Skip to main content

Happy Birthday Rodger

In this episode - Happy Birthday Rodger . . .

Today in history marks a memorable day for our family. On May 5, 1962, my Lil' brother Rodger was born (he's not so little anymore). Growing up, we were a close-knit family. Every morning, breakfast together, and dinner around the table each evening. Mom insisted. We spent weekends romping around Grandma's yard in the country. It was the 1960s, a great time to be a kid.

Recently, after attending a Celebration of Life, I thought, why don't we take time more often to celebrate someone's life while they're still with us? Do we need to be slapped by the abrupt loss of a loved one to stop, take time out of our hectic lives, and show love, appreciation, and respect to a friend or relative? And to openly share special memories of that person with others.

Well, not me; this podcast is designed to inspire a 60th birthday celebration of stories for Rodger Allen Ball. Allow me to start with a couple of treasured memories I recall growing up.

Rodger is happily married, lives in the small town of Cuba, Illinois, where we grew up, and has two grown children of his own. He’s a proud grandfather with three grandchildren - the youngest, Lincoln James Ball (now two months old), who will carry forth the family name.

Like all siblings, we did our share of teasing and fights over what were no doubt silly things. Many recreational hours were spent with Dad fishing, in the woods, or at the ballpark.

Today, if I try to call Rodger or my brother Ronnie on a weekend, I always text them first, "You guys in the woods?”

When Rodger learned to ride a bicycle, Mom insisted he start with training wheels; why I'm not sure, maybe it was because of the multiple times, to avoid crashing, I drove my bike into her Lilac bush to dismount.

Anyway, Rodger had this tiny little bike that he rode around the yard and on the street in front of our house. Of course, he had his share of spills, especially when he ran into the ditch, but once the training wheels came off, that was it; he no longer wanted to ride that bike. He was insistent, downright belligerent. Yes, Ronnie and I made fun of him. But Mom lovingly encouraged him by running alongside, and he did learn to ride. I'll be honest after witnessing that fiasco; I've never been a fan of training wheels. "Let the kid crash a few times; he will learn.”

One of my favorite memories is the "Go-Cart story." You see, Rodger was born with a mechanical aptitude like no other. Or maybe it was his time spent working with Dad on so many projects. Anyway, he can fix just about anything.

As the story goes, we had an old rickety gasoline-powered riding lawn mower; it was an ugly green with a two-speed transmission. Dad had bought it used, and it looked like hell; then, one day, it just died. Dad announced, “This thing is headed for the junkyard.”

Rodger begged, "Don't junk it; I’ll fix it." And by late afternoon, he had converted that hunk-of-junk that refused to start to a GO-Cart that he rode around the yard - we were all amazed!

As with all families, our lives took separate paths. When Rodger was 15, I left home to attend college. After college, I moved to California. In 1988 Rodger traveled to California with Mom, Dad, and Michelle, to be the Best Man at our wedding.

In the late 1990's he co-owned the local True Value Hardware Store on the square in Cuba. He learned heating and plumbing and serviced the local residents. Everyone in town knows Rodger.

He is a softball legend in Fulton County, much like our father. One day while talking to Mom on the phone, she mentioned that Rodger was "somewhere trying out for a baseball team."

"A baseball team, what team, where?" She didn't know. I'm sure Rodger had told her, but it simply didn't register. Later, when I finally spoke to him, he traveled to the Cincinnati Reds training facility to try out for their Major League Ball club. He missed the cut; little did I know it was his third tryout.

It's been over 45 years since I left that small midwestern town. But whenever I'm back in town and happen to stop by Caseys for gas or a snack, inevitably, I'm asked, "Where are you from, who are you?"

"I'm Patrick, Rodger Ball's brother." That's all it takes to be embraced by the locals.

Happy Birthday Rodg . . . and many, many more. So who's next? It's time for you to share a story.

I'm Patrick Ball; thanks for listening. I'll see you in the next episode.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

We Need Awe More Than Ever

In this episode, Why We Need Awe More Than Ever Yesterday morning, I slipped into the cool stillness of my backyard before dawn. The air was crisp, the silence deep—broken only by the faint rustling of leaves and the familiar calls of birds waking early. Then I looked up. A thin crescent moon hung low in the east, with Venus just above it like a shining jewel. The sky was clear and full of stars, and for a moment, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: Awe! For thousands of years, the heavens have carried on their steady dance, untouched by human noise. No ruler, no election, no breaking news has ever changed their rhythm. And yet here I was, tempted to reach for my phone—to trade the eternal for the urgent. Instead, I stayed. I watched the moonrise, the sky slowly lighten, and the world around me stir. Ducks passed overhead in a loose V, hummingbirds zipped past to visit their feeder, pausing mid-air as if curious about me sitting so still. Little by little, the static in my mind f...

The Birth of a Cubs Legend

In this episode, The 162-Game Exhale — and the Birth of a Cubs Legend There’s a hush in the baseball world on Game 162 — a collective breath drawn in and slowly released. Scoreboards stop flipping. Dugouts empty. For six months, the game has been our steady heartbeat, pulsing from the cherry blossoms of Tokyo in March to the crisp, playoff-charged winds of late September. And now, as the regular season exhales, baseball fans everywhere pause to absorb the story we’ve just lived. For me, that story has been deeply personal. This season unfolded in the rhythms of my daily life. It was the summer soundtrack echoing beneath the constant turmoil of politics and sensational headlines. It was a handful of carefully chosen ballpark pilgrimages stitched together with countless nights in front of MLB.TV. And at the center of it all, for a lifelong Cubs fan like me, it revolved around one name — a young center fielder who turned hope into history: Pete Crow-Armstrong. The 2025 season didn’t begin...

The Silent Grid–Part Two

In this episode, The Silent Grid – Part Two Sirens split the night as Greenwood went dark. Marvin knew instantly—the blackout wasn’t an accident. It was a warning. In this quiet town, where life once unfolded at a predictable pace, a sleek, intuitive smartphone—a so-called gift from the future —has arrived. But it’s no tool for connection. It’s a silent force, erasing individuality and turning neighbors into something less than human. Marvin Gellborn, a man who values independence, sees the truth. His device isn’t helping; it’s testing him, watching him, and quietly embedding itself into the life of Greenwood. Welcome back to On the Fly . In this week’s episode of The Silent Grid , GridBot tightens its grip. After a hopeful community gathering, Marvin and his robot companion, Norman, notice a troubling absence—the very generation they hoped to reach has vanished into the neon glow of The Signal Box , a youth tech hub pulsing with digital obsession. When Greenwood’s lights vanish, Marvi...

The Pessimism Aversion Trap

In this episode, The Pessimism Aversion Trap Picture this: a room full of bright minds nodding in agreement as a bold new strategy is unveiled. The slides are polished, the vision is grand, and the future, we're told, has never looked brighter. Everyone beams—because who wants to be the one to say, "Um… this might not work"? Heaven forbid someone spoil the mood with a dose of reality. Better to smile, add a buzzword or two, and march confidently toward disaster. That's how the Pessimism Aversion Trap works. Even now, I can still hear the sound—a high-pitched shriek and a digital hum, followed by the slow, rhythmic clatter of data pouring from a 5¼-inch floppy disk. It was the late 1980s, and my makeshift home office (our living room) was dominated by what felt like a marvel of modern engineering: a used Tandy 1000 PC with not one, but two floppy drives. To top it off, we purchased a 'blisteringly fast' 300-baud modem—which, for the uninitiated, could downloa...