We all had fathers, for better or worse, we owe a great deal to them not only for their genetic material but hopefully as a guide to our future. In most respects he was an average man and father. He was born in 1916 and raised on my Grandfather’s farm in Minnesota. My Grandfather was only able to scrape together enough money to buy 40 acres of land plus a few cows to produce milk. 40 acres is a minimal size to provide an economic return and this farm barely produced enough to feed and cloth the family. This was complicated by the Depression which dominated my father’s teen years.
I’ve written a great deal about my Grandfather on my mother’s side of the family and their struggles in Europe and eventual move to America. However, my father’s side has remained obscure until today. My father’s love was Baseball and absent farm chores was where he spent all of his time. During the Depression, every little town had it’s own baseball team playing against near by town teams.
Playing Town team baseball was where my father made his name. He was a 3rd baseman and he batted as a lefthander. Even though he was righthanded, he became a lefthanded batter in honor of his idol, Babe Ruth. It was playing Town Ball in 1939 that a military recruiter saw him play and invited him to enlist in the Army, Navy etc. with the promise that he would spend his time playing baseball for that military branch team. He evaluated the various offers from the military, he choose of all the possibilities, the Coast Guard since he would spend all his time in Florida, understandable after enduring more than 20 years of Minnesota winters.
So starting in 1940 he was assigned to the Coco Beach, Florida Coast Guard base. Playing baseball for the military allowed him to see most of America. They flew to various other military branch bases in Texas, California etc to play a weekend series of baseball. Six years of playing baseball in America was certainly better than fighting in far off lands with the possibility of death or disablement. In 1942, my mother tired of Minnesota winters decide to visit Dad, a former boyfriend, in nice warm Florida. They decided to get married there and I was born in 1944.
In 1945 at the end of WWII he was released from his Coast Guard commitment and with Baseball still his dream, he signed a contract with the New York Giants. Yes the Giants used to be in New York long before SF. He was assigned to their Farm Team system and in 1946 graduated to their Double A team, the Knoxville Smokies. His dream, of course, was to make it to the Show, the major leagues. Mom was back in Minnesota living with her family while Dad pursued his baseball dream. In those days, minor league baseball paid pittance wages – $300 – $500 for the season. In 1946 he was batting 386 with 21 home runs and 106 RBI’s. He was moved to their Triple A team for the nest season, the Minneapolis Millers but he never got to play with them but it was just one step below the majors.
In late August of 1946 a telegram came to Dad’s hotel in Knoxville telling him that his first born son was stricken with polio and in an Iron Lung at the hospital. Dad immediately left Knoxville for Minnesota to help his wife and son. Out went his baseball dream and in it’s place was the responsibility of being a good husband and father. Since money was tight and he needed to support his family, he took the first job offered – driving a Greyhound Bus, his job for the next 35 years.
Growing up on a farm, Dad was handy about anything needing construction or mechanical. In 1949 he was able to put together enough money to buy a 3 acre plot of land in Minnetonka, as suburb west of Minnespolis. There he spent every free hour for the next 4 years building a 4 bedroom brick house on that land. Every brick, wire and pipe was done by him. It was an amazing achievement but done at the expense of pursuing his baseball dreams.
I could see in Dad’s eyes that his dream for his sons was to make it to the major leagues that he just missed. He never said a word about that but one could see the dream even though he never talked about it. I inherited his athletic ability but because of polio was never able to make the most of it. My brother, unfortunately, had no athletic ability. It was on a chance visit by Elroy Face of the Pittsburg Pirates, a minor league friend of dad’s that he taught me how to throw a Forkball. This was the pitch that enabled me to play High School baseball and even two years in college with the University of Minnesota as a relief pitcher. Thank G-d, I did not have to bat very often because I had to hit a double in order to even make it to first base.
My father was not a great man but he was a good man. I cherish the time we spent together and today I miss him very badly.
Image by koon boh Goh from Pixabay