team as bat boy. Back then stress was unheard of, but I had it. I was suddenly amongst them, so to speak. I was honored and scared at the same time.

What a thrill to sit with them in the dugout and then to run out after the bat when timing was critical. And, to be wearing an Austin Packer uniform…

In later years, we got to be too old to sit with our parents and made our way the top corner of the bleachers on the first-base side to watch the games, chase after foul balls and chew on Halloways.

Coming back across the swinging bridge after the game was more challenging. It was packed and usually there would be a few on the bridge jumping up and down, making the bridge more difficult to cross. Dad didn’t like that.

Years later, for the junior college as the second-string right fielder, behind Gary Lunt, I stood where Emil stood, in the third-base coaches’ box at Marcusen.

There I developed some great signs for the batters for my own delight. They actually took their signs from Bergeson, the coach, in the dugout.

On one of my official few at-bats, I achieved one of my early goals – I hit a foul ball out of Marcusen Ball Park, behind the park. The ball bounced off the roof with a "thunk" when it hit.

I walked.

As slow as I was, I took quite a lead at first. There was no sign from the coach to steal.

This may have been a result of earlier scrimmage when we played the high school, and I was given the steal sign. The catcher bobbled the ball, recovered the ball and still threw me out. Running off the field, Bergeson commented, "It looked like you were pushing a piano," helping me to see that my future was not in baseball.

Anyway, back to the game. I had this big lead, the pitcher checked first, and delivered the ball. The batter didn’t swing. I turned toward the scoreboard to check the count as I walked back toward first.

As I turned back toward the first baseman I heard the "wump" of the catcher’s throw slam into his glove. I made a feeble attempt to reach the bag with my toe before he tagged me.

"You’re outta there," the ump yelled as my embarrassment spread from me through the crowd.

It was nother humbling experience as I ran off the field for the last time.

I did get one credit of "A" for going out for baseball.

It was the only one I got.