Hawai'i Days, Hawai'i Ways
Memories of Rocket Rod and the home team
By John Honjo
Special to The Advertiser
As an 8-year-old in Japan, I started to follow Sadaharu Oh and the Yomiuri Giants. Two years later, back in Hawai'i, I would study the box scores to see how many hits the Houston Astros' Jimmy Wynn, Bob Watson and Cesar Cedeno accumulated. But it was the Hawai'i Islanders who became my passion — the Islanders who played in old Honolulu Stadium.
Although I can count the number of games I actually attended at the stadium on one hand, I remember more than just the termites. The short right-field porch was guarded by a towering fence. The gate in center field was so far away from home plate that it seemed to disappear in the shadows. The scoreboard was at the top of the left field bleachers. Above the grandstand, holding onto the protective netting, was the roof that ate foul tips.
It was my radio that brought the Islanders into my home and heart. I had the radio preset to KGU. I anxiously would wait for Les Keiter's voice. I would anticipate what would happen next when Keiter would give the count as, "Two and two, what'll he do?" Or the electricity that was generated when Johnny Sipin or Steve Whitaker would drive the ball deep and I would hear the familiar, "Back, back, back, boom off the wall!"
I would try not to jinx the home team when a dangerous guy like Greg Luzinski would come to bat against them. A one-hopper to the third base wizard, Clete Boyer, or a fly ball to the graceful Rod Gaspar in center field would be fine. Anything to kill the opponent's rally.
Rocket Rod was my favorite. I didn't play much baseball. I couldn't distinguish between a long, short or in-between hop.
My throws floated more than smoked. But I wasn't bad in tracking down fly balls. Whenever I was in the outfield, I was Rocket Rod.
Whether it was live or a road trip re-creation, every summer night I let my imagination run wild as I listened to Les Keiter's descriptive play by play. If the game did not end by bedtime, I would lower the volume so that it was just loud enough for me to hear from under my pillow.
An Islander loss would mean I would have to refrain from tossing the radio across the room. A win would give me a high that would last until the next game.
Guido Salmagi's rendition of the national anthem, the organist leading the charge, the players taking the field — I could see it all through the radio. Unless tomorrow brought a bye. I hated byes.
