Monday, March 30, 2026: Twin Cities Association – Morton-White Pass @ Toledo
New rule – it’s not really a ball park if it doesn’t have a view of a volcano that’s erupted in the past fifty years.
After two false starts at trying to get a game in for Twin Cities, I finally got a break in the weather. Jan sent me to the town of Toledo, known as the gateway to Mt. St. Helens. Those born within the past half century may barely remember this but on May 18, 1980 this mountain blew off half its top, showering a good part of the state with abrasive volcanic ash. The remainder of the peak is a stark reminder of that cataclysmic event, as it looks like someone literally walked by with a massive geologic knife and chopped off the peak.
Part of the fun of this tour is seeing new ball parks and different teams. There’s a certain novelty – after so many years – of working the game, that is so appealing. What stood out about this game, however, was when I saw the name of one of my partners. Bill Reynolds. This was gonna be good.
Bill started umpiring as a young buck in the same Seattle as I back in the mid 80s. We worked a few games together and developed an immediate kinship as young guys who loved being on the field. He was equally affable, and we would have some good laughs. I was disappointed when Bill left to go to the small mountain town of Morton down closer to Oregon, but I was happy he kept umpiring. I’d see his name pop up from time to time in the state tournament list, and Jan would keep me up to speed, passing hellos back and forth.
I pulled into the parking lot of the school, marveling at the spectacular view of the mountain from there. After taking a couple of pictures, I heard an unmistakable voice over my shoulder. It had to be at least 35 years since we last talked (other than in passing at a clinic, maybe), but there be was. We both laughed at how we were clearly still the same guys as those two young bucks, only with the inevitable passing of time implication the wear on both of us.
Our third was Tony Reed, who joined me and Jan at the pizza place on my first ill-fated attempt in Centralia. Tony also worked in Seattle previously and we had a game together at one point, so it was an unlikely reunion.
Bill and I laughed and traded barbs and “remember when” stories. It was so great to see him – kind of a “bookends” meeting of sorts. He went on to work in the fire district in the mountains and stuck with baseball. He became one of the quiet leaders of his group and, most importantly, stayed in the game all these years. Bill reminded me of why I’m here – to try to find more young Mavericks like we one were and keep them in the game as we have.
The ball park looked as though it were a large pasture that had been cordoned off with a fence. It held some of the classic features of a small-town field – rickety stands, a small building behind home plate with a booth for selling concessions and a sign showing it as the home of the local summer team, and a parking area along the first base side where supporters could watch the game from the warmth of their car and use their horns for applause.
The game was fairly one sided, as the visiting Morton-White Pass team was so young that they had eighth graders playing as starters. One young man was so small that it looked like the cold winds that blustered over the field would literally pick him up and carry him away a la Wizard of Oz. We mustered through the top of the fifth inning until the mercy rule, well, mercifully went into effect.
After the game was over I had a few more minutes to visit with Bill and Tony as they packed away their gear. This tour was about saying goodbye to the game, but it’s also giving me a chance to say goodbye to particular individuals. I’ve had a lifetime of saying goodbyes and they are never easy, but as one gets older it becomes a bit more philosophical. I’m grateful for the numerous people I’ve worked with over the years, and will always cherish the opportunity for “one more chance.”
I cast one final look at Mt. St. Helens before I pulled out of the parking lot. I remember exactly where I was that Sunday morning in 1980 when she blew her top. I was in the middle of my second season as a high school umpire, just getting started. Here I am, 46 years later, still at it. As I made the long drive home, I found the memories begin to catch up with me.
I guess, in part, that is what this is all about. Once I hang it up for good, it will be those very memories that sustain.
I’m so glad I got to add a few more today.
