HIGH SCHOOL SPORTS

      BY High was a small school but we did participate in all of the major sports being played at that time: football, basketball, baseball, tennis, track, and even wrestling.  Dad had discouraged me from trying out for football noting how his knee injury while playing High School football had ended his participation in most sports. He said it wasn’t worth the risk!

      Our school had an abundance of great basketball players. We had won several state championships. I was good, but evidently not good enough. I got cut from the team during tryouts. Wrestling was definitely not for me. The idea of hugging up against a sweat-covered male body and squirming around contorted on a wrestling mat held no attraction.

BASEBALL

      Baseball was a natural fit. I had done well in Little League and Pony League, and would do well in High School. I started as a freshman. Our coach was Frank Arnold. As well as coaching baseball and basketball, Coach Arnold was the coach for most of the boys' PE classes. He would later coach BYU's basketball team during the Danny Ainge years. 
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Coach Frank Arnold

     Coach Arnold put me on third base. I was a great infielder and had a strong enough arm to make the throw to first. My friends, Dick Thomas, Kent Peterson, and others I had previously played baseball with were all doing great, and we were having fun once again.

     At practice my hitting and fielding were better than ever. Then it happened. One afternoon during a preseason game, I was stealing third base, running hard, it was going to be close. The catcher caught the ball and fired it to third for the tag. I slid in low feet first in a cloud of red dust. I heard a loud crack. The ump called, Safe! The third base coach yelled, Time Out! Pain shot up my arm. 

     Quickly assessing what had happened I discovered a new joint between my elbow and wrist. It was a compound fracture bent at a ninety degree angle. Up to this point in my young life I had considered myself unbreakable. I had felt pain before but nothing like this! With every beat of my heart a jolt of screaming pain ignited in my arm as I sat on the curb waiting for Mom to pick me up and run me to the Emergency Room at the hospital.

      It seemed like forever before Roscoe Nelson, our family doctor and a close friend of Dad’s, made it to the hospital to put me out before setting the bones. Coming out of the anesthesia I was happy to see my forearm straight and looking somewhat normal. Before going under I had wondered if my arm would ever be the same. Dr. Nelson said it was a bad break and I would be in a cast for at least six months. Six months?!! There goes the baseball season along with some fun summer water sports.

LETTERMEN’S CLUB

    Since the break was in my left arm, I would now focus on Tennis. My arm finally healed, and for the next three years I made the tennis team and baseball team, and was good enough to letter in both.

Francis on the BY High Baseball team

 

     I was invited to join the Lettermen’s Club, a group of talented and well-toned athletes. I bought Phil Swenson’s Lettermen’s jacket and proudly displayed my baseball and tennis pins.

Unfortunately the jacket and pins were stolen from our team bus during a baseball game at Pleasant Grove High School. The jacket was probably burned in effigy during a Pleasant Grove High School Pep rally. They were tired of being beaten at every sport by a small, insignificant school like BY High. 

TENNIS

      During our senior year, Dave Beck and I were teamed up as doubles partners on our outstanding tennis team. We were not only good, but we were cool. You see, if you were really cool, you would carry around one or two Stan Smith, Jack Kramer, or Pancho Gonzales wooden rackets strung with cat gut strings, and locked down tight in a wooden brace.

     Our tennis team had qualified for the State Tournament in Salt Lake City. We had a great team anchored by our number one singles champs, Tom Schaerrer and Roger Porter. Another outstanding player, Dave Beck, was my doubles partner and our team captain.

Francis missed this photo because he was with the BY High baseball team playing in an important game.

      It turned out to be a scorching hot day, and felt even hotter on the University of Utah’s cement courts. Dave and I played two hard fought matches and came out on top. We were physically spent after five hours on the court. We were told that we had done our part well and were finished for the day. We wouldn’t know how our team had fared until all the singles and doubles matches were finished. Great, but what we needed at that moment was liquid and lots of it!

      We drove to a nearby A&W root beer stand and each ordered up a sweet gallon, and chugged down the ice cold liquid. With round bellies and rubber legs we returned to the courts. Evidently the State Tennis championship had ended in a tie, and of all things Dave and I would need to play a one-set tie breaker to determine the winner. It would have been nice to know about this before we had challenged each other to a root beer drinking contest!

      The final set began. Whop. Slosh, slosh, slosh. Whop. Slosh, slosh. Whop. Slosh. It didn’t take long watching us slosh around the court before everyone knew BY High would be taking home the second place trophy. Ah, but the root beer was so satisfying!

      Dave Beck was not only a great tennis player but also a good friend. Unfortunately he passed away suddenly a few years ago while playing tennis, the game he loved.

Friends in 2006 attending Dave Beck's funeral in American Fork, Utah. Left to right: David Clark, Paul Evans, Kent Peterson, Stewart Grow, Francis Rogers. Since this photo was taken, sadly Dave Clark has also passed away.

BOXING

      Frank Arnold couldn’t wait for his end of the year boxing tournament in PE. All boys would be paired up with equally weighted partners. He took special delight in pairing up two of the “Three Nephites,” George Taylor and I, in the lightweight division. The matches were made up of three 1-minute rounds with only pride on the line. They were held in the windowless, airless fourth floor attic of the Elementary building. The attic was located above BYU’s original third floor gym on the Lower Campus.

Boxing gloves and headgear

       After watching several matches where our friends were beating each other senseless, it was finally our turn. We suited up with head gear and gloves, and entered the fighting mat. I figured that since George and I were such good friends we would just dance around, throw a few jabs, and fake a good show. But evidently George had other plans. His first punch hit me so hard I thought I was going down for the count! It turned out to be a hard fought fight. We exchanged blow for blow, and somehow made it through the three rounds with our heads intact but our brains scrambled. At least mine was. The last time I had fought George was on the playground at Wasatch School in fifth grade, and he had definitely improved since then! 

     

SIZZLING FAST BALLS AND HOME RUNS

    Normal kids play four years of Little League before moving on to Pony League, but since I started so young I was fortunate enough to play five.      

    Dad was as anxious to get me started in Little League as I was. After tryouts at age 8, I was selected as a player on the Elks Club team.  I used Dad's old five-finger mitt with no web pocket -- a museum piece now and close to it then.

Old-fashioned five-finger baseball glove.

    My parents didn't have much money as Dad was just starting out at BYU, but he dug deep and found enough cash to go mitt shopping. There was a small sporting goods store across the street from the Scera Theater in Orem. That's where we found the "Nokona." Sixty years later I still can smell the new leather!

Nokona Baseball mitt with its "Indian head" label.

   There was a ritual that went along with the new glove. First, oil the leather, then put a baseball tight in the pocket and tie it with rope overnight. Play with it the next day and repeat the process nightly.

    Every once in a while a kid would come along who was the size of a full grown man by age 12. A monster of a kid who could throw a 70-mile-per-hour fast ball from 35 feet away. Such was the case in one of our Elks games. While waiting on deck to hit, the biggest fear was you would pee your pants from fright right there in front of everyone. 

    Well, back in those days we didn't have fancy batting helmets. A U -shaped cardboard reinforced ear guard over your temple was about it. At eight years of age, I had a skinny frame and was barely taller than my bat, as I faced down this Goliath. I could hit the ball, but it rarely made it past the infield. Determined to hit against the giant I stepped into the batter's box. His windup was slow, reaching back for all his whip-like power he let it fly. That's all I can remember before the white light and the pain in my head. It was a good thing our baseball diamond was right next to the Provo City Hospital. It turned out to be my first concussion. Dad carried me off the field that day, but I was back for the next game rip roaring and ready to hit again.

      Our Elks Club team rarely won a game. Virgil Carter, one of BYU's first great quarter backs, played short stop. He was so upset that we kept losing he cried after each game.  He wasn't a cry baby. Virgil was just so competitive that he cried out of frustration! 

Francis in his Utah Office Supply team uniform. 1956.

    The next year Dad and a group of fathers in the Wasatch School area organized a league on our side of town. My Dad was the coach for our Utah Office Supply Team. Fathers and their boys dragged and raked the dirt field, getting it ready for our first season. Soon we had nice dug outs, a fancy backstop, a score board and a real home run fence. It took a season or two before we actually had a grass outfield. I was eleven before I finally knocked one out of the park!

    My final year in Little League was a record setter. I hit twelve home runs, two of them Grand Slams. I could have hit more, but some of the opposing coaches thought it was safer to walk me than let me hit. What a bummer! 

    I had spent most of my Little League career as a short stop scooping up hard hit balls, but as a 12-year-old it was time to convince Dad that I was also a great pitcher. I would corner him when he came home from work and insist that he catch for me on the side of the house.

Ash Avenue house with its white picket fence before Francis and his wild pitches destroyed it.

    I had three pitches: a fast ball, a very fast ball, and a super fast ball. My goal in practicing with Dad was learning to control my wild pitches and put them in the strike zone. "Fast and Wild" was my middle name. The broken boards on Dad's white picket fence were proof of my early wild days.

    Each game I would pitch both teams would wonder who would show up: "Fast and Wild" or "Fast and in the Strike Zone." In one game I hit the lead off batter in the forearm. He walked to first base whimpering and rubbing his arm. The second batter took a blistering fastball in the leg. It took him a little longer getting to first base, limping all the way. And  my "super" fast ball nailed the next batter square in the back as he turned to get away.      

    Hearing his son cry out in pain his dad leaped the fence and rushed the pitcher's mound screaming, "He's trying to kill my boy!" Lucky for me Chuck Peterson, Kent's dad and the League President, headed him off before he could do much damage. While being held back by Chuck, the father kept yelling, "He's doing it on purpose. He's trying to hit the batters!" Dad firmly replied, "He couldn't hit them if he tried. He's too wild!" Needless to say, I was replaced as pitcher and went back to playing short stop. I wonder if it was my innocent smirk that got that father so riled up? I can't see myself, you know!

Northeast All-Stars team. Max Rogers coach. Provo Daily Herald article, August 6. 1957.

    Dad's Utah Office Supply team won first place every year he coached. The winning coach was honored by making him the coach for the League's All Star Team. The championship All Star games were played on a perfectly manicured field at Pioneer Park in Provo. A large crowd was there to cheer their boys on.   

    By the end of the season I had my fast ball under control and pitched the first two innings of our All Star game. When our team came up to bat I was the lead off hitter. Watching their pitcher warm up I got my timing in sync. Driving the first pitch to deep center field I thought the ball was gone, but it hit the fence three inches from the top. I ended up on second base with a "stand up" double. As an eleven- and 12-year-old, I made the All Star Team but we never made it out of the State Competition. 

     Later when my brothers played, Dad's All Star Team went to the Little League World Series in Santa Monica, California. They took second place, losing to Japan in the final game. Now that was a big deal! Losing wasn't in Dad's nature yet he looked back on this game as one of his proudest moments as a coach. Win or lose, he played every boy who made the trip. It's something they would remember as long as they lived!

The Rogers family Little League team: Joel, Russ, Paul and Francis.

    I can't say enough about how lucky we were to have a Mom and Dad who supported our interests! Dad coached all four boys through Little League, and Mom was right there sitting in the hot sun, keeping the official score books for our team during the regular seasons.  She stuck it out, sunburned, chapped lips and all. She was a real trooper!

    Even before they were old enough to play, my three younger brothers were at the games. Paul, Russ and Joel rotated as bat boys and equipment managers while my older sister Kay jumped around in her cheerleader outfit jazzing up the crowd. One day while Mom was busy keeping score and Dad was coaching the team, my little brothers were playing in the family car above the field. Their assignment was to honk the horn when good things happened. They accidentally bumped the gear shift into neutral, which sent the car careening down the embankment. The car miraculously stopped just yards from the grand stands. It was something other than a well hit ball that brought the crowd to its feet that day! 
     

 

PUPPY LOVE

   

Lady and the Tramp.

      There were rumors going around about sixth grade. Namely about the teacher, Mrs. Arrowsmith. “She’s an old biddy with a smile like a laughing donkey. She’s a strict, merciless General who eats little trouble makers for breakfast and spits out their bones!” Yup, that’s what they were saying. It all sounded pretty scary, but I’d judge for myself.

      I was growing up. I had just turned eleven and had parked my first home run in Little League. Maybe school was about to change for the better. It did, and her name was Olivia Smith. Up to this point in my life girls were nothing but pests out to get you in trouble every chance they got. But Olivia's deep brown eyes and golden hair gave her the look of an angel, an angel that melted away

The "new" Francis in sixth grade.

my wicked ways and nudged me down the road toward Sainthood. As Beverly Burrup so wisely put it, "She tamed the tiger!"

    The question became, not what Mrs. Arrowsmith wanted me to do, but what would Olivia want. Better handwriting, you got it! Turn in my assignments on time, you bet! Baths, clean teeth, nails, deodorant, the works! I even used Vaseline petroleum jelly to keep my porcupine hairdo looking sexy.

Jar of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly

    Up to this point, Olivia knew nothing about my newfound infatuation. But that was about to change. Occasional touching during the "allemande left and dosado,” or “swing your partners" during Square Dancing was egging me on. I had to ask her to a Saturday evening movie. The movie date was set up, and my mother drove us to the musical, "Oklahoma," at the Paramount Theater in Provo.  I wore my Sunday suit and my Converse sneakers, the ones with the big star on the side. We shared

1950s Converse sneakers with the big star.

buttery popcorn and even held hands now and then. Movie over, there was Mom waiting to deliver her safely home. Hand in hand I slowly walked her to the door, and gazed longingly into her big brown eyes when a jolting blast from the car horn snapped me out of my mesmerized state.

     I enjoyed spending time teaching Olivia and her younger brothers how to play baseball. I knew we were making progress when one of them pounded the baseball through our kitchen window. They were definitely getting better! Another time I took Olivia and her friend, Martha, to play tennis at the BYU courts. That was a mistake! First, I spent an hour chasing wayward balls and, second, three was a crowd. The best part of playing tennis was downing an ice cold mug of root beer across the street at Heaps of Pizza.

1950s Heaps of Pizza sign.

    At the end of sixth grade our class was preparing to wow parents and administrators alike by performing "Sleeping Beauty." The boys were making swords and putting together soldier uniforms, while the girls were practicing being beautiful sleepers. The question on all of our minds was who would be Sleeping Beauty, who would be Prince Charming, and would he really awake her with a kiss? When the cast was announced, it was Olivia who won the part of most beautiful sleeper,

The lovely Olivia Smith

and Kent Peterson would be the one to awaken her with a kiss. I was hoping for the part, but I guess Kent was the most Princely. He had the curly hair and lips for the job!

The princely Kent Peterson

        And what about Mrs. Arrowsmith you ask? She was as tough as nails and a stickler for rules. She was just what I needed. I memorized some character building poems, some lines of which I can still remember. Underneath it all she had a soft heart and really cared about her students. 

        Summer finally arrived and it turned out to be the best ever. My neighborhood pals all enrolled at BY Junior High, a private school run by Brigham Young University, and Olivia ended up at Central Junior High on the other side of town. Well, that was that! On to new friends and more charming young ladies.