It was Rusty Rolandson's 61st

By Stan Rolfsrud
The first big star I ever saw in person was Rusty Rolandson. It was at First English Lutheran Church Sunday School. Oh yes, that's right, it’s just First Lutheran Church now. It never was about English parishoners. The name just let you know that services weren’t being conducted in Norwegian or Swedish any more. And apparently they were the first in Alexandria to do this, although there never was a Second English Lutheran Church in Alexandria. No Second National Bank either, for that matter.

The biggest lie I ever heard told to an adult was in First Lutheran Sunday School. It was told to my mother, who was leading a sing-a-long in the main assembly area before we were to dismiss to individual classes. A small firecracker, probably a wickless Zebra, had been broken in half and stomped on. It exploded and the room went absolutely silent. My poor mother wanted an explanation. John Seim had one. “A firecracker fell out of my pocket and he accidentally stepped on it,” he explained, pointing to a wide-eyed pal. My mother had no experience with the accidental ignition of fireworks, so she bought it.

We continued on with “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” or whatever was up. The only one to suffer consequences was me. I was roundly scolded later in the car for having such a big grin on my face after the irreverent occurrence.

I came by my big dufus grin honestly. I was a simple country school student, sitting with Lorlee Bartos, Carol Navratil, Darrell Williams, Kathy Kakac and two dozen other simple folk in a tiny one-room school house south of town. Farmers didn’t like to pay taxes much then either. We had one harried schoolteacher teaching ABCs to first graders and long division to eighth graders.

It was a time of unabashed innocence. Wonder Bread had just been enriched in 12 ways. We played “stretch” by throwing jack knives. Sugar was its own food group. Television was something others watched and told you about. The biggest diversion we had was driving to church functions in Alexandria to witness wonders known only to town kids.

Rusty Rolandson was a very big deal. I learned this one morning when he was late to Sunday School. We were in general assembly in the Parish House parlor room at Ninth and Douglas. The church used this big ornate mansion for a time, before the education wing was built onto the main church. We were probably hearing about our missionaries bringing Jesus to the heathen. Our mission work heavily favored the island of Madagascar. Little stick pins on the world mission map were clustered there, with just a modicum of stick pins sprinkled over the huge adjacent African continent. Only when I learned that there are no lions or tigers in Madagascar did this obvious disparity make any sense to me.

We were five minutes into Sunday School that day when suddenly someone shouted “Rusty!” All heads snapped to the back vestibule. “Rusty!” “Rusty!” I gaped in wonderment at a small, freckled, crew cut lad, who was only mildly embarrassed by the disturbance he had created. “Rusty, sit here!” Boys fortunate enough to have a vacant folding chair next to them would bang on it. “Rusty, here!” Meekly, Rusty selected his lucky companion, settled in, and only then did services resume.

I was probably the only one in attendance who did not know that this was the son of the storied Russ Rolandson, legendary major league baseball player, who had had a brief career somewhere unknown to me, but the glitter of that experience would shine on forever, even through his progeny. Russ came to Alexandria and was a hero to many in the summer recreational leagues and elsewhere. When I learned third hand that Russ Rolandson says you should never call anybody a “bush leaguer” because that was a horrible insult rarely to be invoked, that was good enough for me and I never, ever did.

Even in later years, when I was Rusty’s teammate in varsity basketball, some of the Rolandson magic dust lingered. A comment from him had an extra gravitas. After all, to this very day, I have never seen anyone totally disrupt a meeting by stepping through a vestibule five minutes late.

I haven't seen Rusty since high school. I read he was an All-American on the Gophers baseball team. Classmate Pat Osterberg has seen him. He sent an email to birthday boy Tom Obert a couple days ago:

"OB,

"The captain of the Bears should remember Russ Rolandson and this is his son Rusty’s 61st (he was young for his class, too) birthday. It is also the day Russ Sr. died although I can’t remember the year and it is also Russ and Grace’s wedding anniversary.

"I went back to school in 1990/91 and had a part-time job in Mound working for the Post Office, which included sometimes doing rural routes as a sub (not my favorite job). One day when I was at a large apartment complex tossing mail in the lobby of one of the buildings I heard this loud, 'Osterberg, what are you doing here?' and it was Rusty who lived there.

"We had a short chat and while I got out there several times in the year I had the job I never saw him again nor have I seen him since. He was 41 or 42 at the time and looked just like he did as an 18 year old. He was working for Lego and I believe he still does.

"Have a good one.

Patrick "

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Thanks Pat. Now, does anybody else have an update on the first big star this country boy ever saw? trailboss@swpub.com