Ken Nerd

With a last name that rhymes with a slang word for feces, I knew at an early age I would be in for a world of crap.

In fact, during my opening day of first grade in northern Minnesota my classmates picked up on that and displayed their poetic skills. “Kenny Heard, the big bird turd,” they chanted, bringing me to tears and a vow never to return to public education.

So, it was an indication of the way things would be for many years. I was little, shy and unaggressive in those days. It continued on into high school when, after moving from the north to rural Arkansas, I played the perpetual role of an easy target.

The television show “Happy Days” had become popular while I was in ninth or 10th grade and while everyone else loved it, I dreaded the weekly program. The word “nerd” became staple from that show and it doomed me. I became the quintessential nerd. Say my name aloud “Ken Heard.” If you run it together, it becomes “Ken Nerd.” 

Doomed, I say.

It was sports and the APBA game that helped dig me out of that. My knowledge of basketball gleaned from playing the APBA solitaire game made some of the more popular kids take notice that, hey, maybe I wasn’t such a geek after all.

I played the game constantly, learning the nuances of the players and then regaling my classmates with an information overload about sports they were unaccustomed to. I sounded like a sports announcer to them and while the NBA wasn’t that popular in Arkansas then, I had an authority that made them realize that perhaps I wasn’t totally stupid.

I think the shedding of the nerd I had came early one morning at a miniature golf course in the Arkansas town where I lived. I worked as a dishwasher at a restaurant/bar while in high school and I and a coworker — one of the more popular ones at our school — were too wired after a late shift to go straight home. We drove around in his car playing Aerosmith’s “Toys In the Attic” album on his cassette before ending up putting at the mini golf course. I was apprehensive at first. Me, an unpopular nerd playing golf with the coolest kid there was. But as we went through the holes, dodging the windmills, whacky banked walls and goofy hills, I went to my basketball forte and we talked sports. And I didn’t come across as a stuttering, retarded person.

We were tied at the 18th hole when a police officer drove in, shined a spot light on us and then walked quickly toward us. It was 2 a.m. and we were kids, after all.

I calmly sank a 10-foot putt into the clown’s mouth to win under the imminent pressure of the possibility of incarceration (you don’t see Tiger doing that on the PGA), and unshackled the nerd crown I wore since being at the school. Later that morning at school, the cool kid told others that I was “okay” and knew my basketball. 

Two years later, I was elected my senior class president by the same people who before only referred to me when talking about turds and nerds.

I never amounted to much after that, and I’m still called “turd” at times, but I don’t care as much and it doesn’t bring me to tears. And I’m still a nerd. 

But I know from playing APBA for so long that I can keep up with any sports historian and I know that when the pressure is really turned up, and the cops are closin’ in, I can calmly draw back the putter and  sink a 10-footer.

1981 Update: Sept. 3

I’ve reached Sept. 3, 1981, in my APBA replay and with it comes the drama that us game players roll the dice for. The season ends on Oct. 4, 1981 — a month and a day from where I’m at now and I’ve developed quite a pennant race in the American League East.

It’s why we play this game.

In the actual baseball season, players went on strike during the summer of 1981 and each team lost about 50 or so games. The season was split and first half division winners played the second half division winners and in a sense, it was a precursor to the Wild Card games we now see. In my replay season, I didn’t have the strike and instead played each game out as if the season was intact.

And it’s playing out interestingly.

The New York Yankees led their division by three games on Aug. 9, but went into a tailspin and now are mired in fourth place, 3.5 games out of first place. Detroit briefly led the East Division, but the Tigers also free fell and are now in third.

Kansas City continues to lead the American League West and the Oakland A’s may be the biggest disappointment in my replay season.  Despite their good pitching and great home run barrage, they lose. A lot.

Montreal and Los Angeles vie for being the best team in baseball. The Dodgers could end up with four 20-game winners and Montreal should be arrested for felony theft what with the number of bases the Expo players have stolen so far. (Old baseball sportswriter cliché).

Eddie Murray leads all players with 43 home runs this season and Mike Schmidt leads the National League with 42. Rick Reuschel has gone 22-5 so far for the Yankees and Tom Seaver is 23-3 for the Reds.

With all that said, here are the standings as of Sept. 3, 1981:

AMERICAN LEAGUE

EAST             W      L      WEST        W L

Milwaukee     80 55      Kansas City 86 48

Baltimore 79 55      California 82 53

Detroit            78 56      Chicago        76 58

New York 76 58      Texas             66 68

Boston           65 68      Oakland         65 70

Cleveland 60 74      Seattle            43 91

Toronto 45 91      Minnesota     39 95

NATIONAL LEAGUE

EAST         W     L        WEST           W L

Montreal      90 43       Los Angeles  90   43

Philadelphia 79   54       Houston        80 53

St. Louis      71 62       Cincinnati     78 55

Pittsburgh    61 73       San Fran.       57  76

Chicago       47 87       Atlanta          52 81

New York 46 87       San Diego   48   85

Thank You, Cecil Cooper

Sometimes the games run long in a baseball replay and, I’ve found, they sometimes come in series. One extra-inning game begets another and, when time is limited, instead of playing three games in 27 innings the contests stretch on and on.

That happened Friday when I thought I could get three quick games in the 1981 APBA baseball replay I’m engaged in before I headed to work. I was approaching the 1700th game of the season and APBA players love to reach those landmarks in a long season.

It makes those late-season, meaningless games like Cleveland at Seattle or San Diego hosting Atlanta go a bit more easier.

So, I began rolling the dice, minding the clock. I knew I had a busy day. I had to rewrite a story on the state’s drought for our newspaper and, since it was Friday, I knew there’d be breaking news. There always is. (I wasn’t wrong: I ended up writing two stories about house fires that killed five people and another fire in a school).

The first game I played that day pitted Philadelphia at Houston. The game went 11 innings before Joe Pittman hit a triple for the Astros and then scored on a pinch hit sacrifice fly by Craig Reynolds. I was behind schedule already.

The second game, Oakland at Boston, did me in. The contest lasted 16 innings before Tony Perez singled in Dave Stapleton for the Red Sox 1-0 victory. 

So, after two games, I had already played 27 innings — the equivalent of the three games I had originally hoped for.

Instead of quitting and being conscientious of my job, though, I soldiered on and began the third game of the morning. Texas took a quick 2-0 lead in the third inning against Milwaukee, but the Brewers scored four in the fourth inning on a double, a walk and four consecutive singles.

In the seventh inning, though, the Rangers scored again, making it 4-3 and making me nervous that I’d see yet another extra-inning. The clock hands sped up, racing to the time I needed to leave to make it to my job on time. I briefly debated about stopping and finishing the game when I came home that night, but I hate leaving in the middle of a contest.

In the bottom of the eight, Milwaukee loaded the bases and Cecil Cooper came to bat with two outs. By then Steve Comer came in to relieve Fergie Jenkins. I rolled the two dice and two sixes tumbled up. The infamous “66” that APBA players love to see. The “66” resulted on Cooper’s card as a home run. A grand slam. Milwaukee led, 8-3, and Mike Caldwell mowed down the Rangers in the ninth to seal the win.

I put the game away, scrambled to the shower and made it to work.

Life is full of priorities. We have to make it to work on time and, as fun as it may be, we can’t shun responsibilities for games. Laundry, groceries, cleaning and other chores take up the mundane. The replay should be secondary; I need to crank up the freelance writing jobs again to make a few bucks and that should take some priority, too.

But the replay is always there on my conscious. I reached Game No. 1,700 and it gave me a boost to keep playing on. And after the 1981 season is complete, I have 1942 next, and then 1991 and then the 1919 season I just bought and...

Lots of games ahead, lots of juggling the other responsibilities that plague us. I just hope when the clock is my enemy and I’m running out of time, Cecil Cooper will always step up to the plate.

The August Turning Point

I’m reaching the last of August in my APBA baseball replay of the 1981 season and looking back at that real time in my life, I realize it was quite a defining end of summer.

In a span of a week or so in that final week of August, I was barred from returning to a medical facility where my ailing father was recuperating, my mother was recovering in another hospital after having knee replacement surgery, I talked a police officer out of arresting a friend’s father for public drunkenness by promising to take care of him and I was preparing for my last semester of college.

I had also turned 21 a few months earlier and in those days that was the age when you could begin buying beer. The temptation of youthful alcoholic indulgence was prevalent that summer as well.

Looking back, I guess it was the time I began learning how to deal with things on my own and not rely on others. It was a valuable lesson that I used once the safety net of parents, family and others were no longer available.

The Minnesota Twins were mired in last place in baseball that year, so there was no solace there. Pat Benatar was singin’ “Fire and Ice” then and Joey Scarbury entered into one hit wonder realm with his theme to the “Greatest American Hero” show. No help there, either.

It was the first time I was really alone. My father, who passed away six years later, wasn’t doing well and my mother, who went in for her first knee surgery, decided to put him in a nursing home/rehabilitative care center while she went through her procedure. I drove the 40 miles to see him one day in Thayer, Mo., and, after I was stunned at the condition he was in, flailed out at the director in shock and fear. He ended up calling my mother, who was recovering in her own hospital bed, and said I was a “problem” and was no longer allowed there.

I returned home and later that week was with a friend who’s father was picked up for drinking in public. I went to the local police station at 2 a.m. and convinced the arresting officer I would take him home and ensure he would not drive so to avoid him spending a night in the slammer. The cop agreed to my conditions and, for the first time, I felt like I was treated like an adult.

Weird times back then. Both my parents were gone for that week and I was supervising myself. It was a point of separating the youngster that I had been and the adult I needed to become.

And like I’ve said so many times here already, the APBA game was the connecting thread through it all. The games were still there, waiting for me to escape in them when I had time.  College was looming ahead and I wouldn’t have much time, but the escape was available when I needed it.

Looking back at August 1981, I did need that escape.

What a Way To Start

My father was never a curmudgeon or even a somewhat negative person. In fact, he tried to instill a positive attitude in me when I was growing up and he exemplified that by never complaining about his long illness that eventually took him from me.

But there was one day in the year that he would put all that goodness aside. It was a day when disappointment reigned and there was an understanding that not all was always going to go well.

That day was always New Year’s Day and it really came to fruition by the evening when the Rose Bowl game was ending.

Yes, it was hard maintaining a positive attitude that day when all your football teams lost, seemingly year after year. And it was worse when, as a child in the 1970s, I always rooted for the Big 10 teams.

Back then, there were usually only five bowl games on New Year’s Day. There wasn’t the myriad of contests in those days. No Petco Dog Food Bowl, or Kohler Toilet Bowl, or Interchanging Logo Here Bowl. There were only the four majors: Orange, Cotton, Sugar and Rose bowls. And maybe the Gator Bowl earlier that day to whet the football appetite.

My dad earned his doctorate at the University of Wisconsin and he and my mother often went to games in Madison. They left me, at the time a toddler, behind and it was a move that still miffs me. Even then I wanted to see the games. Later, we moved to Minnesota, so I became a Gopher fan.

So, it only stood to reason we’d be Big 10 fans having lived in the conference’s turf.

We also rooted mostly for the northern most team when the bowl games ensued. Back then the SEC wasn’t the NFL’s developmental league, so the games that often pitted the Big 10 with the SEC teams should have been more evenly contested.

That wasn’t the case usually, though. By kickoff of the Rose Bowl, if one of our four teams won the previous games, we’d be faring well. 

Sadly, the time I really watched the Rose Bowls with my father was in the 1970s, when the Big 10 teams lost most of those games. I remember Michigan missing a last second field goal once, and Charles White scoring a late fourth quarter touchdown for USC to beat the Wolverines. Ohio State beat USC in 1974, the only time in that decade that a Big 10 team won.

As a huge sports fan, my father put in perspective. “What a way to start off the year,” he say as we turned off the television when the game ended.

The rest of the year went well and my dad returned to his optimistic self. But there was always that day.

My father has been gone for 25 years now. I still watch the Rose Bowl each year, as much a tribute to him as the fact that I inherited his sports obsession. 

This year, the same result. Wisconsin lost to Stanford. Last year, the Badgers lost by seven and the year before that they fell by two points.

Disappointment is common on New Year’s Day,

What a way to start off the year.