Otto's Pitch - Archive

I Remember 1966
By Bob Otto / Yucaipa, CA

In 1966 I was a cocky 16-year-old with a half year of pitching experience. Wild, I broke every window on the side of our 50-foot dairy barn, even knocking out the huge ventilation fan. Causing such a clanging uproar with the holsteins stantioned inside that a red faced Bob Haller came racing out of the barn ordering me to stop my foolishness before his now skidish milk cows killed him. No matter the countless broken windows or busted fan, thoughts of quitting this fastpitch pitching foolishness never made head way.

I dreamed of one day matching pitch for pitch with my idol, Don Kunde. I dreamed of besting him and his brother Lloyd, Dick Berquam, Kenny Lother, the father-son Borgshatz duo; of wresting the Wanamingo Men's Fastpitch League title from Zumbrota's Blue Goose. The Goose, always the penciled in champion. Always the one to dethrone. In our first year as a bunch of error prone, swing at anything, teenagers under the sponsorship of John Deere Implement we went 0-10. My team mates wanted to fire me because I couldn't throw strikes. Had slowpitch hung its banner over Wanamingo, I'm sure they would have deserted me. But our manager Roger Nelson stood by me. Practice, he said. And practice some more. Be patient, be patient, it will all come together one day he assured me. But in those early days Roger's confidence building advice often struck out in times when throwing a strike seemed more difficult then hitting a 30-foot jump shot. Blindfolded.

After a Winter of pounding pitch after pitch against the barn wall in sub zero temperatures, my control improved, and we won the league, and we were the toast of Terp's Tavern where the old veterans would sneak their younger brothers 3.2 % beer after the ball games. And, of course feed us with lore of the "great ones" who once pitched in the league, and DARED battle the big city teams from Rochester, St. Paul and Minneapolis.

Sitting in the smoky, dimly lit corner booth at Terps, draining down cold one's after a hot, muggy summer night's league game, the ever rising tide of fastpitch voices inevitably shifted to a higher gear and turned to the "greats" of Minnesota fastpitch. Spoken in contradictory hushed reverence or wild-eyed exuberance, the fables of big-time pitchers Al Dewall and Dutch Elbers rose like cream to the top.

Wanamingo fastpitch story tellers usually spun their tales with "I remember the time Dewall (or Elbers)..." Tales of no-hitters with a dozen strike outs, of 20 inning games that ended at two in the morning, of six-games-on-a-weekend tournaments. Every inning hurled by one pitcher, one horse. The more the 3.2 flowed, the more vivid the tales. And I and the other young aspiring throwers of the Wanamingo Fastpitch League soaked in the words, visualized the the ball diamond deeds of these great legends. We wanted, no we ached, to become the next Dewall, the next Elbers, the next Kunde. To possess their explosive rise, their unhitable drop, their back breaking change.

Bolstered by a couple of beers, we raw recruits dared courageous to blurt into the middle of a veteran's tale: "Did you see how he threw the rise? How could he make it break from the waist to the shoulders? If you ever see Elbers, ask him how he throws the drop and the change. When are they playing next? Can you take us to see them?"

The big city hot shots had their great teams, pitchers and players. We checked the St. Paul Pioneer Press to learn of Classic League scores, of tournament results, of state and national championship standings. But on more earthly ground, about 20 miles north of us lived a local legend.

A thick-armed right-hander with a Marine Corps crew cut, and a menacing, snarly look to match. Walt "Nellie" Nelson from Loesches Bar of Hastings may not have been big-city sirloin, but he was no ground chuck either. Nellie with his nasty drop and change, was the top dog in the state's ASA Class A ranks, claiming two state championships in the mid-60s. Nellie scorned secondary help from the bull pen. Six games or two, 14 innings or 50, no matter, Nellie hurled them all. Tournament or league title aspirations rode squarely on his shoulders, or more precisely, whirled about with the circular explosion of his abnormally large right arm. Certainly no Dewall, no Elbers, but on his level, in his arena, for that brief window in the 50s and 60s, Nellie was the man. A pitcher's pitcher, a man's man, a Marine's Marine.

As a kid, when the last hay bale of a July's day climbed to the peak of the elevator and dropped with a thud into the hay loft below, and when the surge milker was pulled off the last holstein, out came the gloves, the ball, the bats. With cow shit still fresh on our Red Wing work boots, we played work up or 500 with a ball held together with duct tape. Splintered, wooden bats were given new life with a few nails thickly wrapped over with the mend-all duct tape. We played under the yellow glow of barn yard lights, our voices and the sound of bat on ball echoing across the gravel road to the Olsens. Crickets chirped in the summer sultry air. Summer's humid sweat poured off us as we took turns pitching and hitting, hitting and pitching until we couldn't see the ball anymore.

And on late Saturday afternoons when the work week stops for farmers, we played ball. And after church on Sunday we played ball. No computers, no video games, no satelite T.V. Just summertime fastpitch softball.

We didn't care about fancy ball diamonds or the rich leather smell of new Wilsons or Franklins, or new game balls, or new wooden bats.

We just burned to play fastpitch softball. Yes, I remember 1966.