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North Side gang


I grew up in a gang-infested city called Chamberlain, South Dakota. By the mid-fifties the city was clearly divided into rival gangs by the north-south boundary of American Creek. This tributary of the ‘Big Muddy’ or Missouri River geographically split our small town in two. My first home was directly on the big river and just a few blocks south of American Creek. Although my allegiance should have been to the Southside gang, my friend Darrel Iceberg and I jumped ship and join the Northside Gang. These were my kind of guys; a little rowdier, dressed down version of the kids who lived in the newer houses on the south side of town.

The north side of town housed the sale barn, the often flooded park, the Pepsi plant and the Indian School. All other businesses and commerce was conducted on the other side of the bridge. I was stuck somewhere in the middle, living along the riverbank beside Old Lady Kerkaufer and several bachelors who made their living selling scrap metal from the railroad yard along with catfish and carp to our town’s only Jews, Louie and Ike Riven. The Riven brothers stockpiled a huge amount of scrap in anticipation of World War III. I was among the first of the baby boomers and the memory of Hitler and WWII was fresh on our parents mind. As a young kid we often played a game called “Bombs away over Tokyo” where we would spread our arms out like wings on a plane and run in circles in an effort to avoid the “Japs”. Political correctness had yet to be invented.

The game we played the most was America’s favorite pastime, baseball. I grew up with Duke Snider, Roy Campenalla and Gil Hodges as my heroes, only to be abandoned by my beloved Brooklyn Dodgers. In 1958 they moved west to Los Angeles and ushered in a new era of modern baseball on the West Coast. The “Bums” were followed by their cross town rivals from New York City, the Giants, who took Willy Mays with them to San Francisco. I abandoned the Bums almost as quickly as they did New York and in a few short years I became enamored with the Minnesota Twins who inherited the old Senators franchise from Washington D.C.

It was baseball that enticed Darrell and me to join the boys from the Northside Gang. Even though the rich Southside Boys had access to the Chamberlain Chiefs Class D minor league field, North Park and the gang that went with it were several blocks closer to our homes. We would grab our bats and ‘glubs’ as Darrell called them and ride our bikes across the bridge, picking up players along the way for an instant game of sandlot baseball. Often games were scheduled by passing notes between classmates. It really didn’t matter if we chose teams or played workup, baseball was tantamount to any other activity our small river town provided. It was obvious by the names of our players that we were a rougher, tougher group than the Southside gang. We had no Snoop Dog or Sugie; we were more like Spanky, Alfalfa and Buckwheat. We had Butch Kickland, Butch Gunter, Butch Pickner, Goody, Squeaky, Smut, Oysters, Dobs and Demon on our side. All they had was a rich kid named Shoeny and his buddy Birdie who took his nickname from Birdie Tibbetts, the manager of the Cincinnati Reds from 1954-58. We called them the Redlegs back then. In the 1950s, the Reds were our Communist nemesis from the Soviet Union.

The violence from our gangs was played out on the baseball diamond and that was limited to fisticuffs. Nobody carried guns. Pocket knives were of the small Boy Scout variety and were used for whittling, not stabbing. Nobody got shot (unless you count that one cow and that episode was instigated by a juvenile delinquent who was much older than the rest of us.) We’ll save that for another story. The only turf we protected was our ball field. The only initiation or rite of passage necessary to join our gang was the ability to run, catch and throw. The only blood drawn was from an errant throw or a bad hop. At least three members of the North Side Gang depicted in this 1956 photo are no longer with us. Squeaky and Terry died of cancer before their 60th birthdays. My best friend, Butch Pickner, died of carbon monoxide poisoning before his 21st birthday. I’m pretty certain the rest of the gang is still kicking, but I don’t think any of us are running the bases at North Park anymore.
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