Now, at the Lake of the Woods. . .

This week's visitor to Hotel California fished the mighty Pacific today. The International Falls resident (left) guides others to Greater North walleyes, lake trout and such, but this was a bit of a busman's holiday, as he tried his hand at some deep sea fishing.  Wayne will be here for a week. Stan stays on for a few more weeks. The garden is just starting to sprout new growth and there's a project blooming in the garage that needs attention.

While still at sea, the fishing duo sent this report. Don't ask for any IDs on this fish. Could be anything. They ain't walleye.

 

The next game could be his "Last Hurrah!"

Ah, reminiscing again. I try to live in the present, but sometimes you can’t help but go back. I take you now, in the wayback machine, to the days when the entire state would be gripped in basketball tournament fever, and radio and tv play-by-play descriptions were followed with great interest. Popular intensity, since then, has moderated somewhat. 

Today my long-time doctor texted me a yellowed newspaper clipping of a ballgame in 1982. He had a younger brother playing in the game, and they still treasure the memories. I was writing occasionally for the Chaska paper back then. Lots of fun for the town, as they pressed forward with a winning team. Here’s my account of the hilarity added to it by one classic small-town radio play-by play icon.

___________________

Wednesday, March 24, 1982 – the Carver County Herald

Thursday’s game could be his last hurrah

Just when you thought there was no room left for one more star on the Chaska basketball scene, just when you thought nothing could be added to the excitement of Saturdays overtime victory—KSMM plays the Jonckowski tapes.

Some of us are still shaking. 

The Jonckowski tapes, for the benefit of the timid who never wander far from WCCO-AM, are the play-by-play reports of the Hawks games on KSMM radio, Shakopee.  KSMM is not allowed to broadcast after dark, so they can’t carry live night games. Undaunted, the station plays back a recording of the game a day later, and after you already know the outcome and the score.

Sound dull? Not when you’ve got a game for a state tournament berth, and you rarely get more than a two-point lead… And Dick Jonckowski is screaming out the play-by-play.

Now a word about our announcer. Dick is not your average plaid-slacked, mellow-voiced radio announcer. First, and above all, he is a homer. He’s a sports fanatic, his Shakopee man-cave houses a trove of memorabilia.

For a time he was banned from the sidelines of the Minnesota Vikings football field, by none other than the Great Bud Grant himself, who thought The Junker was just hot-dogging too much in his job as stadium usher. Bud, like many of us, just didn’t understand him.

Never a doubt about Dick‘s loyalties.

Dick Jonckowski’s abiding dream is to broadcast a state tournament game. How do I know this? Because he told everybody, between gasps, during Sunday’s broadcast. No one was surprised, just concerned that his heart will hold out long enough. When he excitedly dropped the microphone during the final seconds of regulation play this week, and all we heard was seconds of suspenseful dead air, well, some of us thought it might have been the Big One for ol’ Dick this time.

The tape is a classic. The whole town is talking about it. Neighbors are bringing it from house to house. Mrs. Young’s Third grade class listened to highlights. Dieters use it as a sweat aid.

In case you have missed it, we’ve written down some highlights for you here. It loses something in the transcription, of course, you must read it with intensity.

He cheers:

“Come on Chaska, let’s go! You’re going to have to start rolling. I had a dream that this would happen, but I really didn’t think it would. (The score is 6–0). 

“All right, come on now, here we go, Hawkers!” (6-6)

He coaches:

“Hurry, Whitey! Can’t get it across, He’s going to be called for 10 seconds. No! Just barely made it.

“They’ve got to do something about the big guy. I believe if they put Preiss down low, they could get more baskets. They should be able to get a few chipping in, nice shots.” (32-31)

He’s candid:

“I don’t know if anybody thought the game would be this close. I was sure hoping it wouldn’t be. Chaska, 45–44, in a game that has me almost in a nervous breakdown.”

He didn’t like the officiating:

“Oh, no! They called it for an elbow. I don’t know where they’re seeing these fouls. I can’t believe this, I don’t believe some of the calls. I don’t understand it.

"Now they called charging! Come on, I’m sick and tired of this officiating. That’s the fourth on Lommen and Ronnie has been making all the calls. I can’t believe some of these calls.”

It was the final 25 seconds of play that just about did Dick in. Spectators reported seeing Jonckowski throwing his earphones and disappearing from view in his booth, then jumping up and down in his bright red shirt.

We pick up the play-by-play in progress. It’s loud and intense.

“Pass-in to Lommen with 25 seconds. Preiss up the floor to Dalhke. Dalhke holds it. Gives it to Lano. Oh, Lano was fouled twice, three times, and now he throws it out of bounds. They rule it was last touched by Chaska! They rule that Chaska touched it last! Lano threw the ball and thought it was deflected out by Fairmont, but they rule that Chaska touched it last!

“So they ruled that Lano last touched it, so Fairmont has a shot at the last chance for the last shot. -- Rosenberg, 29-footer, no good! Rebound, no time left on the clock, 8-foot shot, no good, that’s the game! Oh, a called. . . . .

(At this point, there is an unintelligible muffled word, emanating from the announcer’s booth. We won’t speculate.)

“I can’t. I think he called a foul! I think he called a foul with one second left. They’re calling a foul with one second left on the clock. That ball was just loose. You couldn’t tell who had it, you couldn’t tell who had the ball, either way you couldn’t tell who had it, just an unbelievable call, just typical of the way the whole game is gone with these officials.”

“ Oldencamp shooting for Fairmont. Free throw. If he misses  it’s overtime or if he makes, a loss for Chaska. Either one, on a very questionable last second call, very questionable last second call and Chaska wants a time out.”

Mercifully, we break for a commercial.

“At the Line is Oldencamp to shoot another.”

(At this point there is a microphone clunk. A full five seconds of silence elapses, leaving us to wonder if Oldencamp wins it for Fairmont or what? Then, gratefully, Dick is back)

“…..over.  Oldencamp at the, there’s only one second left. If he makes it, it’s over. Here’s his free-throw, it’s up, it’s no good. Overtime! Overtime! He missed it! Oldencamp choked. He choked. He choked, and we have overtime!”

Will he live long enough for state?

In deference to your blood pressure and our space, we’re withholding the play-by-play during the three minute overtime. Suffice to say that Jonckowski worked himself into a lather, reaching new heights of excitement. We pick it up at the end of overtime:

“It’s Chaska‘s ball and they win. Chaska wins another state tournament berth. Another state tournament berth for the Chaska Hawks. Oh, my God, unbelievable. Fairmont loses. They lose it. Chaska wins it”.

(Now we hear a gasping, and the ominous sound of deep breaths blowing across the top of the microphone.)

“Oh, I’m out of breath. (Gasp). I can hardly talk. Oh, I’m out of breath. Unbelievable win. Unbelievable win for the Chaska Hawks. (Gasp). Fantastic. I can’t believe it. I just hope I live long enough to go to the state tournament, unbelievable, oh I can’t believe this. This is fantastic. It might be the biggest thrill I’ve ever had because I’ve always wanted Chaska to go back to the state so bad, so I could be there. (Gasp). Unbelievable and the fans are on the floor, they’re going crazy. And I’ll try and be back with a wrap up.

“Holy man, I just can’t believe it. I’m just exhausted. “

We were too, Dick. Good luck now in the state tournament and Thursday’s afternoon live broadcast. Thanks for backing the Hawks, but take care of yourself. 

Please folks. Pray that the Chaska Hawks take an early 10-point lead and then hold it.

It could save a life.

——————————————

Forty-two years later, this is still one of life’s precious moments for me, the doctor and his brother, who won a berth that year in Minnesota’s Big Show.

It’s okay to reminisce.

A report from the front line

That's Steve, cub reporter, and behind him are
 Trisha, Katrina, Derrick and Gina

 

    Intrepid explorers mastered the treacherous reaches of the famed Hurricane Creek Park in northern Alabama today, unfazed by a driving rain and slippery rocks. The party of five risked catastrophe as they struggled to the top of this spectacular natural formation, pausing only to admire the rapid flow and steep drops of the magnificent water features. The rains forced a swollen river to overmount its banks, adding interest and further adventure to the group's explorations.

The group hopes to reach a Supercross racing event near Birmingham, Alabama, where skilled dirt biker Steve O. and friends will serve as official race flaggers, as two others watch from the stands at this exciting professional event. 

Steve also works as a cub reporter and photographer for this blog, submitting reports on the progress on the road trip from Minnesota. He submitted these photos:

February 22, 2024. 50 degrees, sunny sky, calm.

 

Full charge, pumped tires, endless trails, and a distant grocery store across the pond. A day of adventure for the old man and his trike.

How we doing? Our AI wants to know

 Just scroll down if you’d rather not hear a grumpy old man bitch about artificial intelligence.

Here goes: 

Despite their advertising to the contrary, my bank has consolidated itself into a mega corp that can no longer relate to its customers, try try try as it might. Their hapless employees are victims as well, trying to keep abreast of the changes and mergers that render them agog, and helpless to make any meaningful decisions. They may do their best, but often that is just shaking their heads helplessly and holding your hand.

My trouble today is not a big deal, but we’re changing banks and would like our social security checks now to be deposited automatically to our new bank. Simple, right?

Our kind SS worker, at the end of a long wait needed to know the old routing number in order to make our transition to the new bank. Reasonable request when everyone is anonymous. Trouble was, our old bank had acquired another old bank but hadn’t updated the routing number when they acquired it, but apparently were happy to continue to acquire our deposit anyway.  Social security merrily continued using that dead bank’s number for about a decade. The SS worker had suggested we look at some of our old checks to match the number THEY were using each month. Security requirement, you know. We had tossed those old paper checks, of course. I mean, after 10 years?

So no one knew the dead routing number at our new old bank. It required research through headquarters someplace. We called our new old bank and got a teller and asked about that merged bank. No idea. Neither did the new old bank president, Don.

As funny as it was unbelievable. Don had no idea, promised to research the corporate mergers at the head shed after he got back from vacation. He did. Problem solved.

Then comes the satisfaction survey from corporate, a device it uses to wield control over its minions who have impressive titles but no power. It reduces them to four out of five stars, or so, some management scheme to manage by asking questions that have no relevance, forcing you to choose yes and no and 1 to 10. No questions from corporate about: Do you like our artificial intelligence? Are we too big? Have we lost touch with our clientele?

I did my best to express my general frustration with the system, using their crude survey. It was inadequate.

I do like Don, the local nice guy they call “The president,” but I’m not fooled. We had a warm conversation and Don has the same frustrations as I do. He’s been there two months, one of a long chain of “presidents.” Apparently when the artificial intelligence figured I had checked the wrong boxes, it triggered a call from a faraway place asking Don what the hell was going on. 

I’d like to buy him a beer sometime, and we’ll cry in it.

The new curators

At noon today, responsibility for the renown Rolfsrud Relics was formally accepted by Bailey Breck Rolfsrud. Ninety-five pounds of material, mostly scrapbooks, were officially turned over to the new curator, for placement in the Rolfsrud Repository in Mankato, Minnesota. Her powerful yet compliant escort removed the material in one swift motion, after a cursory inspection of the heavily redacted materials, some in the collection for over 100 years. Ms. Rolfsrud's weight of responsibility rivaled the weight of her husband's package. Bailey Breck, an author of some renown herself, will catalogue the ancient pages and be available for queries from interested parties, as soon as an 800 number is established.

Naked and afraid

 Despite the inconvenience of five kids, Mom and Dad went on the road for periodic concert tours in the early 50s. They farmed their children to various locations for a few weeks for the duration of their “Sacred Concert” road show, passing the hat at various and sundry Midwest churches. 

I drew Ruby and Al Korkowski, a childless couple on a tiny farmstead between Brandon and Garfield, Minnesota. She was a schoolteacher, wise and experienced. He had “heart-trouble”, but always showed me a big heart, teaching me, at a very young age of 4, how to maneuver his red Farmall Cub tractor in low gear, while he tossed bales of hay onto a trailer.

 
I loved them.

Al was salt of the earth, and wise, but he could never quite explain to this curious child exactly why he kept a huge, nasty bull on the premises.
“Be careful around the bull, he can be dangerous,” he would warn.
“If he doesn’t give milk and he’s so mean, why do you keep him?’ 

Al always had a red-face and was non-plussed by this query anyway.
“We’re going to butcher him,” he’d say. “he’s got to get a little bigger though, ” he said sincerely.

I was satisfied with this, not knowing it was easier to mention death to a tot, rather than the miracle of birth, or that the bull was just there to help the mother cows have calves. No matter, it was a different time.

Returning to the farmhouse one day, Ruby was in the kitchen, having coffee with a neighbor. She insisted that I go into the basement and shower off the farm dirt and dust. I balked. I hated taking showers and she knew it.

“You have to take a shower, Stanley” she admonished. “If you don’t, I am going to have to take a shower with you,” she twinkled as her friend sat silently, in on the tease.

Horrified by the prospect of getting naked with a mature woman of my mother’s age, I did not call her bluff.

I headed downstairs immediately and obediently and got scrubbed up.

Fluffy snow, Jan 8, 2023

Just for history sake

Christmas Eve Day, 2023, was 57 degrees in Eden Prairie, the grass still green and the creek was open! It rained all afternoon, no ice. Friends are headed to Arizona to escape the cold. Phoenix will be 62. We'll manage. :) It's an El Nino winter for sure.