Occasionally, I will check local newspapers’ obituaries from around the part of Iowa where I grew up.
Unfortunately, I read an obituary in the Denison, Iowa, newspaper about a friend from the time we both worked at Farmland Foods in Denison. A little over a year ago, he sent me a Friend Request on Facebook. Immediately, I confirmed the “friending” process, or whatever it is called. He let me know that his wife had passed away recently. I knew Vicki from working with her, also. We chatted back and forth on “Messenger” for a time until we sort of lost track of each other.
During the course of watching Kansas City Royals games throughout the summer, I often thought of contacting Tom to see if we were the only two survivors of yearly trips to see the Royals. I never followed through.
Trying to recall who were the nine people in the van taking the trip each summer, I seemed to come up short one or two. Ray Roesner owned the van and drove each time. He was also the only one that didn’t partake of beer on the way down, the way back, or while we were there. John Henkelman sat in the other front seat. The van was a ten-seater, and one of the seats was reserved for beer coolers, so that left seven seats more for baseball fans: Tom Henkelman, John O’Brien, Lowell Schroeder, Roger Fineran, me, and two others that slip my memory now.
Other than me, all the others were at least two-hundred pounds, give or take a pound or twenty, and were close to six-feet tall, give or take an inch. Lowell may have tipped the scales at over 300, but he was an exception to the group, as was I. My weight was closer to one-hundred fifty.
We always had a block of tickets that favored the first-base side of the stadium, not more than five to ten rows up from the field. Great seats! None of us ever caught a foul ball, but we may have had our own beer vendor, who was never more than a shout away.
On one trip, in the middle of an inning, I had to use the restroom, and so did John H. We walked up the steps to the concourse together talking. When we reached the concourse, I headed into the restroom. John said, “where are you going?” “In here!” I shouted back. If you have ever been to Kauffman Stadium in Kansas City you might know that men’s and women’s restrooms look similar from the outside. Let me tell you, they do not look similar from the inside. Yes, I inadvertently walked directly into the women’s restroom.
“You’re in the wrong place!” A woman shouted at me. Duh! I could see that. Women were sitting on the open toilets, screaming! I turned and walked out as fast as I could go. I headed to the men’s room, and probably paid very close attention to the sign out front as I went in. John was in there, and he had to tell close to 50 men about what I did. Embarrassing! But that wasn’t the end of it. When we got back to our seats, John had to tell everyone within hearing distance. I couldn’t wait for the game to end.
Every trip we made to Kansas City to watch the Royals included a stop at a restaurant in St. Joseph on the way home. The restaurant was an all-you-can-eat place with over forty salads in its salad bar, numerous desserts, and all sorts of meats, from fried chicken, roast beef, barbequed ribs, chicken livers and gizzards, ham, and more. The restaurant eventually closed. After seeing those very large men come in and clean their plates (yes! Plates – not plate) as we did, is it any wonder.
One night, upon returning to Denison, Lowell asked if anyone wanted to join him for one more beer in the Play-mor bar. He had already figured that he drank thirty-two beers from the time we left that morning before 8:00 am. Most of us had quit drinking after eating in St. Joe. I saw Lowell walk into the bar alone.
As far as I know, I am the only remaining participant from the yearly trip to Kansas City in Ray’s ten-seat van from the 1970s and 1980s. Perhaps someday I will remember the other two adventurers who traveled to KC with us every year, but for now, I may have learned the lesson to reach out while a friend is alive. It’s better than ruing the lost opportunity after they’re gone.
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