History Warms Your Heart
"History is a symphony of echoes heard and unheard. It is a poem with events as verses."
-- Charles Angoff, Journalist/Author
Every now and then I think about my own poem, those life moments that comprise my own history. Many recollections are vivid and colorful and fresh in my mind as if they happened yesterday. There are also those times that are not so memorable and are tucked away deep into my subconscious.
Angoff, a protege of H.L. Mencken, suggests that each of us recite our poems in verses of our own interpretation. Some of those moments are grand and often the fodder during discussions with family and friends during a meal, over coffee or at holiday time. As we talk, we visualize those moments as if they just happened and make them bigger and maybe less believable over time. It is nostalgic and prideful, to orate those live-intensive moments with people we know and love.
Recently I started to reflect on my own history after being asked why I had an appreciation for sports history. In an interview with popular South Dakota radio host Mike Henriksen on his Sportsmax show, we discussed my affinity to the history of sports in this state. For a moment on that show, I wasn't sure what to say. I rattled on about how I always loved sports and admired the heroes of my youth.
While that answer was mostly accurate, I don't believe it really captures my feeling on the meaning of history, whether it is sports, or some other previous walk of life. Like a spider honing on a prey in its web, so too is history attached to my deepest fiber of being.
At a young age, I was tooling around in the basement of my grandparents, when I came across boxes of old pictures. For the next few hours, I was captivated by the pictures of my relatives at family gatherings, town events and just the fun shots taken of our loved ones. I was able to visualize the lives of my grandparents through these black and white images, some that were out of focus but not so to block the picture of that time and place.
As I dug through the box, more and more pictures being shrewn around, I began a trip back through time. No, I wasn't Christopher Reeves in Somewhere in Time, chasing a lost love. Rather, I was a young boy imagining what the days and nights were like in the earlier times of my family. What was it like to jump into a Model T and head to town? How comfortable was the ride astride a horse across hundreds of miles of land against strong winds and brittle temperatures? How rough were the wagon train rides on wooden backboards across a rocky, uneven and unpredictable prairie?
I placed myself in my father's shoes when he grew up in a house that later become the family garage. With a little shiver, I moved onto to other moments, picturing what those times represented.
For me, visualization of the past often continued in the day dreams each of us have in school while listening to teachers talk about history. I melted at the wonderful discovery of Lewis and Clark. I was capitivated by Lincoln and his Gettysburg Address. I felt the adrenaline of soldiers in World War I and felt the panic and poise that men on D-Day encountered as they fought for their life and Democracy on the beaches of Normandy. When President John F. Kennedy suggested that it is not what your country can do for you but you for your country, those moments in time, aided by video and historical references, enabled me to understand how men and women of character have delivered to us the greatest country in the world's history.
History gives me meaning about my own legacy.
Each day as I dig further into history, whether my own roots or sports history, that same visualization process unwinds.
When I read about early 1900s football, I associate the passion of participation, with the grit and determination needed to survive a significantly brutal game. When I think about the pioneers of women's basketball, I think about the image of a 1902 team at USD that carried joyous smiles and comraderie of teammates because competition was only similar to a scrimmage among friends, not unlike a noon basketball game. For decades upon decades, females were blocked from showing their passion, their competitiveness in championship play. Then I reflect to what the 2008 Coyote women's team, led by head coach Chad Lavin accomplished. A team with high hopes went farther and stepped onto a bigger stage than any previous USD women's basketball team. They reached the NCAA DII finals behind the play of the Hoffman sisters (Jenna, Jeana), Bridget Yoerger, Ashley Robinette and Shannon (Sunshine) Daly. The memory of that run, a 31-game winning streak included, will always be a bright recollection in my poem. These women provided me with the chance to see through their eyes the value of team, comradeship and winning.
As the NFL season ends I still think about the commitment of Frank McCormick, the first South Dakota athlete to play in the NFL, and what he meant to Akron, the league's first-ever championship squad, and to those proud folks in the Dakotas cheering for him. I also recall what the 2005 football season at the U was like when Wesley Beschorner and Stefan Logan led Ed Meierkort's crew to 50 points a game, taking its place as the greatest offensive team in USD history and one of the most explosive ever in DII football.
I think about Josh Mueller's unbelievable and controversial basket with .4 seconds on the clock to help USD and coach Dave Boots escape with a remarkable and forever memorable win at the DakotaDome. Or, I still have recollections as a 12-year old of that 1972 game between Miller and Yankton in 1972 when Rick Nissen's Rustlers team, small in size but big in heart, defeated a much taller Yankton team led by Chad Nelson.
I struggle with other moments such as late spring when Jasmine King of Rapid City Central was felled by an achilles injury as she was going for another sprint title and perhaps a legacy as South Dakota's greatest girls trackster ever. When you see a young athlete big for fame halted by injury, it tears your heart.
Moments of visualization include my days on the gridiron, on the wrestling mat or on the mound at Gettysburg Park. I think of those early morning fall practices when the sun was dawning and football players struggled to work the cobwebs from their eyes and the tiredness from the body to put on stinky practice equipment for the privlege of smacking each other around and run 4x4's. I think about running onto the football field on Friday nights with the roar of the crowd penetrating the helmet earholes as adrenaline and butterflys in the stomach competed with each other. I think about a blocked punt and picking up the ball, heading for the endzone when my feet betrayed me as I was felled by a smallish end.
When I see pictures of the early track and field stars, the cinder track and the worn spikes make my eyes twinkle to the dedication and commitment of those sporting pioneers. I think of "Smokey" Joe Mendel of Onida, who turned South Dakota on its ear with his blazing footwork. Or in baseball, I imagine the coolness of Charles Philleppe, who grew up near Ashton, S.D., and later pitched in the first-ever World Series in 1903, beating Cy Young himself.
For me, history is addictive, enriching and charming.
Each of us in our own way, reminsce those moments and events of our lives in a multitude of differing ways. We hear echoes of our past ringing inside us and it gives us a sense of warmth. It sparks a little adrenaline and if it is only a brief moment, we feel good. Memories indeed warm the heart.
It is like when you dig into a novel in that oversized chair near the fireplace, and look up into the red/orange flames and you actually visual those moments of your life. The deeper you go, the warmer the fire gets and the more pleasant the feeling.
I guess all of this means that history is important to my sanity and it drives me to want to find more jewels of the past. History gives us perspective. It allows us to learn lessons from circumstances of days gone by and building a better tomorrow. Most of all, I believe it is a chance to enjoy what was once and might be again just with different actors in those yet unplayed events.
History is indeed a never-ending poem, featuring changing verses with each day. And the echoes both heard and unheard, never stop.
-- Charles Angoff, Journalist/Author
Every now and then I think about my own poem, those life moments that comprise my own history. Many recollections are vivid and colorful and fresh in my mind as if they happened yesterday. There are also those times that are not so memorable and are tucked away deep into my subconscious.
Angoff, a protege of H.L. Mencken, suggests that each of us recite our poems in verses of our own interpretation. Some of those moments are grand and often the fodder during discussions with family and friends during a meal, over coffee or at holiday time. As we talk, we visualize those moments as if they just happened and make them bigger and maybe less believable over time. It is nostalgic and prideful, to orate those live-intensive moments with people we know and love.
Recently I started to reflect on my own history after being asked why I had an appreciation for sports history. In an interview with popular South Dakota radio host Mike Henriksen on his Sportsmax show, we discussed my affinity to the history of sports in this state. For a moment on that show, I wasn't sure what to say. I rattled on about how I always loved sports and admired the heroes of my youth.
While that answer was mostly accurate, I don't believe it really captures my feeling on the meaning of history, whether it is sports, or some other previous walk of life. Like a spider honing on a prey in its web, so too is history attached to my deepest fiber of being.
At a young age, I was tooling around in the basement of my grandparents, when I came across boxes of old pictures. For the next few hours, I was captivated by the pictures of my relatives at family gatherings, town events and just the fun shots taken of our loved ones. I was able to visualize the lives of my grandparents through these black and white images, some that were out of focus but not so to block the picture of that time and place.
As I dug through the box, more and more pictures being shrewn around, I began a trip back through time. No, I wasn't Christopher Reeves in Somewhere in Time, chasing a lost love. Rather, I was a young boy imagining what the days and nights were like in the earlier times of my family. What was it like to jump into a Model T and head to town? How comfortable was the ride astride a horse across hundreds of miles of land against strong winds and brittle temperatures? How rough were the wagon train rides on wooden backboards across a rocky, uneven and unpredictable prairie?
I placed myself in my father's shoes when he grew up in a house that later become the family garage. With a little shiver, I moved onto to other moments, picturing what those times represented.
For me, visualization of the past often continued in the day dreams each of us have in school while listening to teachers talk about history. I melted at the wonderful discovery of Lewis and Clark. I was capitivated by Lincoln and his Gettysburg Address. I felt the adrenaline of soldiers in World War I and felt the panic and poise that men on D-Day encountered as they fought for their life and Democracy on the beaches of Normandy. When President John F. Kennedy suggested that it is not what your country can do for you but you for your country, those moments in time, aided by video and historical references, enabled me to understand how men and women of character have delivered to us the greatest country in the world's history.
History gives me meaning about my own legacy.
Each day as I dig further into history, whether my own roots or sports history, that same visualization process unwinds.
When I read about early 1900s football, I associate the passion of participation, with the grit and determination needed to survive a significantly brutal game. When I think about the pioneers of women's basketball, I think about the image of a 1902 team at USD that carried joyous smiles and comraderie of teammates because competition was only similar to a scrimmage among friends, not unlike a noon basketball game. For decades upon decades, females were blocked from showing their passion, their competitiveness in championship play. Then I reflect to what the 2008 Coyote women's team, led by head coach Chad Lavin accomplished. A team with high hopes went farther and stepped onto a bigger stage than any previous USD women's basketball team. They reached the NCAA DII finals behind the play of the Hoffman sisters (Jenna, Jeana), Bridget Yoerger, Ashley Robinette and Shannon (Sunshine) Daly. The memory of that run, a 31-game winning streak included, will always be a bright recollection in my poem. These women provided me with the chance to see through their eyes the value of team, comradeship and winning.
As the NFL season ends I still think about the commitment of Frank McCormick, the first South Dakota athlete to play in the NFL, and what he meant to Akron, the league's first-ever championship squad, and to those proud folks in the Dakotas cheering for him. I also recall what the 2005 football season at the U was like when Wesley Beschorner and Stefan Logan led Ed Meierkort's crew to 50 points a game, taking its place as the greatest offensive team in USD history and one of the most explosive ever in DII football.
I think about Josh Mueller's unbelievable and controversial basket with .4 seconds on the clock to help USD and coach Dave Boots escape with a remarkable and forever memorable win at the DakotaDome. Or, I still have recollections as a 12-year old of that 1972 game between Miller and Yankton in 1972 when Rick Nissen's Rustlers team, small in size but big in heart, defeated a much taller Yankton team led by Chad Nelson.
I struggle with other moments such as late spring when Jasmine King of Rapid City Central was felled by an achilles injury as she was going for another sprint title and perhaps a legacy as South Dakota's greatest girls trackster ever. When you see a young athlete big for fame halted by injury, it tears your heart.
Moments of visualization include my days on the gridiron, on the wrestling mat or on the mound at Gettysburg Park. I think of those early morning fall practices when the sun was dawning and football players struggled to work the cobwebs from their eyes and the tiredness from the body to put on stinky practice equipment for the privlege of smacking each other around and run 4x4's. I think about running onto the football field on Friday nights with the roar of the crowd penetrating the helmet earholes as adrenaline and butterflys in the stomach competed with each other. I think about a blocked punt and picking up the ball, heading for the endzone when my feet betrayed me as I was felled by a smallish end.
When I see pictures of the early track and field stars, the cinder track and the worn spikes make my eyes twinkle to the dedication and commitment of those sporting pioneers. I think of "Smokey" Joe Mendel of Onida, who turned South Dakota on its ear with his blazing footwork. Or in baseball, I imagine the coolness of Charles Philleppe, who grew up near Ashton, S.D., and later pitched in the first-ever World Series in 1903, beating Cy Young himself.
For me, history is addictive, enriching and charming.
Each of us in our own way, reminsce those moments and events of our lives in a multitude of differing ways. We hear echoes of our past ringing inside us and it gives us a sense of warmth. It sparks a little adrenaline and if it is only a brief moment, we feel good. Memories indeed warm the heart.
It is like when you dig into a novel in that oversized chair near the fireplace, and look up into the red/orange flames and you actually visual those moments of your life. The deeper you go, the warmer the fire gets and the more pleasant the feeling.
I guess all of this means that history is important to my sanity and it drives me to want to find more jewels of the past. History gives us perspective. It allows us to learn lessons from circumstances of days gone by and building a better tomorrow. Most of all, I believe it is a chance to enjoy what was once and might be again just with different actors in those yet unplayed events.
History is indeed a never-ending poem, featuring changing verses with each day. And the echoes both heard and unheard, never stop.
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