Jim "Kato" Kramer was a classmate I kept running into in school.

Tuesday, June 20, 2000

Jim "Kato" Kramer was a classmate I kept running into in school. The first meeting came in fifth grade when our Banfield basketball team, coached by Mr. Roberts, played Woodson. Jim played for Woodson and stood about a foot taller than the rest of us.

In ninth grade he was promoted to B-squad football – a relief to us, because nobody wanted to tackle him. He stopped growing around then and started for the B-squad the next year when we started to catch up to him; that was my last year in high school sports.

One day in practice, I was playing safety. Kramer and crew were running offensive plays. On this particular play I decided if Kramer got the ball and broke through the line I was going to get him – tackle him, that is, something I had made a practice of staying clear of.

He got the ball and wouldn’t you know it, he broke through the line and was making his way through the secondary when I made my charge. Our coaches had told us how to tackle without destroying yourself but like always I had paid little attention to directions so I just hit him head on. The next thing I knew we were both on the ground.

I had stopped him.

Like all great athletes Kramer was quickly on his feet and running back to the huddle. I was praying that I would be able to stand up and breathe.

The tackle hadn’t quite knocked all the breath out of me but enough of it. Getting to my feet and realizing nothing seemed to be broken, I heard Coach Bergeson call from the offensive side of the field, "Nice hit."

I wanted to stand proudly and shout "Thanks, coach." However, I could barely stand and was in no condition to shout anything. Breathing was a challenge. I was able to extend my arm part way up but no words were forthcoming.

The next time I ran into Kramer was at Mankato when he stopped by our basement dwelling where Brown, Lillquist and I quartered the ’64 summer school.

Rick Brown was hitting pop flies at the time, one went fairly deep and both Kramer and I broke for it – by now our heights were similar, only my head was harder as we collided head to head. We took him to the hospital because he had suffered a mild concussion.

The following year, during summer school, Kato Kramer and I roomed together on campus.

Second summer session had just began. We were both fans of Peter Sellers then as we dashed from tree to tree on our way to Old Main for classes – classes that begin to wear on u,s which led to conversations about alternatives to school.

"Parrish," the movie with Troy Donahue, had played earlier that summer or the summer before and was about life in the tobacco fields.

We decided that if we dropped out now we could still get a refund. We dropped out. Our refunds amounted to about $50 each. That night we went out with friends to share our plans and imbibe in a "bump" or two and then a few more.

Friends were soon buying us drinks and wishing us well.

The next morning we were weak.

The tobacco fields had lost their flavor, mine from smoking too many cigarettes the night before. We reconsidered and decided we had to do something – Hawaii.

That day we drove back to Austin. Kato told his folks and I left a note on the dining room table. My parents had taken my sister back to West Virginia. My partial note read, "You’re not going to like this but…" It ended there; I wasn’t sure what to say.

My cousin drove us to the west side of Albert Lea and dropped us off where we stood, suitcase in hand both wearing navy blue blazers – holding a sign that read "Hawaii or bust."

So instead of squeezing a quarter’s worth of college into a few weeks, trying to remember what the text that I never had the time to read said, our only concern was the next ride.

Interstate 90 was partial then so we headed west on Highway 16, and before long, we were standing at Mount Rushmore. After that the road didn’t matter so much, and we were in a bar in Elzada, Mont., where the bartender lady opened the beer cans by turning them over and pulling down a lever that wedged a hole in them.

"Not many hitchhikers come through here," she said. We had come into Elzada in the back of a pickup. Eventually we caught a ride out of there with a rancher named Arebuckle. That was his brand.

Our lives nearly ended in Montana one late night with a ride by two men, one of whom looked like Hoss from "Bonanza." He and the driver were both drunk. They stopped to check the tire, and we bailed out.

We made it to Oregon 27 rides later and came to the ocean one night when it was too dark to see, but what a sound to hear – much better than roll call.