Say Hey Willie and Walt.

This is a true story about unintended outcomes, a father trying to bond with his son and well... you define it. I was ten years old. My father, Walter or Walt as everybody but his sister called him, was a white collar middle class guy, who in retrospect I guess was trying hard to figure out how to be a Dad. It's like Cher said in one of her films."Kid's don't come with instruction books".

In 1951, Minneapolis was not a hot bed of professional sports that it is today. The only major league professional sports team we had were the Minneapolis Lakers. They would be there until the 1960 when Bob Short would take them to LA

Dad took me to the Laker games. For those that don't know it the Lakers were named for the state with ten thousand lakes I saw George Mikan play, the first big man in the NBA. I wanted to be like Jim Pollard, the guy that got the ball up the court so that "wide body' Mikan could take it to the rack.

Years later, I worked at Golden Valley Country Club, where Mikan was a member. I always marveled at how he rolled his head underneath the doors so he wouldn't hit his head. You could tell he had been doing that most of his life and never even thought about it anymore.

Dad took me to the Golden Gloves fights. Besides the Golden Gloves, Dad was an avid fan of "The Wednesday Night Fights" on television. I asked him once if he wanted me to become a fighter. I think the question surprised him. I probably had mistook his love for boxing as a hint that he wanted me to become a boxer. Fortunately he didn't encourage me or push me. He told me that it was up to me, but if I wanted to box, he'd help me out in anyway he could. I say fortunately, because the whole idea of beating on someone while they pummeled me was and still is repellent to me.

In those days we had minor league baseball team the Minneapolis Millers. That season, one of the big league players was down either working his way out of baseball or rehabbing from an injury. I remember that it was Johnny Mize, but I checked and Mize was with the Yankee's by than. Besides, who ever the big hitter was, the buzz was all about this young negro player who was flashy and talented at the plate and in the outfield, Willie Mays.

I can't remember much about what happened that night. The thing that stuck with me is the atmosphere. The Stadium was one of those romantic places like in the movie "The Natural". I was just so glad to be with my Dad and the other men. Dad was treating me like one of the guys. It wasn't don't do this or do it this way. It was relax, have fun, your one of us.

We moved to Cleveland. In 1954, the Cleveland Indians established the best win percentage record in baseball. They earned the right to play the New York Giants in the World Series. My friends father got two tickets to one of the games. I sat in the right field seats and watched Willie play again. No, I didn't see the over the shoulder catch that robbed Vic Wertz of a possible game winning hit, that was in game one. But I did see him play. The Giants shocked everyone and won that series in four straight games. Cleveland went on to be a contender for a coupe of seasons after that, but we moved back to Minneapolis and I didn't follow baseball much after that until I fell in love with the Chicago Cubs in 1969. (See a trend here)

So, I saw Mays play in the minor league and the majors. And the thing I remember most is being with my Dad. Tells you something about all of those moments you spend with your kids that you might not even think much about or remember. But they just might and it may become real important to them.