Uncle Emil was a master of factual information. And, more to the point, claimed to hold a Doctorate of Factual Fabrication from the University of Imagination. Even had a diploma to that effect made up which held a place of honor above his fish cleaning table next to the shed. In short, he knew enough to be dangerous. When it came to numbers, he placed a lot of faith in the primes. He'd fire them towards the unsuspecting innocent at .713C ( the speed of light) +/- 2.371%. Get my drift? Sports trivia? He could tell you the name and credentials for Joe Dimaggio's proctologist. Whether the Yankee Clipper ever had one, held no interest for my Uncle. The juxtaposition of the dignified Dimaggio and the normalcy of his bodily functions tickled Emil pink. Fact was foremost in my Uncle's mind. Truth merely coincidental. Case in point:
I was about nine years old at the time. We were fishing for bluegills on Lake Aaron a few miles west of town. Uncle Emil liked the Old Testament connections of that name. He was heard to claim after church that if it wasn't for Aaron, the Israelites would still be in Egypt waiting for Moses to overcome his stammer and spit the words out to Pharaoh. It was a good fishing morning on a good panfish lake. Worms, red and white bobber, easily unhooked sunfish; I could handle all of that by myself allowing Emil time to fire up a Lucky and let his mind drift. When he lit up a smoke and was quiet for a few seconds you knew the spirit was upon him. Time to put your seat belt on for there was a mighty crock about to arrive. Of course, I bought his ramblings hook, line and sinker. Kinda like the sunnies we were throwing in the basket. At nine, I took it all as Gospel. When older I developed my suspicions but was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Not all of his yarns were gold but there was treasure enough to make digging through worth my while.
"I was just about your age Markie me boy, when my big brothers, your uncles Edwin and Agnar, decided it was time for me to see my first Millers' game down in the Cities. That was in the summer of 19 and 15. Got a ride to the train in Alex on the back of a wagon. It was quite an adventure. Took two days round trip.
Back in those days the Millers were the terror of the American Association. Had a manager by the name of 'Pongo Joe' Cantillon. Where the Pongo came from, I never did find out but he was as feisty a cuss as ever ruled a dugout. But he wasn't the reason I was all fired up about our trip down to old Nicollet Park. Gotta remember, back in '15 Nicollet Park was still pretty new. Not like the relic they tore down last year. Anyhow, the reason the three of us went there was to see the Millers' new phenom, Bruno Brontecewski. According to the Independent, nobody in the cities called him by his real name. Called him 'The Brontosaurus', or Bronto for short. Like his namesake, Bronto was a big boy but the real reason they called him that was the widespread rumor that he could be found on his off days, down on all fours in the water, along the Minnehaha Creek in South Minneapolis, tearin' up and grazing on arrowroot just like a real Brontosaurus. Yup, Bronto was an odd duck. Could ya pass me the worms?
But don't think for one moment Bronto didn't have power. Home runs, well, what few there were, landed on roof tops all the way across Lake Street. Pop-ups brought rain. Problem was he had a few issues with pitch selection. Couldn't for the life of him hit a curve ball. Change ups baffled him. His swing was so slow at times you couldn't tell if he was swinging too late for the last pitch or too early for the next. Fastballs? Once in a while, with an east wind blowing in from right field and a falling barometer between 29.61 and 29.57 inches, he'd really tag that pellet. Most times foul but almost always over five hundred feet. And that was in the old days of the dead ball.
Funny thing was Bronto could lay into a spit ball, grease ball or even a snot ball, like there was no tomorrow. Pongo Joe said that was because those pitches were illegal, not on the level, much the same as Bronto's uppercutting swing. By the time a spitter was fallin' off the table, The Brontosaurus' swing was liftin' off the deck. Then whammo! Lake Street here we come.
The game we saw against Indianapolis went twelve innings. Bronto did himself proud. Struck out four times on thirteen pitches. In the bottom of the twelfth with the bases loaded, Pongo pinch hit for Bronto with a nun he chose at random from the stands. We were sitting no more than ten feet from her. Never saw anybody finger the beads as fast as that woman. Like the trooper all nuns are, Sister Mary Margaret, that's what the Trib said her name was, took one on the bean and the winning run scored. All the fans rushed the field, hoisted Sister's unconscious body to the sky and paraded around the field for half an hour. What a game!
That was the only season Brontecewski played in Minneapolis. Tried my best to follow his descent in the pages of the Sporting News but information was sketchy at best. He worked his way around the lower minors for a few years, then disappeared. Rumor had it his last stop was down in Bolivia playing third base with the La Paz Tinhorns. Rock bottom at 13,000 feet.
About six years ago he was found dead on the sidewalk outside the fleabag where he was living in Lincoln, Nebraska. Seems he'd been struck and killed instantly by a ricocheting meteorite. Coupla days later he turned up as a mention in the Tribune's obituaries. Some cub reporter with too much time on his hands headlined the citation with 'Brontosaurus is Extinct.' If that ain't sick, what is?'
With an exhalation of relief, Uncle Emil fired up another Lucky Strike.
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