If you’ve ever watched the television series M.A.S.H., then you know that Corporal Max Klinger was from Toledo, Ohio. Jamie Farr, who played the part, was also a Toledo native. Despite his character’s antics trying to get sent home, he was an avid fan of both Tony Packo’s and the Toledo Mud Hens.

Tony Packo was a Toledo East Side born son of Hungarian immigrants. He and his wife, Rose, were given a $100 loan in 1932 Great Depression hard times to open a sandwich and ice cream shop.

It was then he created his signature sandwich — the Hungarian Hot Dog, by splitting in half the large Kolbasz, or Hungarian sausage, and filling a rye bun with it topped with a spicy chili sauce. They are still sold today — just not for the nickel they started at. It was so popular that he and Rose were able to purchase their own building.

In 1972, Burt Reynolds was the first to sign a hot dog bun. The tradition continues today, replaced by foam replicas. The buns are signed by presidents, actors, musicians and even astronauts to leave their mark on the Packo Bun Wall of Fame.

Today, right across the street is Fifth Third Field, home of the Mud Hens, a triple A minor baseball affiliate of the Detroit Tigers. Originally, named the Swamp Angels in 1896, they played just outside the city near marshland filled with coots also known as mud hens. The local press dubbed them Mud Hens and the nickname stuck.

Though the leagues changed, including the major league affiliates, the Mud Hens played nearly every season since 1896.

They were often referred to by Jamie Farr, who helped Tony Packo’s restaurants gain more fame through his role on M.A.S.H.

As a fan of the series, I’ve had several occasions to eat at Tony Packo’s and to attend Mud Hens home games on my trips to visit nearby Michigan.

It is much easier, closer to family and by far less expensive to attend farm club games rather than major league ones.

When we first moved to Detroit on my fifth birthday in the early 1950s, my dad and uncles became spontaneous fans of the Tigers. We didn’t live far from the old Briggs Stadium.

Often, Sunday afternoons were spent with Daddy and his brother/brothers attending the games while Mom and the aunts packed picnic lunches and diaper bags and spent the day at a park across from the stadium.

Being the eldest of the cousins created the role of babysitter for younger siblings and cousins though I managed to get some time in on the playground equipment.

Many fond memories and bonding occurred during those outings.

A few times, when I was still quite young, Daddy pitched balls to me. I loved it because he called the windup and the pitches and attached names like Charlie Maxwell and Harvey Kuenn to my so-called talents.

Harvey Kuenn was a very beloved player in his day, always with an enormous cud of tobacco bulging in his cheek. I chewed as much bubble gum as I could stuff into my jaw to mimic him.

A few of those times, I honestly felt that Daddy was proud of me. It was five years before his first son came along and he loved baseball, too, so he was a proud papa at the time.

Baseball was the first sport any of us learned much about, in part, due to our maternal grandfather and uncles. They all played ball every chance they got, which at first of course was anywhere they could make do with makeshift bases and home plate. We kids did likewise.

They joined local leagues and in my picture box is a snapshot of my grandfather and his eldest son in matching uniforms as players on the same team. The youngest uncle went on with such natural talent to pitch with the Kentucky Colonels in Louisville right out of high school — until a serious injury sidelined his potential career with the Detroit Tigers, affiliated with the Colonels then.

Injuries seemed to plague the men in my family. My brother injured his throwing arm and neck in high school, so that ended that.

It didn’t stop some of the females in the family though. My own daughter played second base and I pitched softball for various church leagues.

Having attended both, minor league teams are much more fun — as well as affordable. How can a family go when the tickets are $50 plus, parking starts at about the same rate and a bottle of water is nearly $5?

Sadly, far too many cannot and will never enjoy the fun of a live game. Take me out to the ballgame — as long as it’s the minors. Trash Pandas, here I come.