February 4, 2025 • 30 mins
On this episode of Our American Stories, Jim Johnson, a listener of Our American Stories from Minnesota, tells the story of when he sold hotdogs for the Minnesota Twins as a young boy.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:17):
This is our American Stories, and our next story is
brought to us by a listener, Jim Johnson, who was
a longtime pastor who lives in Rogers, Minnesota. Pastor Jim
wowed our listeners with his story Everett's Last Christmas Carol.
We asked if he had another story to share with
our listeners, and here he is again.
Speaker 2 (00:38):
Here's Pastor Jim, somewhere around Row twenty two, section three
in the left field bleachers in Bloomington, Minnesota, at the
now leveled Metropolitan Stadium, the Old med as we called it,
where the Twins used to play between nineteen sixty one
and nineteen eighty one. There was that I learned a harsh,
cruel lesson about life. I learned a lot of lessons
(01:02):
about life, but that day culminated them all together. It's
been forty one years since then, August of nineteen seventy nine.
Back then, I was involved in professional organized baseball. I
even made it to the major leagues. It was big
money for me, surrounded by fans, people trying to get
my attention. The Twins owner signed my checks and it
(01:25):
was more cash than I could fathom. But it was, however,
not as a left fielder that I made my name
for the Minnesota Twins. I did play baseball, but not
for the Twins. I was only a high school player
for the Kennedy Eagles. No, my place in the majors
was as a seller of hot dogs at the game.
(01:46):
I started with soda and popcorn, then worked my way
up to frosty malts and snow cones. But my highest
levels were reached as a hot dog vendor. That was
big time for me, selling Schweigert tender bite hot dogs.
Those sumptuous tubes I sold for a dollar, served up
(02:08):
by a kid who would one day become Sports illustrated writer,
Steve Russian. He was then just a fourteen year old
kid who forked boiled wieners and put him on buns
for me, stuffed him in a wax paper package, and
once in a while, the gifted SI journalists to be
would fling one hot dog to me, seeing how hungry
and sweaty I was. Every time I scrambled down the
(02:30):
steps to Russian's post in the commissary in center field
behind the fence next to the scoreboard, Steve Russian would
fling a hot dog to keep me going. I will
never forget him for that gift. Baseball is good because
of people like Steve Russian, and because it's slow and
dramatic and there's time to learn how to live life well.
(02:54):
Baseball is played in a crowd in an artificially made
city park, with people sitting on top of each other,
crowding into you, elbows and kneecaps a little too tight.
You see baseball in the stadium with twenty thousand or
thirty thousand or forty five thousand people puts you in
a different world. The smells, the sounds, the echoing crack
(03:18):
of a Louisville slugger, the force of a Bob Casey
announcer saying, now batting for the Twins, number twenty nine.
The second basement rod carew or how he used to
say in that buzzsaw voice, no smoking in the Metrodome,
no smoking. And there you would see Ken Hurbeck at
(03:38):
first base, well Casey kroon that anti nicotine sung. There
was my Kennedy High school mate, our varsity eagle, first
basement pitcher, pretending to smoke while mister Casey yelled no smoking,
and her Beck would wave his arms saying no, no,
you can't do that, and we loved it. What happens
(04:00):
when you put twenty somethings in a stadium, tucked inside
a place with twenty five hundred fans or twenty five
thousand fans, and the noises and hot dogs and vendors,
the players, all blending together with the pa man a
symphony of sports and people and life. Something better happens
(04:20):
when you give a seventeen year old a cooler of
hot dogs and you point to the crowd and say,
go sell these. You learn about the world selling hot
dogs at a ballgame. So now, when I'm living with
the rest of you during this global pandemic, I pine
for the crowds in those days at the Old Met.
(04:41):
I think about August first, nineteen seventy nine, when I
learned about crowds and humility and revenge and hot dogs.
The Old Met was a hodgepodge patchwork of a sports venue,
almost modular. The infield was made of black soil, like
it was from the Red River Valley of the North.
(05:02):
It was a small stadium that could hold up to
forty five thousand people, even more for the Vikings games.
But it was well a little backward. But we loved
it because it was ours. It was not New York,
it was not La it was not Chicago, it was
not Wrigly, it was not Saint Louis, just old Metz
(05:25):
Stadium built in Bloomington, Minnesota, on an onion field next
to the Minnesota River. Now it's the mall of America,
but then it was just a training ground for life.
That day, I muttered hot dogs. I was mad hot dogs.
It was a hot day, so I would sell about
(05:47):
thirty six, maybe seventy two hot dogs. That was it,
while my friends during that hot not whole afternoon game
would be making twenty percent commission on snow cones or
malt cups by the hundred. I asked our commissary manager,
mister Dylan, the cigar smoking vendor boss, if maybe, just maybe,
(06:07):
just for a Wednesday day game with eighty three degree heat,
for a twins game against the Oakland A's, if I
could sell seventy five cent malt cups or snow cones
instead of hot, hot hot dogs. Dylan, to my incredulity,
said no, sell hot dogs. What I said, come on,
(06:28):
I'm a hot dog vendor, I'm an upper class sales rep.
It was not quite beer vendor level, but way above
the soda hawkers and the lads selling popcorn. Hot dog
vendors had status. We could cry out with our throats
wide open, the veteran first team Major League Schweigert vendors,
hot dogs, get your hot dogs here. It was the
(06:52):
rookies who had no choices peanuts. Yes, they had clout,
but hot dog vendors are supposed to get their way.
So I asked Dylan if I could sell snow cones,
but he said no, We're not going to do that
on an that whole Wednesday at three pm, with only
five thousand, seven hundred and eleven fans in the park
that day, selling for a team that would draw the
(07:14):
fewest fans of any team in the American League that year,
an average of nine thousand, nine hundred fans per game.
Those poorly middling Twins were letting go of all their
stars because mister Griffith was too tight to pay them,
and the fans stayed away in droves. We, in turn,
(07:35):
were destined to watch players like Rick Sofield and Willie
Norwood instead of Larry Heizel and Greg Nettles and Lyman
Bostock and Rod carew The crowds were so thin, so
we figured if we showed up on a sweltering eighty
three day to sell hot dogs, we could at least
sell something cold. But Dylan said no chance, and that
(07:55):
ticked me off. So my co working underlings then one
through two hundred and ninety nine were selling cold items
and making big fat coin and I would be selling
steaming hot dogs to little children who did not want
to eat something hot, and maybe make fourteen dollars for
the day. That was wrong hot dogs, I growled. To
(08:19):
top it off, Section three was filled with little children,
tiny humans with small coins and no desire to eat
hot Schweigert tender bites. They crowded the aisles in such
a way that I couldn't get to my spot. Had
the old met the high school vendors all staked their
claim this guy in the third base seats, that guy
(08:40):
in the second deck behind home. But I and my
gentle giant friend Gunner that six foot four first base
back up to Kent Hrbeck at Kennedy High School. Gunner
and I would claim the first deck of left field.
We owned it. It was ours. It was our unquestioned
capitalistic domain. Those not hole kids got in for free
(09:02):
with an adult who paid three dollars for a ticket,
and any old guy who paid that little for a
ticket was not going to spend a dollar for the
junior not hole kids. He crowded into his Ford Galaxy
for a free not hole game on an eighty three
degree day in Minnesota. So that was my mindset going
(09:22):
into Row thirty two that August first day. During the
middle of the first inning, then and there I decided
I was going to have my way. I decided to
break vendors code rules. Yes I was mad, so I
could do it. Rule number one for vendors was always
never walk on the bleacher seat backs.
Speaker 1 (09:43):
And you're listening to Jim Johnson. When we return, Jim
Johnson's story continues here on our American Stories. And we're
(10:09):
back with our American stories and with Jim Johnson, let's
pick up where he last left off.
Speaker 2 (10:16):
During the middle of the first inning, then and there
I decided I was going to have my way. I
decided to break vendors Code rules. Yes I was mad,
so I could do it. Rule number one for vendors
was always never walk on the bleacher seat backs. Unthinkable.
You have to walk down the aisle. But no, I said,
(10:39):
like Herbie Brooks, the passionate Minnesota born Saint Paul's side
coach of the Gophers and Team USA Hockey, not today,
not tonight. I was sick and tired of kids and crowds,
and sick and tired of hearing how people had to
follow the rules. So I was cruising down those bleacher
back steps, Row twenty two, Row twenty one, and I
(11:04):
was carrying my thirty six hot dogs in a candy
apple plastic tub, my Vendor number three eleven button flapping
on my hat, my crisp Linen Vendor shirt, my coin
apron clanking and clinking down the aisle with me. And
I was feeling good. I was feeling right all the
way down Row twenty five, twenty four, twenty three. I
(11:27):
was going great, my athletic poise carrying the day, not
a worry. But then came Row twenty two, and there
my ankle turned on the top of that bleacher. My
Nike high top twisted, and my left knee wrenched itself
between seats fourteen and fifteen. My chest heaved into Row
(11:47):
twenty one, and my hot dog cooler popped and bounced
onto rows nineteen and twenty. My wax paper baggies spilled
out Schweigert tender bites, and they slinkied and wobbled between
seats twelve and thirteen and fifteen. Coins from my apron
sprinkled and hinkled and rolled, and little not whole children.
(12:07):
Those thieves pounced on my quarters, four dollars worth of them,
and liberated them from my care. One waiter splunged underneath
my foot, and a teenage kid, some gear head with
orange hair, pointed and stared and said, ah, look at that,
Look at that kid. His friends laughed hard, and they
(12:28):
pointed at me with their fingers, at my vulnerable position,
and laughed like mockers and scoffers. Some hot dogs escaped
while I picked up my coins, my red face with anger,
looking back at them, and watching those pre adolescent pirates
scooping up my change, and it was all gone. It
(12:49):
was there I realized, yes, you have to pay for
your misdeeds. Some people get away for their disorder, but
not me. It was there that I realized there is
no true justice in this world, in this dark, dark planet,
unlike what I learned in elementary school in Bloomington Minnesota,
(13:10):
in the lower class suburbs, or in Sunday school at
the Lutheran Church. I learned that we are not all family.
We are not all brothers and sisters, are we We
are not like Neil Diamonds saying hands touching hands, reaching out,
touching me, touching you. That's not true, is it, sweet Caroline. No,
(13:31):
my friends, we are cheaters and thieves and out to
get the goods. And no, we are not going to
all wear masks and stay home and ride the coronavirus out.
We are going to take what is ours in point
and laugh at the man with the hot dogs stumbling
over rote twenty two and twenty one at the met Stadium.
(13:51):
You know, such cold, hard truths you can only learn personally,
And I learned them at the old met Stadium. Now
I'm a Lutheran pastor, the father of nine children, the
grandfather of seven. I've pastored souls in northern Minnesota, and
I have cared for parishioners in southern California too. Now
(14:12):
I'm a coach and advisor to twenty pastors of new
churches all across America. And I'm a friend and father
to his seven adult children and two teenagers, and what
I really want to tell them is summarized in five words.
Guard your hot dogs. Bub a Scandinavian, American Anglo guy
can have heroes. And they were people of all races
(14:35):
and all creeds, every class. We respected Muhammad Ali from Kentucky,
but he really was from the whole world. We wished
we were Tony Oliva the Cuban, and Ken Landrew the
Angelino from La We adored Kirby Pucket, and we loved
Ozzie Smith from Watts and Rod carew was from New York.
(14:58):
But they were all ours. They were Minneso of twins.
They were baseball players, and they belonged to us. We
imitated them, We swung like them, and that's good because
it's baseball in a crowd in an artificially made city
park with people sitting on top of each other during
the COVID season. You think about times like that and
(15:20):
you wish we could learn to get along better. We
could learn to get along and follow the rules and
put on a mask or watch from home, and don't
sing in front of a big crowd of people, and
spread your germs for Pete's sake, don't smoke, not in
the Metrodome or anywhere else. But now I'm living with
the rest of you during this global pandemic, and I
(15:40):
pine for those simpler days and the crowds and everything
I learned from what I'm missing today. I remember one
day selling hot dogs on the other side of the
stadium when the Yankees were playing the Twins in a
night game at the Old Met. I wandered away from
left field and was selling on the second deck, side
field by first base. Everybody stopped selling, and the fans
(16:05):
stood up when Yankees slugger Reggie Jackson stepped into the box.
When the Yankees came to the met it was always
a sellout, or nearly so. The usually empty seats would
fill with over forty thousand fans. They came to see
mostly Reggie Jackson or to jeer him. Doug Corbett was
the reliever. Twenty thousand voices yelled hoping Doug Corbett would
(16:29):
strike Reggie Jackson out. Jackson was controversial and lovable and
hateable all at once because he enjoyed himself and loved
to hit that little round ball as far and hard
as he could. Like Muhammad Ali, he was the straw
that stirred the drinker like I would tell my little
grandchildren the popsicle stick that stirs the hot chocolate. Once,
(16:52):
Jackson said I don't come to New York to become
a star. I brought my star with me. We loved
him for saying that, and we knew it was true.
He also famously said, after Jackie Robinson, referring to the
first black player to break into the major leagues, after
Jackie Robinson, the most important black player in baseball is
(17:15):
Reggie Jackson, and he added, I really mean that. But
my favorite quote of all time from mister October is
how he described dealing with defeat. I was reminded. Jackson said,
when I lose a strikeout, a billion people in China
don't care. I think that's about the way it is.
(17:38):
That day at the Old Met I put down my
hot dog cooler and just watched Jackson with two men
on bass and the Yankees down by two, facing Corbett
and the forty thousand Minnesotans in the eighth inning. He
turned and twisted on the first pitch, missing wildly, and
we all laughed as the umpire called strike one. He
(17:58):
swung with as much gusto as that redheaded boso who
laughed at me when I tripped on row twenty two. Yes,
we yelled, strike him out, get him. The second pitch
was a curveball, and Jackson flailed again, spinning on his heels,
falling on his ripe hip, sprawling into the dirt. Oh,
how we jeered. Victory was so sweet. We thought two
(18:22):
strikes on Reggie Jackson, and then came three wasted pitches,
and Jackson watched them all and waited for the three
to two pitch.
Speaker 1 (18:30):
And you're listening to Jim Johnson in Minneapolis. He's also
a pastor, as he mentioned. And by the way, to
hear his story that he lasted with us Everett's last Christmas, Carol,
go to our American Stories dot com and in the
search bar, just put in his name. Oh my goodness,
I love that term pre adolescent pirates because you could
(18:52):
see those kids just scarring around, stealing every last order
nickel and dime. Yes, you do pay for your misdeed,
he learned when we come back more of this terrific storyteller.
And my goodness, we have so many across our country,
so many of you, the listeners, are actually our very
best storytellers, right up there with the best authors and
(19:14):
the most famous storytellers in this great country. Jim Johnson's
story continues here on our American stories, and we continue
(19:38):
with our American stories and Jim Johnson's story. Let's pick
up where we last left off.
Speaker 2 (19:46):
When it came, Jackson spun and the bat cracked, and
the ball sailed into the ether. It became as small
in the sky as a tiny aspirin. It soared into
the right field bleachers, and strangely, we all cheered for him,
even the Twins fans, to watch a man love adversity
(20:08):
stand up there and swing at all his enemies. Devil
may care. He sends a baseball into obscurity, and he
trots around the bases with a half smile and a
victor's jog. Oh, how we loved him. Jackson once said,
he prays before Homer, and he tells the Lord. He says,
(20:28):
please God, let me hit one. I'll tell everyone you
did it. That suits me just about fine. Back in
lower middle class Bloomington, I learned at the met that
there is no utopia. Nothing comes for free. There was
no room for everybody to worry about not getting treated
(20:49):
right people on the bottom can rise up and learn.
There's room for the tall and the proud to fall,
and there's room for the lower bottom feeders to rise up.
Those are the low down truths. If they say to
sell hot dogs, sell hot dogs and smile. If you
spill some mustard, rub it on your pants and wash
your hands and keep going. My favorite vendor was an
(21:12):
aging black man named Paps. He sold beer, which I
did not do or drink to this day, but I
admired how Pap sold it. He was at least seventy
five years old, and he smoked a pipe while he sold.
He weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, and he
sweat and smiled and carried his forty pound boxes of
(21:36):
Schlitz or grain belt or Paps blue ribbon. And when
he sold, he did not yell. He confidently smiled a
half smile like Reggie Jackson, and often sat down with
the fans took a break. He wore this rainbow colored
umbrella type hat, and he talked, and he spoke really soft, saying, hey,
(21:58):
cold beer, He said so refreshing. Paps was living life
and enjoying it, and everybody loved him. He was a
laid back man of confidence and love. And oh how
I wish I had those gifts. Fans loved to buy
from paps. Also at the met there was a score
(22:21):
book vendor named Donnie. He had down syndrome. As I recall,
his glasses were usually crooked, and his shirt usually rode
up too high up his back. His pants were loose,
so you saw the top of his sweaty behind above
the band of his underwear. We didn't look too close
over there, but I learned to look really close at
his face. Donnie was into it and he loved his job.
(22:45):
Twin scorecard, Here, get your scorecard. He drooled a little,
but that was okay. We learned to accept it. There
is dignity in work, and showing up to sell programs
was Donnie's work. Hi, Donnie, I learned to say to him.
I learned to treat him with honor. I learned everybody counts.
(23:05):
I learned God loves them all, and he loves you too.
I also learned as a vendor about competition. One day,
during a Vikings game, Tom van Dervoort, Vendor number three
twenty two, got too close to Doug Janzig Vendor three
forty six. At halftime, we learned to order a double
or a triple load of seventy two hot dogs or
(23:27):
one hundred and eight, cramming them into our cooler, and
then we would stand at the back of the line
where the fans waited at the concession stand, maybe eight
or nine people deep. We opened up the cooler, let
the smell just waffed out, and then we looked at
the people waiting in the back and we would coop
to them, hot dogs here, get your hot dogs. And
(23:51):
on a cold day you could sell about ninety hot
dogs in about five minutes. But you had to stake
your claim and take your spot at the back of
that concession stan. On one fateful Saturday night, Vendor three
twenty two placed his cooler adjacent to Janzig Vendor three
forty six. A turf woar ensued, Hey, get out of
(24:12):
my spot, said Doug. Forget it, said Tom, Move out
of here, said Doug, No, you move, said Tom. Hard
words grew into curses, and curses became threats, and then
came the ultimate. The yellow mustard bottle was pointed, get
out of here, scortch quirt. Tom responded, what are you doing? Squortch,
squarre squirt. Before it was over all two hundred dogs
(24:37):
were unsold and two vendors were covered with mustard. It
was like a moment of eminent domain against free markets,
competition against first come, first served, and in the end
two vendors battled it out and both lost. Two competitors
that day were done selling. You know, in this world
(25:00):
have the old met and in this life you've got
to learn to get along. Isn't that part of what
we're learning today? During this crisis. We have the mask
people and the non maskers, the closer downs against the
let it be and live your lifers. It's us against them.
It's the halves versus the have nots. It's the rioters
(25:23):
against law and order. It's sometimes deadly and it's sometimes
just fine. But somehow, someway, we have to learn to
get along. Like Reggie Jackson prayed it, please God, let
me hit this one out. Let's get through this with
love and patience and confidence and joy. We'll do our
(25:44):
best and learn not to fight. We'll try to get along.
We'll sell our hot dogs, we'll learn to love the
poor man selling scorecards, and we'll try to keep the
mustard bottles to ourselves during this COVID crisis, this great life,
the sports shut down. I listened to WCCO, the Good
Neighbor to the Great Northwest, and I listen to the
(26:06):
old games. I hear Corey Provis and Dan Gladden, and
I smile. Or I tune in and hear Tim Gordon
or Herb Carneil from days before, and I wish man,
I wish I was selling hot dogs again. They're starting
up the baseball season again. But what's baseball without the crowds? Well,
it's still baseball. I suppose my mom would have been
(26:29):
watching it. She was a devoted fan. But twins games
without hot dog sales, Yeah, I think we can do it.
But I still smell it good and real when I
think about it, and wish for better days. When the
new season starts, I will watch it. It's baseball and
it makes me feel good. It makes me remember Donnie
(26:49):
the Vender and Steve Rushan flipping me a hot dog
from behind a commissary counter. And it reminds me of
Reggie Jackson. It reminds me of Kirby Pucket and those
great rare athletes black and White, Latino or Californian's unusual
people who can show up for work every day, who
learned to slap a curveball to the opposite field and
(27:11):
sling an inside cut her down the left field line,
or stroke a high fastball up the middle, or drive
a towering fly ball way back, way back over the
left field fence. They do things so few athletes can do,
and I'll love them and admire them, and I'll watch
them hit it hard, driving it like Kirby Pucket who
(27:33):
always said see the ball, hit the ball, or like
Nelson Cruz, gripping and ripping those bomba homers, all wrists,
all out, as the Twins did last year, three hundred
and seven home runs in one year, one more than
the Yankees. How good did that feel? It felt like
justice to me. So what did I learn on August first,
(27:54):
nineteen seventy nine and what happened to those hot dogs? Well,
let's be real, let's be honest. That fall over row
twenty two to nineteen was a beautiful day for learning humility.
And I did learn you can't walk over the bleacher backs,
and you don't have to live your life worrying about
selling snow cones or hot dogs, just do what you're
(28:14):
supposed to do. Life is what you make it, and
you don't have to whine. But what's the end of
the story. Well, I'll tell you if you don't tell
anybody else. I did pick up every one of those
hot dogs. I picked up myself and gathered my pride.
I walked out of left field and strode over to
center field, three sections away. And yes, I sold every
(28:39):
last one of those hot dogs and I felt good
about it too. Is it justice? No, But at the time,
on that eighty three degree night, it seemed like the
right thing to do, to make the best of it.
And that's what I'm encouraging you to do. Let's all
do it as Americans. Let's face the crisis in the
(29:02):
face and make the best of it without complaining. And
don't squirt anybody with a mustard bottle. Okay.
Speaker 1 (29:10):
And that was Jim Johnson. And again he's a long
time pastor who lives in Rogers, Minnesota. And my goodness,
what storytelling here. We met Papps, we met Donnie, we
met an ecosystem, and we all work with people who
are different than us. And you can crow and complain,
and we know those people who do that all day long,
or you can get on with it and make the
(29:30):
best of everything, and see that all of us can
work together to do some pretty interesting things in our lives.
And what did he learn most of all? That there's
dignity and work, and there is and lessons are learned
every day by work of every kind. Jim Johnson's story,
his baseball story, his love story with his sport and
(29:51):
his town. Here on our American stories.
This is our American Stories, and our next story is
brought to us by a listener, Jim Johnson, who was
a longtime pastor who lives in Rogers, Minnesota. Pastor Jim
wowed our listeners with his story Everett's Last Christmas Carol.
We asked if he had another story to share with
our listeners, and here he is again.
Speaker 2 (00:38):
Here's Pastor Jim, somewhere around Row twenty two, section three
in the left field bleachers in Bloomington, Minnesota, at the
now leveled Metropolitan Stadium, the Old med as we called it,
where the Twins used to play between nineteen sixty one
and nineteen eighty one. There was that I learned a harsh,
cruel lesson about life. I learned a lot of lessons
(01:02):
about life, but that day culminated them all together. It's
been forty one years since then, August of nineteen seventy nine.
Back then, I was involved in professional organized baseball. I
even made it to the major leagues. It was big
money for me, surrounded by fans, people trying to get
my attention. The Twins owner signed my checks and it
(01:25):
was more cash than I could fathom. But it was, however,
not as a left fielder that I made my name
for the Minnesota Twins. I did play baseball, but not
for the Twins. I was only a high school player
for the Kennedy Eagles. No, my place in the majors
was as a seller of hot dogs at the game.
(01:46):
I started with soda and popcorn, then worked my way
up to frosty malts and snow cones. But my highest
levels were reached as a hot dog vendor. That was
big time for me, selling Schweigert tender bite hot dogs.
Those sumptuous tubes I sold for a dollar, served up
(02:08):
by a kid who would one day become Sports illustrated writer,
Steve Russian. He was then just a fourteen year old
kid who forked boiled wieners and put him on buns
for me, stuffed him in a wax paper package, and
once in a while, the gifted SI journalists to be
would fling one hot dog to me, seeing how hungry
and sweaty I was. Every time I scrambled down the
(02:30):
steps to Russian's post in the commissary in center field
behind the fence next to the scoreboard, Steve Russian would
fling a hot dog to keep me going. I will
never forget him for that gift. Baseball is good because
of people like Steve Russian, and because it's slow and
dramatic and there's time to learn how to live life well.
(02:54):
Baseball is played in a crowd in an artificially made
city park, with people sitting on top of each other,
crowding into you, elbows and kneecaps a little too tight.
You see baseball in the stadium with twenty thousand or
thirty thousand or forty five thousand people puts you in
a different world. The smells, the sounds, the echoing crack
(03:18):
of a Louisville slugger, the force of a Bob Casey
announcer saying, now batting for the Twins, number twenty nine.
The second basement rod carew or how he used to
say in that buzzsaw voice, no smoking in the Metrodome,
no smoking. And there you would see Ken Hurbeck at
(03:38):
first base, well Casey kroon that anti nicotine sung. There
was my Kennedy High school mate, our varsity eagle, first
basement pitcher, pretending to smoke while mister Casey yelled no smoking,
and her Beck would wave his arms saying no, no,
you can't do that, and we loved it. What happens
(04:00):
when you put twenty somethings in a stadium, tucked inside
a place with twenty five hundred fans or twenty five
thousand fans, and the noises and hot dogs and vendors,
the players, all blending together with the pa man a
symphony of sports and people and life. Something better happens
(04:20):
when you give a seventeen year old a cooler of
hot dogs and you point to the crowd and say,
go sell these. You learn about the world selling hot
dogs at a ballgame. So now, when I'm living with
the rest of you during this global pandemic, I pine
for the crowds in those days at the Old Met.
(04:41):
I think about August first, nineteen seventy nine, when I
learned about crowds and humility and revenge and hot dogs.
The Old Met was a hodgepodge patchwork of a sports venue,
almost modular. The infield was made of black soil, like
it was from the Red River Valley of the North.
(05:02):
It was a small stadium that could hold up to
forty five thousand people, even more for the Vikings games.
But it was well a little backward. But we loved
it because it was ours. It was not New York,
it was not La it was not Chicago, it was
not Wrigly, it was not Saint Louis, just old Metz
(05:25):
Stadium built in Bloomington, Minnesota, on an onion field next
to the Minnesota River. Now it's the mall of America,
but then it was just a training ground for life.
That day, I muttered hot dogs. I was mad hot dogs.
It was a hot day, so I would sell about
(05:47):
thirty six, maybe seventy two hot dogs. That was it,
while my friends during that hot not whole afternoon game
would be making twenty percent commission on snow cones or
malt cups by the hundred. I asked our commissary manager,
mister Dylan, the cigar smoking vendor boss, if maybe, just maybe,
(06:07):
just for a Wednesday day game with eighty three degree heat,
for a twins game against the Oakland A's, if I
could sell seventy five cent malt cups or snow cones
instead of hot, hot hot dogs. Dylan, to my incredulity,
said no, sell hot dogs. What I said, come on,
(06:28):
I'm a hot dog vendor, I'm an upper class sales rep.
It was not quite beer vendor level, but way above
the soda hawkers and the lads selling popcorn. Hot dog
vendors had status. We could cry out with our throats
wide open, the veteran first team Major League Schweigert vendors,
hot dogs, get your hot dogs here. It was the
(06:52):
rookies who had no choices peanuts. Yes, they had clout,
but hot dog vendors are supposed to get their way.
So I asked Dylan if I could sell snow cones,
but he said no, We're not going to do that
on an that whole Wednesday at three pm, with only
five thousand, seven hundred and eleven fans in the park
that day, selling for a team that would draw the
(07:14):
fewest fans of any team in the American League that year,
an average of nine thousand, nine hundred fans per game.
Those poorly middling Twins were letting go of all their
stars because mister Griffith was too tight to pay them,
and the fans stayed away in droves. We, in turn,
(07:35):
were destined to watch players like Rick Sofield and Willie
Norwood instead of Larry Heizel and Greg Nettles and Lyman
Bostock and Rod carew The crowds were so thin, so
we figured if we showed up on a sweltering eighty
three day to sell hot dogs, we could at least
sell something cold. But Dylan said no chance, and that
(07:55):
ticked me off. So my co working underlings then one
through two hundred and ninety nine were selling cold items
and making big fat coin and I would be selling
steaming hot dogs to little children who did not want
to eat something hot, and maybe make fourteen dollars for
the day. That was wrong hot dogs, I growled. To
(08:19):
top it off, Section three was filled with little children,
tiny humans with small coins and no desire to eat
hot Schweigert tender bites. They crowded the aisles in such
a way that I couldn't get to my spot. Had
the old met the high school vendors all staked their
claim this guy in the third base seats, that guy
(08:40):
in the second deck behind home. But I and my
gentle giant friend Gunner that six foot four first base
back up to Kent Hrbeck at Kennedy High School. Gunner
and I would claim the first deck of left field.
We owned it. It was ours. It was our unquestioned
capitalistic domain. Those not hole kids got in for free
(09:02):
with an adult who paid three dollars for a ticket,
and any old guy who paid that little for a
ticket was not going to spend a dollar for the
junior not hole kids. He crowded into his Ford Galaxy
for a free not hole game on an eighty three
degree day in Minnesota. So that was my mindset going
(09:22):
into Row thirty two that August first day. During the
middle of the first inning, then and there I decided
I was going to have my way. I decided to
break vendors code rules. Yes I was mad, so I
could do it. Rule number one for vendors was always
never walk on the bleacher seat backs.
Speaker 1 (09:43):
And you're listening to Jim Johnson. When we return, Jim
Johnson's story continues here on our American Stories. And we're
(10:09):
back with our American stories and with Jim Johnson, let's
pick up where he last left off.
Speaker 2 (10:16):
During the middle of the first inning, then and there
I decided I was going to have my way. I
decided to break vendors Code rules. Yes I was mad,
so I could do it. Rule number one for vendors
was always never walk on the bleacher seat backs. Unthinkable.
You have to walk down the aisle. But no, I said,
(10:39):
like Herbie Brooks, the passionate Minnesota born Saint Paul's side
coach of the Gophers and Team USA Hockey, not today,
not tonight. I was sick and tired of kids and crowds,
and sick and tired of hearing how people had to
follow the rules. So I was cruising down those bleacher
back steps, Row twenty two, Row twenty one, and I
(11:04):
was carrying my thirty six hot dogs in a candy
apple plastic tub, my Vendor number three eleven button flapping
on my hat, my crisp Linen Vendor shirt, my coin
apron clanking and clinking down the aisle with me. And
I was feeling good. I was feeling right all the
way down Row twenty five, twenty four, twenty three. I
(11:27):
was going great, my athletic poise carrying the day, not
a worry. But then came Row twenty two, and there
my ankle turned on the top of that bleacher. My
Nike high top twisted, and my left knee wrenched itself
between seats fourteen and fifteen. My chest heaved into Row
(11:47):
twenty one, and my hot dog cooler popped and bounced
onto rows nineteen and twenty. My wax paper baggies spilled
out Schweigert tender bites, and they slinkied and wobbled between
seats twelve and thirteen and fifteen. Coins from my apron
sprinkled and hinkled and rolled, and little not whole children.
(12:07):
Those thieves pounced on my quarters, four dollars worth of them,
and liberated them from my care. One waiter splunged underneath
my foot, and a teenage kid, some gear head with
orange hair, pointed and stared and said, ah, look at that,
Look at that kid. His friends laughed hard, and they
(12:28):
pointed at me with their fingers, at my vulnerable position,
and laughed like mockers and scoffers. Some hot dogs escaped
while I picked up my coins, my red face with anger,
looking back at them, and watching those pre adolescent pirates
scooping up my change, and it was all gone. It
(12:49):
was there I realized, yes, you have to pay for
your misdeeds. Some people get away for their disorder, but
not me. It was there that I realized there is
no true justice in this world, in this dark, dark planet,
unlike what I learned in elementary school in Bloomington Minnesota,
(13:10):
in the lower class suburbs, or in Sunday school at
the Lutheran Church. I learned that we are not all family.
We are not all brothers and sisters, are we We
are not like Neil Diamonds saying hands touching hands, reaching out,
touching me, touching you. That's not true, is it, sweet Caroline. No,
(13:31):
my friends, we are cheaters and thieves and out to
get the goods. And no, we are not going to
all wear masks and stay home and ride the coronavirus out.
We are going to take what is ours in point
and laugh at the man with the hot dogs stumbling
over rote twenty two and twenty one at the met Stadium.
(13:51):
You know, such cold, hard truths you can only learn personally,
And I learned them at the old met Stadium. Now
I'm a Lutheran pastor, the father of nine children, the
grandfather of seven. I've pastored souls in northern Minnesota, and
I have cared for parishioners in southern California too. Now
(14:12):
I'm a coach and advisor to twenty pastors of new
churches all across America. And I'm a friend and father
to his seven adult children and two teenagers, and what
I really want to tell them is summarized in five words.
Guard your hot dogs. Bub a Scandinavian, American Anglo guy
can have heroes. And they were people of all races
(14:35):
and all creeds, every class. We respected Muhammad Ali from Kentucky,
but he really was from the whole world. We wished
we were Tony Oliva the Cuban, and Ken Landrew the
Angelino from La We adored Kirby Pucket, and we loved
Ozzie Smith from Watts and Rod carew was from New York.
(14:58):
But they were all ours. They were Minneso of twins.
They were baseball players, and they belonged to us. We
imitated them, We swung like them, and that's good because
it's baseball in a crowd in an artificially made city
park with people sitting on top of each other during
the COVID season. You think about times like that and
(15:20):
you wish we could learn to get along better. We
could learn to get along and follow the rules and
put on a mask or watch from home, and don't
sing in front of a big crowd of people, and
spread your germs for Pete's sake, don't smoke, not in
the Metrodome or anywhere else. But now I'm living with
the rest of you during this global pandemic, and I
(15:40):
pine for those simpler days and the crowds and everything
I learned from what I'm missing today. I remember one
day selling hot dogs on the other side of the
stadium when the Yankees were playing the Twins in a
night game at the Old Met. I wandered away from
left field and was selling on the second deck, side
field by first base. Everybody stopped selling, and the fans
(16:05):
stood up when Yankees slugger Reggie Jackson stepped into the box.
When the Yankees came to the met it was always
a sellout, or nearly so. The usually empty seats would
fill with over forty thousand fans. They came to see
mostly Reggie Jackson or to jeer him. Doug Corbett was
the reliever. Twenty thousand voices yelled hoping Doug Corbett would
(16:29):
strike Reggie Jackson out. Jackson was controversial and lovable and
hateable all at once because he enjoyed himself and loved
to hit that little round ball as far and hard
as he could. Like Muhammad Ali, he was the straw
that stirred the drinker like I would tell my little
grandchildren the popsicle stick that stirs the hot chocolate. Once,
(16:52):
Jackson said I don't come to New York to become
a star. I brought my star with me. We loved
him for saying that, and we knew it was true.
He also famously said, after Jackie Robinson, referring to the
first black player to break into the major leagues, after
Jackie Robinson, the most important black player in baseball is
(17:15):
Reggie Jackson, and he added, I really mean that. But
my favorite quote of all time from mister October is
how he described dealing with defeat. I was reminded. Jackson said,
when I lose a strikeout, a billion people in China
don't care. I think that's about the way it is.
(17:38):
That day at the Old Met I put down my
hot dog cooler and just watched Jackson with two men
on bass and the Yankees down by two, facing Corbett
and the forty thousand Minnesotans in the eighth inning. He
turned and twisted on the first pitch, missing wildly, and
we all laughed as the umpire called strike one. He
(17:58):
swung with as much gusto as that redheaded boso who
laughed at me when I tripped on row twenty two. Yes,
we yelled, strike him out, get him. The second pitch
was a curveball, and Jackson flailed again, spinning on his heels,
falling on his ripe hip, sprawling into the dirt. Oh,
how we jeered. Victory was so sweet. We thought two
(18:22):
strikes on Reggie Jackson, and then came three wasted pitches,
and Jackson watched them all and waited for the three
to two pitch.
Speaker 1 (18:30):
And you're listening to Jim Johnson in Minneapolis. He's also
a pastor, as he mentioned. And by the way, to
hear his story that he lasted with us Everett's last Christmas, Carol,
go to our American Stories dot com and in the
search bar, just put in his name. Oh my goodness,
I love that term pre adolescent pirates because you could
(18:52):
see those kids just scarring around, stealing every last order
nickel and dime. Yes, you do pay for your misdeed,
he learned when we come back more of this terrific storyteller.
And my goodness, we have so many across our country,
so many of you, the listeners, are actually our very
best storytellers, right up there with the best authors and
(19:14):
the most famous storytellers in this great country. Jim Johnson's
story continues here on our American stories, and we continue
(19:38):
with our American stories and Jim Johnson's story. Let's pick
up where we last left off.
Speaker 2 (19:46):
When it came, Jackson spun and the bat cracked, and
the ball sailed into the ether. It became as small
in the sky as a tiny aspirin. It soared into
the right field bleachers, and strangely, we all cheered for him,
even the Twins fans, to watch a man love adversity
(20:08):
stand up there and swing at all his enemies. Devil
may care. He sends a baseball into obscurity, and he
trots around the bases with a half smile and a
victor's jog. Oh, how we loved him. Jackson once said,
he prays before Homer, and he tells the Lord. He says,
(20:28):
please God, let me hit one. I'll tell everyone you
did it. That suits me just about fine. Back in
lower middle class Bloomington, I learned at the met that
there is no utopia. Nothing comes for free. There was
no room for everybody to worry about not getting treated
(20:49):
right people on the bottom can rise up and learn.
There's room for the tall and the proud to fall,
and there's room for the lower bottom feeders to rise up.
Those are the low down truths. If they say to
sell hot dogs, sell hot dogs and smile. If you
spill some mustard, rub it on your pants and wash
your hands and keep going. My favorite vendor was an
(21:12):
aging black man named Paps. He sold beer, which I
did not do or drink to this day, but I
admired how Pap sold it. He was at least seventy
five years old, and he smoked a pipe while he sold.
He weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, and he
sweat and smiled and carried his forty pound boxes of
(21:36):
Schlitz or grain belt or Paps blue ribbon. And when
he sold, he did not yell. He confidently smiled a
half smile like Reggie Jackson, and often sat down with
the fans took a break. He wore this rainbow colored
umbrella type hat, and he talked, and he spoke really soft, saying, hey,
(21:58):
cold beer, He said so refreshing. Paps was living life
and enjoying it, and everybody loved him. He was a
laid back man of confidence and love. And oh how
I wish I had those gifts. Fans loved to buy
from paps. Also at the met there was a score
(22:21):
book vendor named Donnie. He had down syndrome. As I recall,
his glasses were usually crooked, and his shirt usually rode
up too high up his back. His pants were loose,
so you saw the top of his sweaty behind above
the band of his underwear. We didn't look too close
over there, but I learned to look really close at
his face. Donnie was into it and he loved his job.
(22:45):
Twin scorecard, Here, get your scorecard. He drooled a little,
but that was okay. We learned to accept it. There
is dignity in work, and showing up to sell programs
was Donnie's work. Hi, Donnie, I learned to say to him.
I learned to treat him with honor. I learned everybody counts.
(23:05):
I learned God loves them all, and he loves you too.
I also learned as a vendor about competition. One day,
during a Vikings game, Tom van Dervoort, Vendor number three
twenty two, got too close to Doug Janzig Vendor three
forty six. At halftime, we learned to order a double
or a triple load of seventy two hot dogs or
(23:27):
one hundred and eight, cramming them into our cooler, and
then we would stand at the back of the line
where the fans waited at the concession stand, maybe eight
or nine people deep. We opened up the cooler, let
the smell just waffed out, and then we looked at
the people waiting in the back and we would coop
to them, hot dogs here, get your hot dogs. And
(23:51):
on a cold day you could sell about ninety hot
dogs in about five minutes. But you had to stake
your claim and take your spot at the back of
that concession stan. On one fateful Saturday night, Vendor three
twenty two placed his cooler adjacent to Janzig Vendor three
forty six. A turf woar ensued, Hey, get out of
(24:12):
my spot, said Doug. Forget it, said Tom, Move out
of here, said Doug, No, you move, said Tom. Hard
words grew into curses, and curses became threats, and then
came the ultimate. The yellow mustard bottle was pointed, get
out of here, scortch quirt. Tom responded, what are you doing? Squortch,
squarre squirt. Before it was over all two hundred dogs
(24:37):
were unsold and two vendors were covered with mustard. It
was like a moment of eminent domain against free markets,
competition against first come, first served, and in the end
two vendors battled it out and both lost. Two competitors
that day were done selling. You know, in this world
(25:00):
have the old met and in this life you've got
to learn to get along. Isn't that part of what
we're learning today? During this crisis. We have the mask
people and the non maskers, the closer downs against the
let it be and live your lifers. It's us against them.
It's the halves versus the have nots. It's the rioters
(25:23):
against law and order. It's sometimes deadly and it's sometimes
just fine. But somehow, someway, we have to learn to
get along. Like Reggie Jackson prayed it, please God, let
me hit this one out. Let's get through this with
love and patience and confidence and joy. We'll do our
(25:44):
best and learn not to fight. We'll try to get along.
We'll sell our hot dogs, we'll learn to love the
poor man selling scorecards, and we'll try to keep the
mustard bottles to ourselves during this COVID crisis, this great life,
the sports shut down. I listened to WCCO, the Good
Neighbor to the Great Northwest, and I listen to the
(26:06):
old games. I hear Corey Provis and Dan Gladden, and
I smile. Or I tune in and hear Tim Gordon
or Herb Carneil from days before, and I wish man,
I wish I was selling hot dogs again. They're starting
up the baseball season again. But what's baseball without the crowds? Well,
it's still baseball. I suppose my mom would have been
(26:29):
watching it. She was a devoted fan. But twins games
without hot dog sales, Yeah, I think we can do it.
But I still smell it good and real when I
think about it, and wish for better days. When the
new season starts, I will watch it. It's baseball and
it makes me feel good. It makes me remember Donnie
(26:49):
the Vender and Steve Rushan flipping me a hot dog
from behind a commissary counter. And it reminds me of
Reggie Jackson. It reminds me of Kirby Pucket and those
great rare athletes black and White, Latino or Californian's unusual
people who can show up for work every day, who
learned to slap a curveball to the opposite field and
(27:11):
sling an inside cut her down the left field line,
or stroke a high fastball up the middle, or drive
a towering fly ball way back, way back over the
left field fence. They do things so few athletes can do,
and I'll love them and admire them, and I'll watch
them hit it hard, driving it like Kirby Pucket who
(27:33):
always said see the ball, hit the ball, or like
Nelson Cruz, gripping and ripping those bomba homers, all wrists,
all out, as the Twins did last year, three hundred
and seven home runs in one year, one more than
the Yankees. How good did that feel? It felt like
justice to me. So what did I learn on August first,
(27:54):
nineteen seventy nine and what happened to those hot dogs? Well,
let's be real, let's be honest. That fall over row
twenty two to nineteen was a beautiful day for learning humility.
And I did learn you can't walk over the bleacher backs,
and you don't have to live your life worrying about
selling snow cones or hot dogs, just do what you're
(28:14):
supposed to do. Life is what you make it, and
you don't have to whine. But what's the end of
the story. Well, I'll tell you if you don't tell
anybody else. I did pick up every one of those
hot dogs. I picked up myself and gathered my pride.
I walked out of left field and strode over to
center field, three sections away. And yes, I sold every
(28:39):
last one of those hot dogs and I felt good
about it too. Is it justice? No, But at the time,
on that eighty three degree night, it seemed like the
right thing to do, to make the best of it.
And that's what I'm encouraging you to do. Let's all
do it as Americans. Let's face the crisis in the
(29:02):
face and make the best of it without complaining. And
don't squirt anybody with a mustard bottle. Okay.
Speaker 1 (29:10):
And that was Jim Johnson. And again he's a long
time pastor who lives in Rogers, Minnesota. And my goodness,
what storytelling here. We met Papps, we met Donnie, we
met an ecosystem, and we all work with people who
are different than us. And you can crow and complain,
and we know those people who do that all day long,
or you can get on with it and make the
(29:30):
best of everything, and see that all of us can
work together to do some pretty interesting things in our lives.
And what did he learn most of all? That there's
dignity and work, and there is and lessons are learned
every day by work of every kind. Jim Johnson's story,
his baseball story, his love story with his sport and
(29:51):
his town. Here on our American stories.
Host
Lee Habeeb
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