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Iron City Bob Not too long ago the deaths of Carrie Fisher and her mother, Debbie Reynolds, reminded me that in my large collection of 1950’s and ’60’s LPs were some of their respective father’s and ex-husband’s recordings. I put them on the turntable, grabbed a brew , Great Lakes Turntable Pils, and sat back to enjoy his rich, resonant tenor. And what a voice he had! No wonder he was the biggest recording star of the early fifties. “If I Ever Needed You”, “Anytime”, and “Lady of Spain” echoed throughout the house as I sipped my brew, listening happily and wondering what in hell ever happened to melodic pop music. One of his biggest hits, “Oh My Papa”, recorded in 1954, brought to mind my own father, the greatest man I have ever known. My old man never achieved fame, a large financial portfolio, or any of the other measures by which modern society defines success. He didn’t finish high school but was never without a book or crossword puzzle in his hand. He was self educated and knew more “stuff” than anybody I ever knew. But even that is relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things. A wise man once said “It matters not how much money or fame one has achieved. A man will best be remembered by whether or not he made a difference in the life of a child”. Pop sired six of us between 1948 and 1960 and certainly made a difference in our lives. His refinement, grooming, work ethic, responsibility, patriotism and love of his children were passed on to all of us. No doubt my five siblings have their own particular ideas of how Pop impressed them, but what molded me the most were his loves of New Jersey, baseball and beer. I couldn’t live anywhere but the Garden State, and starting in late October I actually start counting down the days until Mets spring training opens. My passion for all things beer related speaks for itself. I owe that love to my father. From the time I was old enough to remember anything, I recall him coming home from work (as an insurance man, he always worked evenings) with some brew. He would sit at the kitchen table and have a few with cheese and crackers. In the early days it was invariably Hensler’s beer, brewed, of course, in Newark, and on special occasions Ballantine XXX ale, also brewed in Newark, appeared on the table. The darkest year in Pop’s life must have been 1957, which saw both the closing of Hensler’s brewery and the defection of his beloved New York Giants and Willie Mays to San Francisco. For the next few years Krueger’s, brewed of course in Newark, was his brand until that brewery closed in 1960. Until the Mets (sponsored by Rheingold, brewed in Orange)were launched in 1962, his only venue for baseball was the hated Yankees, but they were sponsored on TV by Ballantine, so at least he could listen to Mel Allen yelling about a “Ballantine Blast”. At some point in the late fifties Pop started a beer opener collection. These were generally passed out free of charge by retailers who had been given a supply by distributors as an advertising ploy: you can’t drink a beer without opening it and what better way to open a bottle of Knickerbocker than with a Knickerbocker beer bottle opener. He amassed scores of these things and I well remember him sitting at his desk/workbench in the cellar sorting and polishing them, always with a frothy stein close at hand. The collection was passed on to me and thanks to Pop’s influence, has been enhanced to over 400 and grows each time I visit a brewery, beer fest, antique store or garage sale. From Pop I learned to NEVER drink a beer from it’s original container. At least I never saw him do so. Again, thanks to Pop, over 400 beer glasses of various types take up space in my house and I always think of him when filling one up. Having six kids under the age of twelve and a stay-at- home mom, we were the typical 1950’s family: split level home in the suburbs, Ford station wagon in the driveway and generally a larger version of “Leave it to Beaver”. Of course Ward Cleaver would never even THINK of drinking a beer, so in that aspect of 1950’s life we somewhat differed. The other difference was six kids as opposed to two. The larger number demanded a limit on how much household income could be afforded for suds. But in the early 1960’s Pittsburgh Brewing Company infiltrated the metropolitan area with Iron City Beer and it’s three quarts for a dollar marketing strategy. Pop took immediate advantage of this tremendous money saving opportunity, even though it wasn’t brewed in New Jersey. His devotion to Iron City was enhanced by the fact that they sponsored the Pirates, and instead of listening to Mel Allen’s “Ballantine Blasts” he heard Bob Prince’s “Pour on the Iron” when Bill Mazeroski put the final nail in the despised Yankee’s coffin and ended the 1960 World Series. After my brothers and I became involved in a mummer’s band, Pop, who couldn’t play anything, joined as quartermaster, taking care of equipment, costumes, instruments and icing down the post-parade brew. I don’ t recall exactly who it was, but someone in the band, knowing of his preference for IC, coined the nickname “Iron City Bob”, and thus he was known even though Pabst Blue Ribbon, of course brewed in Newark, later became his beer of choice. (“Pabst Bob” doesn’t quite have the same ring, and nobody ever thought of “Blue Ribbon Bob”. But back to Iron City. Beer and baseball have always fit well together. There’s nothing like a cool draught during the 7th inning stretch (or 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, or 6th innings as well). Sorry no 8th or 9th inning brews, due to the stupidity of those who rule major league baseball. But today, too many nouveau, “designer” beers flood the market. Who wants to watch baseball with a footed pilsner of gueze in hand? Or a cooler full of mentholated porter? No thank you! Iron City was and is the perfect style for the National Pastime, and I know that if he were still around, Iron City Bob would like nothing better to relax in the Garden State, watching the Mets with an IC close at hand. And there’s never been anyone I’d rather share one and the Mets with! Cheers! Dan |
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by Dan Hodge
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