“You’re in the wrong place!”

Each year, for a period of about four or five years straight, a group of nine guys from around Denison, Iowa, traveled in a van to Kansas City to watch a Kansas City Royals game on a Saturday afternoon. I was a part of that group. Ray Rosener drove his family’s van, with John Henkelman in the front passenger seat. The others on the trip included Ray’s brother Joe, Tom Henkelman (no immediate relation to John), Lowell Schroeder, John O’Brien, Roger Fineran, one other Farmland Foods packinghouse worker, and me. Ray and his brother were the only two who didn’t work at Farmland.

The tenth seat in Ray’s van was reserved for several coolers full of ice-cold beer. I don’t think Ray drank, but the rest of us sure did. Some began as soon as the van pulled out of the Pla-Mor parking lot. I tried to wait until I could see St. Joe, Missouri, but a sign along the road referring travelers to St. Joseph’s Catholic Church was close enough.

We always had good seats on the lower level between first base and right field. I was not a novice to Royals games, having brought my family with me several times throughout the years. I knew the stadium inside and out – literally. (Our family took a tour of the stadium once when we were in Kansas City to bring the girls to Worlds of Fun and Oceans of Fun.) But if you have ever been to the stadium, you would know that the first level concourse looks the same from end to end. It wasn’t surprising that a beer man camped out next to our row. That led to John Henkelman having to go up the steps to the men’s room. “Wait, John. I’ll go with you.” I yelled. So, John and I go up the stairs, turn right and head down the concourse. I walked over to the entrance of the restroom and John said: “Where are you going?” “In here, of course.” I thought I was heading into the men’s room and he was taking a different entrance.

That’s not what happened. I walked straight into the women’s room. Women were screaming, pulling their pants up, pointing at me, and a nice old black woman told me that “you’re in the wrong place.” There were no partitions between the stools. Embarrassed, I turned and walked out the door, heading up to the men’s room. I made sure I was walking into the men’s room and felt relieved, figuratively and potentially literally. However, John had told every guy in the restroom about what I did. Every man in the place (and probably a few young boys) began laughing at me overwhelmingly. It was difficult to go. But eventually, I did.

John left me, and when I finished, I headed back down to our seats. By then, everyone in our group, the rows in front of us and behind us, and the beer man all knew. I’m not sure the right fielder wasn’t in on it. It could have been on the public address system. On the Monday after the game, half the employees in the packinghouse heard the story.

But it was a great game. Willie Wilson led off the bottom of the first inning with an inside-the-park home run. It was the only run of the game, as Dennis Leonard pitched a shutout of the Boston Red Sox. When we got to the van in the parking lot, it began to rain. And pour, it did.

One of our traditions was to stop at a smorgasbord restaurant in St. Joseph on the way home. The all-you-can-eat buffet proudly bragged about forty different salads (Jell-O included). There was roast beef, chicken, barbeque pork ribs, ham, meatloaf, and more. The dessert bar was not as loaded, but this group visited it, as well. Joe and I were the only ones that weighed less than two-hundred pounds. Most were probably over 250. Lowell was easily over 300 pounds and close to 400. On our last trip, the restaurant was closed. Is it any wonder?

On the last trip, Lowell had counted that he drank about thirty-three beers. When we disembarked from Ray’s van, Lowell asked if anyone wanted to join him for a nightcap at the Pla-Mor. I recall that I turned him down. I don’t think anyone took him up on the offer.

It dawned on me recently that I may be the last living participant in those trips to Royals’ games in Ray’s van. I’m not. Joe Rosener is 84-years old and living in northwest Iowa.

As much as I had to drink that day, it remains one of my favorite memories. Except for being in the wrong place.

You may download the box score to the game at ?attachment_id=2455

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