OK. So I really wasn’t running with them. Just eating with them. Guys with last names like Nace and Tessier and Heikkenen and Hastings and Johnson and Norlander and Westholm and Petrich. All athletes of renown from days gone by, who gather once a year at St. George’s Serbian Orthodox Church in Gary New Duluth for an event known as The Pug’s Club Christmas Party in honor of former Denfeld coach, Frank “Pug” Puglisi. Last year, my old man (who is an old bull but who was never much of an athlete; a trait he passed on to me) invited me to Pug’s Club. Up until Larry Tessier, Jr. arrived, I was, at 55, the youngest person in the room, including the wait staff. Larry’s glory lasted about five minutes. Joey Scott, younger than Larry and I by two decades, arrived with his dad and grandfather to take the title. This year, Larry was the youngest man present at age 52. I took second place at 56. Anyway, the speakers for last year’s affair were two reporters from the Duluth News Tribune who talked about the demise of local reporting at the paper and the difficulty of covering pro, college, and high school sports with the diminished staff. At the conclusion of their talk, Master of Ceremonies (and former Morgan Park High School coach) Paul Nace asked me to be the speaker this year. I said yes, figuring, at 82, Paul would forget. He didn’t. So when his daughter called me a month ago to remind me of my promise, I couldn’t do much other than say “Yes, ma’am.”
Of course, the problem is, as usual, I double booked myself. I was slated to be in the Twin Cities at an annual judge’s conference getting smarter. Pug’s Club was scheduled to meet smack dab in the middle of the conference. There wasn’t much I could do but make the first day of the seminar, get my credits, have a nice meal with my judicial colleagues, hit the hay, get up at six in the morning, and drive back up to Duluth to honor my commitment to Mr. Nace. That’s just what I did despite a slight headache (a residue of some nice Merlot) and a very snowy I-35. I made it to the Serbian church with plenty of time to spare, set up a table with my books, and waited for the crowd. I was doubtful that guys in their sixties, seventies, and eighties would wander through crappy weather (light snow that was freezing; making the driving treacherous) to hear an ex-second string wide receiver/defensive end on the Denfeld Football Team of 1973 (who lettered but just barely so) talk about the use of sports in fiction writing. But you know what? They don’t call them Old Bulls for nothing. Undaunted by the storm, over one hundred guys packed the social hall of the church and made my day.
Thanks, guys, for having me as your speaker, and for listening. I hope I didn’t waste your time.
Peace.
Mark
