Casey Feroglia 1946 - 2009
A History

The way I Remember It
He Called Me Feroglia

by Mark Feroglia
15 June, 2009

Author’s note: I’ve been awhile putting together what I remember of the history of Casey. There is so little I know and some stuff I have been advised not to reveal. Of all of the people who knew Casey, I may have the least knowledge about him though I am his brother. Many things that happened when we were young kind of get muddled together and I might have gotten some of the names and dates wrong. Be that as it may, here goes....

He called me Feroglia. I called him Feroglia. Others called him Case or Feroglia. A few called him Red. They called me Froggy, Little Feroglia or sometimes Little Frog. He was never Big Frog. After becoming a teacher, he was Mister Feroglia or Coach.

Coach; he must have liked that best.

Casey liked all kinds of sports, but baseball became his passion. By the time he was in elementary school, he was playing ball every chance he got. One of my earliest recollections is Casey playing catch with a neighbor inside the atrium at the Grand Mound State School for girls where my dad taught. I was pre-school; he was in second grade. The boys made longer and longer tosses and as Casey reached up over his head to make a catch, he fell into a large cactus. I remember Casey bent over the sofa, pants down to his ankles with my Mom pulling cactus needles from his backside with a pair of pliers. My sister and I were quietly amused.

My sister remembers another Grand Mound story relayed by our Mother. Casey, who was somewhat of a pyromaniac when he was very young (I remember something about him burning a neighboring vacant lot, but the details are vague at best). Mom was ironing and Casey kept trotting back and forth to the laundry room with a measuring cup full of water; back and forth, back and forth. Finally Mom asked him what he was doing and he told her he was putting out a fire. It turned out there was an electrical outlet smoking and he was throwing water on it.

Casey could also be an unsung hero even when very young. On one of our Oceanside clam-digging trips while we were playing in the waves, a little girl we did not know got knocked on her face by a wave. Casey, recognizing her predicament, rushed over and scooped her up - nobody else around had noticed. She was still sputtering and coughing when her Mom finally got there eternally grateful to our redheaded hero.

For awhile when we were young, Casey and I would take turns beating each other about the head. He would slam my head in a door, I would maul his head with a hammer. He would toss gravel at my head, I would bean him with a big stone. But we got over that by the time he was 10 or 11 and had developed friendships outside our household.

Feroglia was 3 years older than me and we rarely played on the same sports teams. We did, however, play part of a season of Little League together when I was just 6 and Casey was 9. Things from so long ago are a little foggy, but I think our Dad was the coach and he couldn’t get any of his players, including Casey, to throw a strike. So, in desperation, he moved me up from pee wee ball as a pitcher with the instructions to lob the ball over the plate and let the older boys take care of the rest. It worked . . . for a couple of games.

There were some other times while we were growing up that Casey included me in his activities:

He took me to shoot guns with his friends, probably John Woods and/or Steve Sawyer when I was 10 or 11 and he was maybe 14. I don’t know where they got the guns but they had fun getting me to shoot a 12 gauge shotgun and laughing when I landed on my can in a tumble weed or sage brush bush. Yeah, I did it more than once.
Getting ready to make the move from Little League to Babe Ruth, Casey and Steve Kline would practice throwing the curve ball in our backyard with me standing in the batter’s box. The pitcher stood in the rhubarb patch by the shed (it was wild rhubarb and none of us kids liked it). The catcher put his back to the house. Casey and Steve learned to throw the curve, I learned about getting plinked. Later, in high school, I used this experience as the subject of a speech in English class. Steve went on to pitch for the Yankees and Indians, and Casey went on to play semi-pro and college ball.
Casey and Larry Carroll let me ride in the bed of Larry’s Scout one time around the 4th of July. Larry had probably just gotten his license, so Casey would have been about 17 or 18. Casey and Larry were up front where the older boys rode, and they dropped M-80 firecrackers from their windows timing them so they would go off under and around the vehicle as we drove down the main street of Chelan. Ears ringing and butt aching, I was dropped off at the bridge at the foot of Wooden Avenue.
When I was 15, Casey filled in as my driving instructor (a preview of a coming vocation) when our parents had had enough. He taught me how to drive off road and shoot a .22 from the window of a moving vehicle. Things you need to know ‘cause they’re gonna happen.

There are other experiences in which I had no direct involvement. Many occurred during his high school years (1962-64) and the first year of college at Wenatchee Valley JC (1964-65). Most of them Casey related to me years after they happened.

Casey and his friends once played safari with each gunman taking a turn riding on top of a car while shooting at whatever moved along the side of the road. As far as I know, this happened on only one occasion and there were no hits.

Casey rolled the family station wagon, a Chevy II, while on a solo ground hog hunting expedition when he was 17 or 18. It rolled so slowly and gently that only a few dimples were visible on the roof. I don’t think anyone ever knew.

Casey and Larry Carroll shared a ride to and from Wenatchee Valley College, sometimes racing the law and sometimes losing the race.

Then there were the rumored trips to Idaho to experience the best that Clarkston-Lewiston had to offer. Later on, I found out the nearness of these towns to Pullman was the reason many boys attended Washington State University and 2 + 2 became 4.

For awhile, Casey drove a ‘54 or ’55 Mercury Sun Valley though I am not sure it was his. I remember it being yellow, though the green color was more common. Not many of these were made and they are now collectibles.

In September, 1966, Casey was inducted into the Army and served a year in Viet Nam. During his tour in Viet Nam, he was able to take R&R in Tokyo where the rest of our family was living. He discovered the Japanese had batting cages where we spent many hours. He continued hitting long after the blisters on my hands forced me to quit. We also attended a couple of Japanese Pro baseball games where he studied pitching and hitting styles while I sampled the food and beverages. My Father, the Vice Principal at my high school in Tokyo, kindly excused me from school for some of these excursions which made the experience doubly rewarding for me.

Casey drove a truck while in ‘nam. When I asked if he ever shot his weapon, he said he once shot at a cow out of the window of his truck, but mostly just drove. He indicated that it was a little touchy due to the land mines and possibility of ambush, but he never let on to me that it bothered him much.

Back stateside, Casey finished his Army duty at Fort Campbell, Kentucky where he played service ball, pitching and playing the outfield at the brigade level. In the summer of 1967, he visited our family in Chelan where we had moved after living in Japan for 2 years. During this visit to Chelan, he hauled me and his buddy to a bar in Wenatchee. He loaned me his military ID and though I was only 19 and looked like 15, it worked and he set me up all night. He spent the night and I caught hell for getting back home to Chelan at 4:30 AM. He even hooked me up with a date, but she was too old for me, probably 22, and she went home disappointed.

During the summer of ’67 our family drove a 1957 Ford station wagon with a Thunderbird V-8 under the hood. My Mom and I arranged the purchase of this fine vehicle upon our arrival in the states after our tour in Japan was over. Casey showed me how to get the car going fast enough to coast across the bridge in downtown Chelan, turn off the ignition, wait a few seconds and then turn it back on. The backfire that V-8 made when it lit back up must have scared every tourist in the nearby motels as it echoed off the bridge and surrounding buildings. This is probably one of the things he learned in the Army.

Casey was honorably discharged in September, 1968 and with his service duty complete, moved to the Washougal/Longview area. While living in Washougal, Casey said he once over indulged in cheap wine, a gallon or red, and found himself in Portland driving the wrong way on a one-way street with no feeling in his left arm. During this period he drove at least two hot cars, a V8 Camaro and a Boss Mustang. This was the carefree Casey, playing ball, driving fast cars, and partying hard.

For a time Casey worked for International Paper. When IP went out on strike, he supported himself by catching salmon, canning and selling it. He left some doubt if this was during salmon season. He was good at the catching and knew he wouldn’t go hungry.

While Casey sorted things out after his military duty, I continued classes at the University of Washington. During my college years, I played fast pitch softball in the Seattle city leagues and Casey continued playing baseball. For some reason, he thought my softball experience qualified me to play baseball and he asked me to go with him and a couple of others, a catcher and a shortstop, to Kamloops, B.C. for a weekend semi-pro baseball tournament. We shared a room in a hotel down town and he took me out to experience a real Canadian bar with a choice of V-8 or tomato juice served with every beer. I got one at bat in that tournament, a hangover and a strained hamstring. He played every game, was the winning pitcher in 3 of the games and was on the all tournament team. On the ride back home, our whole carload gave him part of our winnings since he had just about carried the team. We had each received about $70, though I think Casey got a touch more. This was in the late ‘60’s or early ‘70’s and even then the competition was pretty good with a lot of the players coming from college and semi-pro teams. In 1973, this tournament became the Kamloops International Baseball Tournament which is now in its 37th year and boasts teams from major colleges and top semi-pro leagues, but I was never asked to go again.

In 1974, Casey surprised me by getting his degree from Central Washington State University. I was surprised because I knew he could do it, but I didn’t think he wanted to. Years later I learned he also set several pitching records while in college. It wasn’t Casey’s way to brag about his accomplishments or seek the spotlight and he just didn’t tell anybody. I believe it was Casey’s desire to play ball on the college level that made him attend and graduate although there may also have been some familial prodding.

Once Casey had his degree, he moved to the Southwest corner of Washington and became a substitute teacher. We didn’t totally lose touch, but I was working on the East Coast and we didn’t have much contact. He became a full time teacher in the Toutle School District in 1978. It was only by accident that I Googled him in 1991 and learned of his baseball coaching achievements and that his Toutle team had won the State Class B Baseball Tournament in 1990 and 1991. I don’t know if he even told our Dad who lived only a few hours away.

When I made a congratulatory call to him, he said it was just luck that got them through the brackets and championship. He took no credit for any of the victories. He told me he had so much trouble during the tournament with his team getting the signals straight that he made up cardboard signs that said “BUNT” and “STEAL”. This method of passing on signs has never been substantiated. Casey could keep a straight face while telling the biggest of tales.

In the summer of 1980 after the eruption of Mt. St. Helens, Leslie, the boys and I took a vacation to Washington. On our swing through Casey’s neighborhood, he related to us what it was like to be so near the mountain when it blew.

Casey and one of his friends were fishing along the Toutle River. His buddy was a little ways upstream and he hollered at Casey, “Did you hear that?” Casey responded by telling him it was nothing and to keep fishing. A few minutes later, his buddy repeated the question and Casey answered him in the same way.

On the succeeding try, Casey’s buddy convinced him something was happening and they made haste to the car and got to high ground. Casey took me to that fishing spot and the high water line was nearly to the eves of the houses in the area and the mud was about half way up the walls. The deck of the bridge where they had been fishing had been displaced a couple of feet down stream by the mud flow caused by the eruption. Casey realized he had gotten out of harms way just in time, but he was annoyed that his fishing had been interrupted!

On a subsequent trip some years later, Casey took me and my family to the new visitors’ center near Mt. St. Helens. As we stood at the overlook peering down at Spirit Lake, Casey related the story of how he had led a fishing expedition into the area just after the eruption looking for fish trapped by the volcanic debris.

He had quickly recognized that the mudslides would trap the fish in parts of the rivers and lakes. The fish would have no way out but on the end of a fishing line. He was so in tune with this fishing opportunity that he and his party arrived before the police and forest service could seal off the area.

The authorities were not amused when he was discovered thigh deep in a land locked lake with a stringer of fish. A month after the eruption, Spirit Lake was complete devoid of oxygen due to the volcanic ash deposits which settled to the bottom.

Living in Florida and having a boat for many years, I tried several times to get Casey to visit so I could take him out to the blue water and show him some real fishing. Once in the mid ‘80’s during my annual phone call at Christmas, I invited him down and was just about to tell him of the 40 pound dolphin we had caught during the summer when he let it spill that he had recently landed a 40 pound steely on a fly. Thereafter, I excused him from having to visit Florida for the fishing.

I was looking forward to seeing Feroglia at the reunion to celebrate my Father’s 90th birthday this summer (July, 2009) and perhaps playing a few games of pool with him. I have a pool table in my home and play regularly. There may have been a chance that I could have beaten him. But, then he was good in a lucky way even at parlor games.

I miss him, but I barely knew him; his strange way of talking, kind of a mixture of Washingtonian, Alaskan, and Minnesota twang; his clever and original sayings. There are a lot of gaps in my recollections of him: his marriages and divorces; the birth and rearing of his two daughters; trips to Alaska; his teaching and coaching career; fishing and hunting excursions.

Recently we had some conversations about retirement options and Social Security. I wish he could have enjoyed a few years of retirement. Maybe I could have gotten him to Florida and maybe he could have taught me to fly fish; but . . . not now.