The Great Pumpkin Heist of 1982

It was a crisp October night, definitely a Sunday—I remember because high school football was still in the air. But that night, the game wasn’t on the field. It was on the streets of Sabetha, Kansas. The objective? Pumpkins.

Back in 1981, "dragging Main Street" was the weekend event. If you wanted to see who was out and about, that’s where you went. And on this particular Sunday, five of us—Kyle, Dan, Jeff, Klint, were in a beat-up 1970s Chevy Blazer, cruising with one mission: to find and smash as many Halloween pumpkins as possible.

Kyle, Dan, and Jeff were high school seniors. Klint, my younger brother, was a junior. The excitement buzzed like electricity. As we rolled through town, we noticed we weren’t the only ones with this idea—pumpkin guts were already splattered across the brick streets. We hadn’t considered how much effort families had put into carving those jack-o'-lanterns—how they probably laughed and bonded over scooping out the goo. At the time, we didn’t care. It was just mischief.

But pickings were getting slim in Sabetha. So, we hatched a new plan: head to Morrill, a tiny town five miles east and the home of Dan. Surely, their pumpkins hadn’t been touched yet.

As we pulled into Morrill, focused and ready, we spotted the perfect pumpkin. It sat glowing on the porch of the town banker’s house, practically begging to be taken. We felt like we were planning a heist. The plan: drop off two of us to grab the pumpkin, then hop back into the Blazer and find the best street for the smash.

Dan and I volunteered for the grab.

Quick side note: Kyle, Klint, and Dan were all on the Sabetha football team. The banker we were about to rob sponsored fall athletes every year on a trip to a University of Kansas football game. That detail becomes important later.

We crept toward the porch, hearts racing. But before we could grab the glowing prize, the front door flew open—and out stepped the banker himself. He must’ve been tipped off, or maybe he just had a sixth sense for teenage idiocy. Either way, we were caught red-handed.

"Run!" I yelled.

Dan and I took off. The driver, seeing what was happening, panicked and drove off too. I shouted, “Split up!” and Dan veered in one direction while I went another. There was no way a 35-year-old banker was catching me. I made it back to the Blazer alone. We searched a bit for Dan but figured he must’ve run home. Shaken and pumpkin-less, we returned to Sabetha one bandit short.

Monday came. No sign of Dan at school. Then, Klint and I were summoned to the athletic director’s office. We were confronted about the attempted theft of the pumpkin. I was stunned. How did they know it was us? We didn’t even get the pumpkin!

Klint let me do the talking. We denied everything, but somehow, they knew. Someone had ratted us out.

Jeff and Klint weren’t the type to snitch. That left one suspect: Dan.

Turns out, Dan didn’t quite make it home. That old banker chased him down—yes, ran down a 17-year-old football player. Dan later claimed he stopped out of guilt, but we’re pretty sure he just got caught. And once cornered, he spilled everything—especially the part about "the Deere boys" being involved.

So, the fallout began.

Dan, Klint, and I were suspended for two football games. Not just any games—two games in the middle of what had been a breakout season for me. One coach even told me I was having an "All-League" year. It was devastating. Heartbreaking.

And we were the laughingstock of the school. Dan caught the most heat—not just for getting caught, but for being caught by a 35-year-old man and for snitching on the rest of us. I’m pretty sure his dad, Reverend Dave, gave him a good old-fashioned paddling for the embarrassment. As for me, my dad—Steve Deere—wasn’t thrilled either. But deep down, I think he found some humor in it. Still, he made me write an apology letter to the banker.

I wrote it. But I couldn’t bring myself to walk inside the bank and hand it over. Instead, I went through the drive-thru and asked the teller to deliver it. That way, when Dad asked if I delivered it, I could technically say yes.

The incident followed us for the rest of the year.

At the end-of-season athletic banquet, our athletic director—who liked to think he was Johnny Carson—got up and delivered his version of Carnac the Magnificent. He held an envelope to his forehead and said:

"Terry Bradshaw, Rickey Henderson, and Dan Manning."

Then he opened the envelope.

"Name a Pittsburgh Steeler, a base stealer, and a pumpkin stealer."

The place erupted in laughter.

And so, the legend of the Pumpkin Bandits of 1982 was born.