Race #4, and I studied the bloody racing guide.  As is the problem, the best horses have the narrowest payout – so you might say that a horse looks good, but you might put $10 down and win $12, and that isn’t a sure thing.

And to make matters worse, there was nary an Irish horse OR an Irish themed horse to bet on.  Looking over the race form, I thought I made an intelligent decision – the long shot, Saint Belle, was a 21-1 long shot in a tight field…and the trainer was a known quantity.  How could I go wrong?  I put my $10 down at the book makers.

The race was hotly contested, with Saint Belle making a go of it out of the gate, but quickly being out paced by the next long shot in the race, Emmalene – a 15-1 long shot.  But I wasn’t worried.  Not at first.  Then it Saint Belle made its way from the front…to the middle…to the back…to the very rear of the pack….and Emmalene made her way from the front half…to the front, and kept off a very hard charging Miss Stellabelle and Anise.  While I was glad that the other horse that I was considering (Zippa the Rippa!) came in a lowly 9^th, there was really only one thing that I could say….

Shucks.

After one close race and one last place showing, I had to retreat to the bar and think about my strategy.  And it took more than one beverage to rethink my strategy.  It was a bit of a long drawn out commiseration with other punters whose fingers were burned early in the betting session.

We were all just a little gun shy.

Finally, it was approaching the big race of the day, the Crown Oaks.  We had to put a bet down.  Everyone was advocating their own favorite.

“Gioe, #6, is the horse for this race and this track.  Bank on it.”

“Vittoria.  A New Zealand horse, a good record.  That is where to put your money.”

“Gliding 10, you can’t bet against a Bart Cummings horse.”

 Luckily, I asked friend Tom what his thoughts were – he was vocally praising Gioe, did he really think that would get the job done?

“Ah mate, #1 is a machine.”  Tom said quietly, “Reckon he can take it all.”  Now Tom will tell you that he isn’t much of a punter on the ponies, but he is a part owner of one, so has more than a passing interest.  How could I pass up that tip (as advice on the races are called).

There is only one thing that I got wrong….#1 was Mosheen…not a machine…but my money was placed.  $10 on a 5-1 odds horse.

We all downed our beverages and headed for the grandstands, to catch a glimpse of history.

Much like the experience at the Melbourne Cup, the announcers came alive…or we just weren’t paying attention during the other races.  Somehow, people seem to pay more attention when $1 million dollars are at risk.

With a flourish, the announcer, called out…”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNDDDD THERE OFF!  Gioe! Gioe on the outside!  Vittoria! Vittoria!  Now The Fallen One!  Watch The Fallen One!  And Gliding!  Gliding on the inside!  Watch Mosheen!  The Mosheen!  And Roma Giaconda on the stretch!  Mosheen!  Gliding!  WAIT!  WAIT!  WAIT! DOWAGER QUEEN!  DOWAGER QUEEN!  AAAAANNNDDDD ROMA GIACONDA!  MOSHEEN!  MOSHEEN!  MOSHEEN WINS THE CROWN OAKS!

Part in shock I looked to the ticket in my hand….I had won a whopping $50!      

View of Melbourne and the Track from the Grandstand

The crowd and the starting gates

The race is on!

It is amazing that some of the same iconic Christmas cartoons have been playing for over fifty years.  The artistry, the animation might be something from out of the past, but the stories, the message must live on with kids, regardless how young or old they are.And there are some classics out there.  Back in the 1980′s, there was an explosion of Christmas cartoons.  Some of them very good, some of them so bad, they were good, most that got bogged down in their pop culture past and smaltzy message.

There is almost nothing that compares to the Charlie Brown Christmas Special – one that even my folks would strive to watch.  It was entertaining, but also sparked a simple message of truth.  One that still today, in a world of increasing political correctness and less religious significance, still manages to resonate.

Then there is the purely secular Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  The classic tale of misfits and outcasts that save the day and helps the very people that reject them.  A Christmas classic born from a Gene Autry Christmas hit – and one of the few one hour television cartoons that survives today.

Dr. Suess has his say too – with the now classic “Grinch” – the green monster that can’t understand how he could steal all the trappings of Christmas and yet find that Christmas joy comes anyway.  Whose heart grows ten times that Christmas Day.

There were a couple of lesser known classics that are harder to find on the television today.  Tales like Frosty the Snowman and his magic hat and his habit of saying “Happy Birthday” every time it was placed on his head and the magic of a Christmas snow.  Or the classic Walt Disney rendition of “The Christmas Carol,” with Scrooge McDuck as the protagonist being visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.  I have to publicly say that I believe that Goofy’s performance as Scrooge’s dead partner Marley is one of his best performances.

There are a couple of sugary sweet specials that have since found themselves in lesser rotation.  The 1970′s story with Kris Kringle and the Burgermeister Meisterburger in Santa Claus is Coming to Town.  And the mouse classic, “Twas the Night Before Christmas” which follows a mouse family that needs to prove to their geeky son that there really is a Santa Claus.

Then there were those ones that were so bad they were good.

Around our house, the “Garfield Christmas Special” was a favorite, partly due to the fact that we liked the mischeivious little orange cat, partly because we liked the fact that a cartoon showed someone going back to the farm, and who couldn’t love the song, “Let’s Have a Good Old Fashioned Christmas Down on the Farm.”  Quite frankly, the thing was just funny.

My personal favorite was shown only one year that I’m aware of – during the age when Claymation ruled supreme and the California Raisins were the toast of the cartoon community…it was a brief reign, but they managed to make one whole Christmas special based on Claymation – and it was funny.  I can’t listen to Carol of the Bells with a straight face anymore.  They turned a very serious rendition of “We Three Kings” – with the very solemn kings singing each verse, with do-whooping camels singing the refrain in their sneakers…irreverent, yes – funny, absolutely.

When my sister was little – ok, and I wasn’t that old either, I went through the effort of taping all of the specials one Christmas.  She loved it.  For the next year, in the cold of January and the heat of July, you could walk through the living room and she would be watching one of the Christmas classics.

Somewhere, that tape was lost over the years.  But the memories of the Christmas classic will live on in the memory, and in some cases, the funny bone.

 We boarded the flat bottom riverboat right next to the Melbourne Convention and Visitors Center (better known as ‘Jeff’s Shed’ after the premier who built it…it was considered a folly at the time, but rejuvenated the old wharf and warehouse area along the river).  There were about fifty of us getting on board the boat, with beer and wine and a good thirty minute ride down the Yarra River, down into the harbor, then back up the Maribyrnong River, past the old Victoria Harbor, past the big container yards, the industrial sites, and the newly developed parks, walking, and biking trails.

It was a good ride, especially surrounded by good people and with a good beer in hand.  All of us dressed up in our spring finest, making sure that we were our fashionable best for the crowds on Oaks Day…or Ladies Day as we gents liked to remind ourselves…or Blokes Day as the ladies like to roll their eyes and remind us.

Either way, we were headed for the grounds and our tables in our marquee.

The boat landed at a wharf, special for Flemington, and deposited in a massive crowd of people trying to make their way into the grounds.  We threaded our way through the mass of humanity and made our way to the marquee…

What is a marquee you might ask…well, some folks might describe it as a tent, however, that description does not do it justice.  It is a massive venue, with chandeliers, wall sconces, multiple bars, carpeted floors, tables with white tablecloths, napkins, napkin rings…

In short, this wasn’t your ordinary tent.

Did I mention the big screen televisions and the betting booths?

While the venues were placed high on corner hill, next to the grandstand, so the view wasn’t that good, we did have designated grandstand seating, so that we could, if we wanted to leave our lavish venue behind, go up and sit in the grandstand.

With the cool, overcast weather…that wouldn’t be likely…especially with very thorough beverage service.  And I mean thorough.  The gentleman overseeing our table – and they had an army of servers, all wearing their uniform, very dressed up in shirt and tie – never let a beer go completely empty…

It made for a very long day.

Then there was the betting.

A good punter would tell you the signs to look for.  You needed to pay attention to the breeding – who the sire and dam were.  You needed to pay attention to the track conditions – was it wet? Dry?  Hard?  Fast?  You needed to pay attention to the jockey – what was the record?  Could he hold his own?  You had to pay attention to the trainer.  You had to have some idea on when the last race was run.  You had to know what the horses rating was.  You had to know what the horses recent performance had been….

In short, there was a huge complex process that the professional punters used to place the bets and put their money down, as a result, the better the horse, the lower the payout.

Which is why I always resort to my good friend Scotty’s advice:  Bet on the Irish horse.  Even better if it is an Irish name.  If it is a longshot, double your bet.

Sure enough, the first race I bet on was race #3 (the prior race spent betting on the ‘sure thing’…ice cold Boags).

There it was, ‘Celts,’ an Irish born 9-1 long shot.

How could I resist.  It was like being back in Shakopee on a warm summer night with a $1 Leinies in my hand.

I put $10 bucks on Celts to win.

And did you guess that Celts came through in the end?!

If you did, you’d be wrong.  Sadly, sadly, tragically wrong.  I don’t think Celts came last, but it wasn’t even sniffing the tail end of the #3 horse…it was a way back in the field.

“Bloody horse.” I mumbled, but no worries, plenty of more races for the day.

Crowd at the gates

View from the tent

View in the ‘Tent’

One of the places that took my money….

(Tom Jirik’s Columns Orginally Published by the Boone Today)I love winter.  I love it when the temperature dips below zero.  I love it when it snows and snows and snows.  But most of all, I love to gloat.

Cold is a relative term.  Most Iowans don’t mind it too much when the temperature drops down to 20 degrees or even 10 degrees.  But when the mercury drops down to zero or below, you all start whining and crying.

“Oooohh!  It’s soooo cold,” you complain.  “I think we’ll all freeze to death,” somebody else says.  And as a native of Minnesota, I can’t help but laugh at you just a bit.

Mary and I spent the week before Christmas in the wilds of northwestern Minnesota.  On Christmas Day, the temperature in Mahnomen registered 20 degrees below zero.  When we left on the 26^th, a bright crisp day, the thermometer showed that it was 21 below zero.  Across the state in Minnesota’s Iron Range, the national weather service had an unofficial reading of 50 below in the tiny town of Tower.  Now that’s cold.  And none of the natives were complaining.’

We walked into Mahnomen’s Red Apple Café and mentioned how cold it was and everybody looked at us like we were off our rockers.  My own mother rebuked us, saying, “What did you expect? It’s December.”

That’s when I remembered that cold isn’t something to be suffered through until the next warm front shows up. When you live in Minnesota, cold’s a way of life.

It’s 20 degrees below the doughnut.  So what?  You shop.  You feed the cows.  You go to church.  You do everything you normally do, except you dress warmer and you plug in your car and your tractor before you go to bed. Life goes on and so does the cold, so there’s no sense complaining about it.

And you remember that things can always get worse.  Like my dad said when he came in from doing chores on Christmas morning,” At least the wind’s not blowing.”  And my grandmother added, “At least it’s a ‘dry’ cold.”

So while the rest of you are shivering through this current cold spell, wondering if you’ll survive, I’m out enjoying it.  In fact, I’m savoring it because I know that cold is a relative term and where I come from, five below is relatively warm.
And it helps keep my mind off the coming summer and the accompanying heat.  It gets soooo hot here. And the humidity!  I don’t know how anybody can deal with that kind of humidity.  I just don’t know if I can stand it for another year….

 The Monday after Thanksgiving was a busy one back at St. Michael’s School.  There was much planning that was going on.  That first Monday back to school after the long weekend was the first day of Advent, the start of the new liturgical year, and the time to start preparing for Christmas.

At St. Michael’s, that preparation was taken very seriously.

Each of us students had to write out two or three things that we would do for the next four weeks before Christmas.

Sister Rosella and Sister Baptist explained that this wasn’t a case of ‘giving up’ something, like we would for Lent – this wasn’t a penance, it was something entirely different…it was to prepare ourselves and our world for Christmas.

We each had a small list of things that we committed ourselves to doing and they were taped on our desks – so that we saw them every day at school.

Today marks the start of Advent, the start of a new church year, and the preparation for Christmas.  You can’t miss the signs, the store fronts are decorated, Christmas trees are finding their way into lobbies and homes, Christmas specials are making their way on the television.

But there is a difference between the physical preparation and spiritual preparation, between the trees and the gifts, and the reality of what is behind them.

One of the lessons from those St. Mike’s Days was about the preparation – it was very much an active thing.  Simply giving up something wasn’t the point, it was about doing.  It was about putting our feet, our hands, our head, and our heart into motion and trying to make the world a little better in any way we could.  Doing our chores without being asked.  Writing a letter to an aunt or uncle.  Being nice to brothers and sisters.  Spending some extra time in prayer.  Reading a good book each week. Shoveling a neighbors driveway…..

It was clear…preparation isn’t waiting.  Waiting implies sitting around, well, waiting.

Prepare means doing something.  It means planning things out, it means thinking about what you are doing, making sure that your actions count, it means thinking ahead, it means work, and sweat, and tears, and discomfort for something in the end.

And we are preparing for something – we are preparing for Christmas. We are working to make our lives and our world a little better as we celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour as Man.

But in a larger sense, we are preparing for our final meeting with our Lord as well.  We do not know the time and the place that will happen, but it reminds us that just as we prepare to celebrate our Lord’s birthday, so we must prepare for our own appointed time with our Father, so that we might be found worthy – so that our faith, proven through actions, will find us in His realm and called a good and faithful servant.

Sister Rosella and Sister Baptist might not have said it, but it sure came through it their laser focus.  And in their lives, lives of preparation – of hard work – and never waiting.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)I was beginning to think I would be cold until next summer.

In early August we drained the water out of our furnace and removed two of the old cast -iron radiators from the rooms we were redecorating.  We planned to have the radiators sandblasted and painted.

We only recently managed to get the sandblasting done.  Then we had to wait for warm days to get the painting done.  Meanwhile the nightly temperatures dropped lower and lower as the pile of blankets on our bed grew higher and higher.  “I want my heat back,” Mary said one morning as her breath rose in little puffs of steam toward the ceiling,

So I enlisted the help of some friends and we wrestled the radiators back up the stairs and into place.  There were pipes to tighten and valves to install, so we lived without heat for a few days more.  Finally, all that remained was to refill the system with water and turn on the thermostat.

After removing the radiators, carting them off to have them sandblasted, painting them, hauling them back up the steps and reinstalling them, I thought that refilling the system with water would be the easy part.  I obviously have a lot to learn about old furnaces.

I crept through the dust and cobwebs behind the furnace until I could see the water valve in my flashlight beam.  I gave the valve a couple of turns.   Our water meter usually measures our water usage in slow, even ticks.  When I turned on that big valve, the meter buzzed like a fishing reel after a strike from a trophy bass.

Back upstairs we began to bleed the air out of the radiators.  Finally the first radiator stopped hissing and a trickle of water leaked from a bleeder valve.  As air hissed out of the next radiator came to me:  “If water is rushing like gang busters into the furnace and air is bleeding ever so slowly out of the radiators, where is all that water going?”

My worst fears were realized as I rushed up stairs.  The newly refinished floor in our spare bedroom and the new vinyl floor in the bathroom were covered with water.  The bleeder valves on the radiators were shooting water like the business end of a super-soaker.

I quickly turned the valves shut.  As we frantically mopped up the water, another thought occurred to me:  “If water is rushing into the furnace and all the bleeder valves are closed, where is the water going now?”

I rushed to the attic.  There was no hint of burst pipes or leakage.  I rapped on the side of the overflow tank.  It was full to the top.  A pipe led from the top of the tank to the wall.  But where did it go from there?

I ran back down the attic steps, down the main hallway, through the kitchen and down to basement steps.  Water was shooting out the end of a pipe in the basement ceiling like it was coming from a fire hose.  I could hear water rushing through the boiler and in the background, the water meter was buzzing like crazy.

I sloshed though the water on the floor, crawled behind the furnace and cranked the valve shut.  The water meter gradually quieted and the flow of water across the floor soon abated.

In the end, our house suffered no permanent damage from our furnace fill-up.  For future reference, I learned that I should make sure all the bleeder valves on the radiators are closed before I start refilling the furnace.  And I now know where the overflow pipe is for the furnace.  All that and we have heat too.

Still, there is a price to pay for this educational experience.  I’ll let you know what that is after I see my water bill.

 I’m a reader.  I enjoy a good book and a good story.  As a kid, I remember my favorite book was a one of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books (from Little House on the Prairie fame) called “Farmer Boy.”  The story of her husband’s youth growing up on their late 1800′s farm in western New York State.

It was a compelling read of farming, nature, and hard work.  Something growing up on the plains for Northern Minnesota, I could relate too.

There was one story that I remember quite well – it was about Thanksgiving.  After morning chores, but before the big traditional Thanksgiving feast, the children would do an inventory of everything on the farm – the cattle, sheep, chickens, the sacks of wheat, shocks of corn, bags of potatoes, the jugs of cider, and even to the point of counting every last apple in their root cellar.

It was a good lesson in realizing what they had, and a good lesson for a youngster in the 1980′s to think about.

As a society, we aren’t very good at realizing what we have or where we have come from.  It is part of the danger of a fast moving world.  A world that tells us that we must have and want everything right now.

We tend to lose our perspective.

It is Thanksgiving Day back in the US today.  And while I won’t be there to celebrate it for the third year in a row, it doesn’t mean that I’m less thankful for what I have.  If anything, it merely strips away the trappings of the day and lays bare the true root of the holiday.

It helps too that I’ve lived two years out of a couple of suitcases full of stuff.  You realize that the stuff is just that, but the true treasures in life are far more valuable.  It is faith in the things not seen and the hope of things to come.  It is the freedom to think, and feel, and chose, and live.  It is the friends and family that might be a long distance away, but never far from the heart.

The world trembles today with fatigue and weariness over the continuing financial calamities.  Society seems bent low on how bad things are, they seemed fixated on what a muddle we are in.

But we lose sight of what we have.  How though the stock market goes up and down.  Our economy is in shambles.  World governments can’t seem to make a decision….life isn’t that bad.  As a matter of fact, it is probably better than it ever has been.  People are living longer.  Fewer people globally are starving then ever before.  The world is more at peace than it has been in a very long time.

That doesn’t mean that life isn’t hard.  It is meant to be.  That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be thankful for the wonderful things that we have.

Happy Thanksgiving and remember to count your apples.

 Harry and I made the rounds of the Grandstands again…both of us having a bit of taste for rum and coke…and discussed the intricasies of the track, the Australian economic situation, the political situation, the best pies in Victoria, and the pro’s and con’s of many of the very attractive women that were in the crowd.

But like all good things, this too had to come to an end.

So we made our way back to the trains, where, like cattle in some old John Wayne western…only in suits, ties, dresses, and fascinators, we waited for the trains that would take us into the city.

We didn’t have to wait long.  They were running about every 5 minutes and had two tracks dedicated to hauling us back and forth.

Proving they were not only proficient at taking your money, but also about getting you in and out of the race track.

And what an interesting ride back it was too.  We ended up standing next to two very attractive Scottish doctors, both relatively new to Melbourne, both on the verge of falling down in the train.  I was game to learn more about them, Harry…who has a very steady girlfriend…was friendly, but keen to get me off the train at Southern Cross.

Yet another punt lost.

Instead of the smart thing and heading home, instead, we made our way to the George Hotel in South Melbourne.  A fine establishment, right across from the South Melbourne Market.  I went to ‘see a man about a horse’ and when I came out, found Harry visiting in the VIP section far in the back.

Turns out, he was friends with the owners and their cadre of friends.

A spirited discussion ensued.  About an extremely wide range of subjects – US and Australian politics, US cities, US history, the pub, beer, women…

A good discussion.

This was followed by a fantastic chicken parmesan, and few more pots.

Then, bed was calling.  After a half day at work and a full day of punting and horse races, I needed a sleep.

Partly to prepare for Thursday, Oaks Day, when I would be attending the corporate venue.

And what a difference the two days turned out to be.

Weatherwise, they were pretty similar. Not cool, not warm, but overcast and threatening rain.  Each involved going into work for a while in the morning…that is where the similarities stopped.

Instead of catching the train at Flinders Street Station, we would be catching a boat down along the Melbourne Convention Center.  Instead of fighting the crowds at the entrance, we would take the river entrance.  Instead of buying beer, it would be given to us.

I love Oaks Day.

 Our next stop…or at least pass by, was the bird cage.  The birdcage is where the celebrities and notables hang their hat for the races.  Large marquees, big white tents on raised platforms with good views of the long straight-away on the big pear shaped horse track, is where the rich and famous congregate.  Looking out at the horses, over the heads of the rabble and commoners out front.  We made our way through…because while membership has its privileges, even that isn’t good enough to make it to the exclusive events where models, actors, and personalities mix and mingle.

I swear I saw radio personality Hamish Blake hanging out on one of the overlooks, talking on his cell phone between races.

From the Birdcage, we made our way from the fashionable trackside, to the very fashionable and schik Birdcage and made our way back to the Nursery.

Now, I’m sure there is a reason that the big parking lot is called ‘The Nursery.’  Firstly, it was probably a tree or plant nursery at some point in time.  But perhaps, it is because most of the people hanging out back there were extremely young – 18-22 year olds – and most were not nursing their beers.

Compared to trackside, there were few people trying too look fine and proper back here – at least in their serving style.  True, suits and dresses were all top notch (I still looked and felt shabby…did I mention that I sewed the buttons on my sport coat on myself…that morning…with the wrong color thread), but let me tell you, there were utes with blow up swimming pools in their back, filled with ice and beer.  Their were coolers everywhere, and everyone seemed to be either very excited, or very glazed over…

It had clearly already been a long day.

While I enjoyed the environment – being around the young makes one sometimes feel young…though sometimes makes your feel very, very old… – the Nursery is a long way from the track, so while there were machines and bookies around, it was darn hard to see the horses and the races, so we made our way back to the Grandstands.

It was amazing that I’d run into familiar faces in the crowd.  But it happened, more then once through the three times I was at the races.  Each was marked by a look of surprise on each of our faces.  On the first day, the first one happened in the garden, yet another set aside area – higher class, but far from the action – as we made our way through the grounds.

Finally, we made the trek through the big bookie stands behind the Grandstands and back inside, the main event was about to get underway – the 2011 Melbourne Cup.

The Melbourne Cup is an event, and we made our way to the wide concourse on level three to watch the race, and place our bets.

It was a big field of sixteen horses, the favorite was last years winner, Americain.  Though I rarely go for the favorites, as an American…how could I not bet on Americain.  I put a whooping $20 on the table and got my ticket – no place for me (second place) – it was win or nothing. 

With a cold Boags in hand (always a winner) we waited for the start of the race.

There was a nervous excitement in the crowd.  People were serious in their betting and studying their race books.  Though most of them were too far gone to read much or so it seemed.  The bookie booths had long lines, right up to race time, and for one of the few times during the day, the post was clearly broadcast through the race course – the universal song (Bop-bop-bop-BOP-BADALOP-BADALOP-Bup-Bup-Bup-BAAAAHHH…Bop-Bop-Bop-badalop-badalop-bup-bup-bup-baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa).

It was amazing to witness the reaction of the crowd, and the skill of the announcer – who I swear was just reading off names of horses….”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND THEIR OFF!  Americain!  Americain! Wait!  Wait!  Dunaden!  Dunden!  And Shamrocker!  Look at Shamrocker on the inside!  Shamrocker! And now Americain!  Lost in the Moment!  And the Unusual Suspect coming up from behind!  Shamrocker!  Lost in the Moment!  Americain!  And Dunaden!  Yes!  Yes!  Yes! (Crowd Roars), Shamrocker!  Is that?  IS THAT!?  YES!  OLDER THEN TIME!  SHAMROCKER!  AMERICAIN!  BUT WAIT!  DUNADEN!  YES!  YES!  SHAMROCKER!  SHAMROCKER!  AND IT’S A DRUNKEN SAILER!  A DRUNKEN SAILER!  SHAMROCKER!  Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaitttttt – YYYYYEEESSSS  AMERICAIN!  AND A PHOTO FINISH!  UN-BEEEEEEEEE-LEIVABLE!  DUNADEN AND RED CEDEAUX! (Note – where did he come from?)  PHOTO FINISH!  AND DUNADEN WINS IT!  DUNADEN!”

The crowd held their breath for the minute before then race started – then went absolutely mad.

I know now why this race stops a nation!

 I wasn’t a football player in high school, and while there are many reasons for this (broken arm my seventh grade year, milking cows every morning and night, complete lack of coordination), it didn’t deter me from cheering on my hometown Mahnomen Indians, especially as a great deal of my friends were on the team.

And what a team it was.

The Mahnomen Indians of the early 1990′s were a force to be reckoned with.  Rarely did we get out of milking cows as kids – we would start early and let Dad finish for school functions.  If we had a cast on, it usually got us out of it, and the FFA convention each spring, but otherwise, we were expected to be down in the barn, hefting bales and feed pails, and pulling teats (ok, we used machines, but it interrupted the poetry that is the barn work…).

The only other rare exception was the annual Minnesota State Prep Bowl, the annual championship football game held for the State of Minnesota.

And my hometown was almost always represented.

Our local football team wasn’t just good, they were great.  We aren’t talking about a once and done trip to the cities to run their luck at playing in the championship game, we are talking about repeat, back to back….not once…not twice…not three times…but four, count them four (4) Minnesota State Class C Football Championship victories.

Not too bad for some hicks from the sticks.

The players and the starters would change every year, but there was one constant – Mr. Baumann, the head football coach for decades – that had an amazing record.  Part of it was he was a good coach, good with the players, good with the community, and part of it was that he just knew his game.  There was one game when we were behind, and I remember a play that he did that just baffled his opponent and the referees.  Play was stopped as the refs stopped and searched the rule book.

The refs never doubted him, but they had to see the rule…just to make sure.

So every year during my time at the high school, the band would pack up the old school bus, normally Bill Bruggemann’s old #5, and make the five to six hour trip south and east to the metropolis of Minneapolis to the Hubert H Humphrey Metrodome to cheer on and play our team on to victory.

Usually, there were signs on the Mainstreet that had such sayings as “will the last one to leave for the game please turn out the lights.”  It was a joke that never got old.

The first stop was normally the Hardee’s in Alexandria – where the bus would take on fuel, and we would fill our stomachs with breakfast sandwiches, hashbrowns, and caffeine (Mountain Dew for breakfast anyone?).

Then proceed to the cities, where we would unload our instruments and head into the mighty dome, home of the Minnesota Vikings, Gophers, and once a year – our beloved Mahnomen Indians (who probably have a better streak then either the Vikes or the Gophers….).

My older brother, who played football back in the 1980′s during one of the first prep bowls, claim to have been the first one to walk into the dome and state, “Man, think of how much hay you could fit in here!”

But we usually did it anyway.

Inevitably – at least for the last four years of my high school career – they won, and there was celebrating and cheer back in the hometown – and the bus with the bands and the fans would make their way on the long journey into the night, back up the highways and by-ways to the little town on the edge of the prairie – arriving back the same day…though now, pushing midnight.

It was always a fun but exhausting trip on the Friday after Thanksgiving.  But at least it got me out of milking cows.

This weekend, the Mahnomen Indians will be playing for yet another state title.  It is a new coach, a new team, but the same bloodlines and the same heritage.  Go Indians!