My Dad, My Coach
Allen Ransom Bailey
By J. Martin Bailey
My Dad died when I was only 23 years old. I was still in graduate school.
Now, more than a half century later, I wish I might have known him as an adult, as I did my Mother. But I didn’t. I am grateful, though, that I got to know him very well – better, perhaps, than most sons know their fathers. Dad and I worked together at the “120” – a 120-acre farm twelve miles south of Emmetsburg that he saved from being lost in the Great Depression. (I’ve written about those experiences in an essay, “My Three Farms.”)
In those days I learned a lot from Dad. He taught me how to work with my hands. He showed me the way to polish the blades for the cultivator, using a rotary brush attached to an electric motor. I scaled away the rust; it took hours. But I’ve never been afraid to tackle any project around the house – just as he spent evenings all one winter modernizing the kitchen.
He taught me how to drive. I actually started one day as we headed down to the farm. He rolled his own cigarettes during the war and he’d have me reach over and steer while he held a cigarette paper in one hand and shook some tobacco out of a can of Prince Albert with the other hand. Later, he had me drive the tractor for various jobs. Eventually, when I was practicing for my driver’s license, he took me out one wintry morning when there was a sheet of ice on the streets. Virtually no one else ventured out. He directed me to a wide street in front of St. Thomas’ Catholic Church, and then told me to get up a little speed and stop short. I discovered how to compensate for slipping and sliding. Even today I’m ready to drive in almost any weather.
I learned a sense of values from him as he worked hard to keep from losing that farm, as we conserved gasoline, and as we’d pick a car full of sweet corn that Mother would can for winter. Dad let me keep what I could make by selling dozens of ears of freshly harvested corn to the neighbors, pulling a wagon load around the block.
We grew potatoes, corn and soy beans. The soil was mostly peat – light enough for potatoes to grow well. In August each year we would dig up a few hills and enter the best examples at the Palo Alto County fair, generally winning the blue ribbon. We were both proud of our work. When it came time to harvest the potatoes Dad would hire a 10 to 15 of my friends to pick up and bag the potatoes and then load the trucks. I was fascinated by the chart that he kept showing how many hours each of us worked, how many bushels we picked up, and how much we earned.
We bagged the potatoes in 100 pound gunny sacks, some of which were then delivered to people’s basements. In those days, potatoes were a major staple. Some families would buy twenty 100 pound bags of potatoes to last them through the winter. At that point we got $1.00 for 100 pounds, delivered.
Dad apologized to me one time. He had bought new sacks printed with “AB Brand Potatoes” and his name and address on them. He told me he should have had them printed with “A.R. Bailey and Sons.” By his hard work and careful planning he kept that farm (which had belonged to my Mother’s Mother) in the family. It was a lesson for me not only of economics and thrift, but also of the importance of family.
Dad had been a prominent athletic coach in Emmetsburg 15 or 16 years earlier. During my sophomore year in high school the United States entered World War II; when the current coach, Fred Shadle, joined the Army, Dad was pressed back into coaching. He agreed to do it if he could continue his other two jobs as well: selling insurance and farming. So I played football for my Dad.
I was pretty uncoordinated in those days, so I played in the line. Left Guard. Dad was pretty tough on me, partly because he knew I needed to practice hard to be any good and partly because he was careful not to play favorites. He was a good coach, the team members liked him, and he convinced us that we could win. He did a great job inspiring us before each game and pepping us up at half time.
Our home was right in the center of town, just three blocks from the high school in one direction and three blocks from the playing field in another direction. Team members were always welcome at the house and sometimes there’d be an impromptu practice in our back yard. I wasn’t cut out for basketball or track, so I became the team manager. It became my life, just as it was Dad’s.
Once, we were playing Storm Lake in a home game. The referee had to call an official’s time out because I had been hurt in a strenuous play. As Dad always did when one of his boys was hurt, he came out on the field to check and give me encouragement. That night the Storm Lake coach met Dad in the center of the field and together they came to where I was down. After the two coaches were satisfied that I wasn’t seriously injured, they helped me up. I was able to return to the game.
When the war was over and Mr. Shadle returned, I went with Dad the day he turned in his keys to the school superintendent. There were tears in lots of eyes at that point.
I won my letter for football three years and wore it proudly. By my senior year, Mr. Shadle had returned. Dad never missed a game; sometimes was especially proud of my playing.
My academic and vocational interests took me in a different direction and it became clear when I went away to college that I’d not return to Emmetsburg to live. Dad was always supportive and, I think, proud of my plans.
When he was taken ill, I was called from St. Louis to the hospital in Rochester. Dad had slipped into a coma from which he never recovered. I never got to tell him how much I had learned from him and how important he had been to me. He had coached me in many ways.
January, 2008
See also obituaries published at the time of Bailey's death, and
"Bailey Makes a Fine Record" published at the time of his retirement.