TERROR OUT OF THE MIST

    Getting up at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday mornings to deliver newspapers was not my idea of fun, especially in the winter with temperatures dropping into the low teens. The worst part was alarm anticipation. I had a windup alarm clock that ticked loudly and could wake a hibernating grizzly. Sometimes I'd stay awake half the night trying to beat the obnoxious sound of the alarm and turn it off before it rang. Coat, scarf, hat and gloves. I was off, pumping my Schwinn the two miles to the Daily Herald office and loading up the heavy Sunday papers. At least I had my little Border Collie, Skosh, to keep me company.

Francis and Skosh, the Border Collie.

    The route was quiet, eerily quiet as I pumped along. It must have been the thick fog hovering close to the ground. I got off my bike to adjust the heavy canvas bag holding the newspapers. That's when I heard it. Something big was running toward us. I could hear its claws clacking on the pavement. The sound grew faster and closer. Suddenly leaping out of

the mist was the largest Boxer I had ever seen.

A monster of a dog! Without warning it attacked my little dog, locking its strong jaws tightly on the ruff of her neck and shaking her wildly.  It was killing my dog!

    I began kicking the boxer as hard as I could. I kicked its sides, I kicked its legs. I kicked between its legs. It didn't seem to notice. In desperation I grabbed its spiked collar and pulled with all my might. The beast dropped my dog and turned on me, sinking its sharp canines into my gloved hand. Then just as quickly it was bounding off through the fog looking for its next victim.

    It was quiet again except for the occasional whimper from Skosh as she gently licked my wounded hand. Despite my fears she seemed to be ok. In the dim light of an apartment building I removed the glove to examine my damaged hand. Blood poured out. One of the viscious dog's sharp teeth had penetrated through the leather glove, through the back of my hand, and exited my palm. It could have been worse, much worse! After the required shots, Skosh and I both recovered physically, but we were left with a bad case of Crazed Dog Contempt.  

SKOSH THE WONDER DOG

Francis and Skosh in Ash Avenue backyard.

    At age twelve I was lucky enough to snag a Daily Herald paper route right next to my school, BY Junior High. It was so convenient. I could leave school, pick up my papers a couple of blocks away at the Daily Herald Office, do my route, and be home in time to enjoy the rest of the day. Even better, I earned enough money to feel independent. I could buy my own clothes, and not be surprised by nerdy fashion items like the combat boots Mom had found on sale.

       Each day while pumping my bike around the paper route, I would stop at a particular apartment to help comfort a young puppy named Skosh. You see, Skosh had a bulky cast on her back leg from being struck by a car. As the months went by her leg healed and she began following me on my route. One morning while loading up for school, there she was, sitting on our front porch. I returned her to her owner, but each time she was let loose she bolted and ran the two miles to my house.

    Returning Skosh after each escape was a painful experience. It was sad to watch the young couple's disappointment. It was obvious Skosh wanted to be with me. It broke my heart to watch Skosh being led into their apartment against her will. I'm sure it had nothing to do with her owner being a mailman! For the next few weeks Skosh was chained to a clothesline and couldn't follow me. I would try to ignore her whining and whimpering when I rode by.

    One night our doorbell rang and there stood the mailman and Skosh. He asked my Dad and me if we would like to have Skosh for keeps. He and his wife had talked it over and decided that since she was expecting a baby soon maybe Skosh should be my dog. I waited until he had left, then scream, "YES!"

Our family at Bear Lake: Kay, Mom holding Karalee, Paul, Skosh, Francis, Russ and Joel.

    Skosh was like a member of the family. Even Mom bought into the idea. She went everywhere we went, even swimming in Bear Lake when we were on vacation. She became so protective of me that she would bear her teeth and growl when Dad was sent to dish out some well-deserved punishment!

Francis and Skosh.

    She was a great friend to me over the next few years, especially when I broke my arm playing baseball. It seems she knew what it was like to have a broken limb with a bulky cast.

SNAKE MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE

   

Brigham Young Academy. Home of  BY Jr High and High School. Provo, Utah.

      Summer was over and a new Junior High adventure was about to begin. George Taylor and I were still good friends in 7th grade. We had many sleepovers at his parents' house on

Francis Rogers and George Taylor, 7th grade

the mountain. We would stay up past midnight and watch Nightmare Theater. George could do a great imitation of Boris Karloff, "I'm going to suck your blood."

Brigham Young Academy. Education Building.

    On the third floor of the Academy Building was where the girls hung out learning the secrets of cooking and sewing. Located on the second floor was Room 250A, a large room with a hardwood floor, big enough to hold dances.  Nobody ever said a word when we danced cheek to cheek, but the Twist was never allowed.

My standard lunch: Tuna fish sandwich and potato chips.

   The first floor was a combination of four classrooms, one of which morphed into our cafeteria at lunch time. BYUs pink punch and hard rolls were a great addition to Mom's standard lunch of tuna fish sandwiches, chips and an apple.

   

Mr. Verl Allman dressed up as the Mad Scientist

     Verl Allman was our 7th grade home room and science teacher. His class was held in the basement of the Administration Building. He was in charge of teaching us about animals, and how they reproduced. It was easy to see that he enjoyed his job!  

Verl Allman's 7th Grade Science class on Snake Mountain:
[Back row] Marsha Ann Nelson, Jan Sylvester, Eileen Sheffield, Beverly Burrup,
Jim Tyndal, Dave Clark, Myron Walker;
[Front row] Kim Tangren, Francis Rogers, George Taylor

     The highlight of our class was a field trip to Snake Mountain on the other side of Utah Lake. The slithery reptiles were everywhere. A few of them were poisonous, but most were harmless Western Racers. After having had our fill of snake hunting, we set off for Utah Lake where we waded into the shallow water and wrestled giant carp. Some were almost as big as we were. Junior High was a blast!

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!