By His Favorite (and Much Younger-Looking) Cousin)

Alan paints 1969 like we were two resourceful, hardworking young entrepreneurs. Let me translate: we were dirty, sweaty kids who scavenged other people’s trash so we could afford baseball cards, chocolate, and one shared RC Cola which, by the way, I am convinced he intentionally back-washed just to watch me wipe the top with my shirt.

We also paid $2.00 for a baseball where we went to Merritt & Brad Yohnka’s house to play baseball quite regularly. It was a game we thoroughly enjoyed until one of us hit or threw a ball too hard and it went across the street into the neighbor’s yard. The neighbor was a crotchety old lady who would run down her four stairs, grab our baseball, and run back into her house. I’m guessing she had close to 100 baseballs.

And I’ll have you know, those extra seven months of age were critical to my emotional development. I was practically a grizzled veteran of childhood.

Alan suggests I had some deep-seated White Sox loyalties I refused to admit. False. I knew only one Sox player, Pete Ward, and the only reason I knew him is because I once saw his baseball card stuck to the spokes of YOUR bike, Alan. That’s how I knew to steer clear.

Grandpa Ahrens was a Cubs fan, so that’s the law right there. If Grandpa said the sun rose in the west, we’d grab our sunglasses and adjust accordingly.

Alan conveniently “forgets” to mention the true highlight: Tracy Hendershott and I made amazing poster-portraits of Ron Santo and Don Kessinger. (Alan drew Ernie Banks, mostly so he could claim he was older and wiser.) We proudly carried those signs into Wrigley Field like three mini super fans.

Final score? Reds 7, Cubs 6.
But who remembers stuff like that? (…Me. It scarred me. Thanks for bringing it up, Alan.)

Alan brags he had five Mickey Mantle cards. I remember the one clipped to the bike spokes for that sweet engine sound: “brrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrr—CRUNCH—there goes a down payment on a house.” Somewhere out there a card dealer just fainted.

Alan calls it “hawking.” I call it “redistributing forgotten beverage assets for the public good.” Yes, some bottles were sourced from behind garages. If housewives can’t protect their inventory, that’s not on us. We were basically the Robin Hoods of carbonated containers except we didn’t give anything to the poor unless you count the Cubs bullpen.

Alan mentions our deep political thinking. Let’s clarify:

Me: “We’re Democrats?”
Alan: “I think so.”
Me: “Why?”
Alan: “Grandpa said Kennedy was cool.”
Me: “Good enough.”

That was the entire Democratic platform of 1969. Thank God we both grew up to be much wiser.

Alan leaves out our later adventures like the indestructible Dodge that probably needed its own ZIP code. Zero horsepower. Negative traction. If it snowed more than half an inch, we were stranded and cursing like sailors:

“Push harder!”
“I am pushing!”
“No you’re not — you’re eating a Twinkie!”

Ah yes. Peak physical fitness.

Alan and I grew up with:
✔ Baseball games on TV (only the Cubs of course)
✔ Mars bar fingerprints as our signature
✔ The certainty that the Cubs would always break our hearts

Except in 2016 — when they finally did it.

I saw a World Series win in my lifetime. And Alan can’t claim any credit for that one, except maybe the Mantle card sacrifice to the Baseball Gods. So yes, Alan mostly told the truth. Except where he didn’t. Which is pretty much everywhere.

But that’s okay, because we have the same memories…just with me being right.