Author's note: My friend, Dillon Mini, would have turned 82 on May 17. Growing up together, we were truly like brothers. 

Remembering Dillon

from Yeah, What Else?

The facts are straight forward: “Dillon James Mini, 73, passed away on Monday (September 15, 2014) after a long illness.” The obituary doesn’t contain a lot of detail, but it doesn’t need to. Not for me. For me, the details are all in my mind, like a shoebox full of old snapshots that you have promised to organize—someday. I am going to open that shoebox now and let them come tumbling out.

Here’s one of Dillon and me walking down the Jennings Street hill, heading who-knows-where, maybe to my house down on Russell Street, or down to the playground at Steffan Manor. It’s summer and Dillon just turned eight, and I’m six, looking forward to my seventh birthday in September. This was the day we swore to each other (probably a pinky swear) that we’d be best friends forever. We kept that vow for a long, long time.

Here’s a picture of his dear parents, Dillon H. and Bernice. I remember the first time I knocked on their front door to ask if Dillon could come out to play. My orthodontist had fitted me with an elaborate headgear contraption that looked like a canvas helmet; it had a metal chin cup attached with rubber bands, and it was designed to pull my jaw back and correct a severe under-bite. Mrs. Mini answered the door and I think she was shocked to see me there, looking like a little alien. Over time, the Minis became second parents to me, and what beautiful people they were. Mrs. Mini was one of the all-time great cooks, at least in my book, and she loved feeding me. And Mr. Mini was always playful and funny, teasing me gently, making me laugh. I’m not sure why, but they liked me and treated me like a son, taking me along wherever they traveled.

Here is a good one. It’s a picture of Bruce Bigelow with Dillon and me on the day Bruce moved into the neighborhood. Dillon and I saw him playing in the yard there on the corner of Buss and Russell, and we went over and introduced ourselves. Bruce was about eight at the time. It was the start of a three-way partnership that would last most of our lifetimes.

This next one is priceless. It is from the sports page of the Times-Herald and it’s our City Championship baseball team – Underweight Division. There’s Dillon with the catchers gear falling off his body, always too big for him; and Bruce, Jerry Warren, Andy Carlson, John O’Neil, Mike Kennedy, and of course, Jake Catado, our GVRD playground leader at Steffan. What a great guy! Jake, if you’re reading this, you should know that we all loved you.

God, what fun that was: hanging out down at Steffan, going out to the ball field to practice, traveling across town to play other schools. We’d pile into Jake’s old Chevy, a dozen of us or more, and sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” or “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt” all the way across town. It was pure fun. No pressure, no expectations, just the love of the game and each other.

Here is a great shot: Dillon, Bruce, and me on Little League opening day, 1952; Dill and Bruce wearing their Steffen’s Sport Shop uniforms and me with Ed Case’s Minit Men across my chest. It was the first Little League in Vallejo and we were part of a group of sixty kids that got it started. It was an experience none of us—Dillon, Bruce, Jerry, Roger Ashlock, Frank Bodie, Eddie Hewitt, Joey Butler, Tom Case, Al Manfredi, Jim Eaton—I could go on and on—will ever forget. In fact, we still rehash the old play-by-plays when we get together.

This next picture makes me smile. There we are on somebody’s lawn, surrounding a big, handsome collie named King. King belonged to Gary and Lennie Price and he had some sort of tumor that had to be removed. So, we went out mowing lawns to raise money for the vet. Someone called the Times-Herald and we wound up on the front page. Several readers offered to pay for King’s surgery, so we didn’t have to mow many lawns. Was the lawn mowing Dillon’s idea? Or was it Roger’s?

Later that summer, we all took a hike out to Blue Rock Springs, then up over the hills to the old, abandoned mercury mines to go exploring. Gary fell down a mine shaft. He was lucky to survive. We never went hiking out there again.

This next one is a classic: Dillon in his football uniform at Hogan Junior High. Yeah, football. You see, Dillon was always small for his age. As an adult, he was maybe 5’6”, 120 pounds. But in the ninth grade, he still had some growing to do. All of his young life, people would tell him “…you’re too small to do that.” Whether it was baseball, football, bowling—it didn’t matter. So naturally he set out to prove them all wrong.

I remember going out to watch the team practice on the Hogan field. Bill McGrath was a tenth grader, the star of the team, and he was built like a tank. Coach Pelligrini was running a drill where there were two lines about ten yards apart: ball carriers and tacklers. When you came to the front of the line, he’d toss the ball to the ball carrier who would take off running. The tackler’s job was to bring him down. They had to stay in a narrow lane marked by two blocking dummies. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and sure enough, Bill and Dillon wound up facing each other, Bill the ball carrier, Dillon the tackler. They went at each other and Dillon hit Bill hard, just above the kneecaps. Of course, he just bounced off and Bill ran on through, but everybody who witnessed it came away with great respect for Dillon Mini. He had more guts than anyone out there.

Here’s a picture of Dillon as student body president at Hogan in the tenth grade. He wrote a column for the school newspaper titled “Pres Sez.” If you had asked me then (1957), I would have predicted that Dill would have a career in politics. Prominent family name. Good looking guy. Intelligent. Great personality. He was a natural.

Here’s another good one. It’s our bowling team down at Miracle Bowl on Tennessee Street. We were all in high school at the time. Miracle Bowl sponsored us and the idea was that we’d travel around and bowl junior teams from other towns. There’s Dillon, Bruce, me, and Buddy Whisenhunt. Buddy was a lefty and a terrific bowler. Bruce and I were just okay. The traveling team idea never jelled, but we had fun while it lasted. Dillon would go on to become one of the best bowlers in Vallejo. He had several three-game series in the 800s and his press clippings could fill a scrapbook.

Oh my, here’s a stack of photos from Tahoe. In the early fifties, the Minis bought a cabin near the South Tahoe Y. They would always spend the last two weeks before Labor Day at the cabin, and they’d invite me to join them. I treasure the memory of those summer days. Here we are trout fishing on the Upper Truckee River; playing miniature golf down by Bijou; exploring the woods behind the cabin; playing hours and hours of ping pong in the garage; and hanging out on the beach at Camp Richardson. And here are the Silveiras who eventually built a place up there: Manuel & Mildred, plus Marie, Mike, and Marty. What a great family, and what a dear friend Marie was. And here are Mr. and Mrs. Bradley with Jerry and Russ. We had a lot of fun with the Bradley boys.

One time Jerry Bradley Sr. checked us all into the movie theater at Harrah’s. We were supposed to stay there until an adult checked us out. The movie stunk so we snuck out and hit the streets of Stateline—me, Dillon, Jerry, and Russ. (I think Marie was babysitting for Mike and Marty.) It was all cool until one of us decided to drop a quarter in a slot machine just inside the door of Harrah’s. We got busted and they paged Mr. Bradley to tell him his kids were loose on the street. With firm conviction he said, “They are not! I put ‘em in the movie myself.” We caught a lot of flak over that one.

There are about a thousand pictures from Tahoe in my memory bank. We’ll have to look at all of them someday.

This next shot is a beauty. It is a picture of Dillon as a member of a wedding party. He looks great in the white dinner jacket and the black tux pants. What a handsome guy! Our friend Charlie Gebhardt sang at that wedding. I remember he muffed the first verse of “The Lord’s Prayer” and had to start over. Dillon cracked up laughing. Charlie made it through on the second try without a hitch.

Here is a picture of Dillon putting out a For Sale sign in front of my mom’s house in 1975. We had to move her into an assisted living facility and Dillon handled the sale. He was in the real estate business for a number of years, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how many.

This next one hurts. It’s a picture of Dill and me sitting on a couple of bar stools down at Teeters, a joint near Georgia Street and the freeway. The place eventually changed names but we kept our same old stools. Whenever I would drive through Vallejo, usually on the way to The City, I’d stop at Teeters to see Dillon. Nine times out of ten he was there. We would throw back a few tall cold ones and rehash all the good old times.

How stupid of me! Why didn’t I jerk him off that stool and drag him out of there? Would it have made a difference? Would it have changed anything in the later part of his life? I guess I’ll never know. As my sons would say, “That’s on you, Dad. You’ll have to wear that one.”

The next picture is bitter-sweet. A bunch of us got together to visit Dillon in the group home where he spent his days before he moved into hospice care. I think it was 2011. There we are: Jerry Warren, Roger Ashlock, Russ Sturgeon, Gordie Maki, Sargent Johnson, Dave Plump, and me. We took him to the Sardine Can for lunch. I think he really enjoyed getting out with the guys. He was able to walk, slowly, with a walker, and he smiled and laughed and conversed with all of us, at least a little. I hope it was a good day for him.

Here are a few pictures I’d like to erase. On my last visits with him, he was barely able to walk, and our conversations consisted of his one-word responses to my questions. It was just a matter of time.

Ah, now this last picture is real. It’s not just in my mind. It shows Dillon bowling, at the foul line delivering the ball, rolling what I’m sure was a sledgehammer shot to the 1-3 pocket. Yes, I know the photo is old and battered, but I want you to see it through my eyes. Look at the form. Look at the concentration. You can almost feel the fire in his belly. He was some competitor, my friend Dillon. And there he is at the very top of his game.

This is the way I will remember him. He was beautiful. Wasn’t he?

_____