What's There to Miss about the Reds?

What’s There to Miss?

As the Red’s season closes with a thud, I reflect on Friday nights spent at Great American Ball Park, as a Red’s fan.  From April to September, I donned hats, gloves, stadium coat, tank top, poncho, red pants, red shoes, Red’s shirt (not all together), snow boots, walking boots, flip flops, Nikes, and just once, a classy pair of sandals.

During the stretch of fourteen games that comprised our season pass, the Reds lost most of those Friday night games, (6-8) apparently too nervous over selecting the playlist for the Friday Night Fireworks show. Confesssion – we only stayed for one.  You’ve seen one firework show, well, you know the rest.

I missed two games, which would make my actual record 6-6, but the losses overwhelmed. I was relieved, after spending fifteen minutes to research this, to learn I was not the unlucky charm.

My favorites moments, in no particular order:

1.     During the second inning of each game, the Reds honored a “Great American Hero” from our armed forces.  And while I admired all the serviceman who stepped forward, seeing World War II veterans standing at their seat when they could not stand on the dugout, as had all the others, was a statement beyond compare.

2.     Sitting with winter coat on, during an early April game, son beside me with just a windbreaker, saying , “I’m fine, Mom.”  And the quiet moments that passed between us, me filled with worry and wonder over this new person seated next to me, he filled with nachos, coneys and bluster.

3.     Missing Opening Day. Not that this was a highlight, but it was memorable.  We spent that Monday in Oregon, on Spring Break, driving towards Eugene, for my son’s visit at the University of Oregon. We broke our streak of 12 consecutive Opening Days for him to follow his dream.  It seemed both telling and rewarding.

4.     My husband’s quaint old baseball phrases, which I knew as well from my softball days as a Jumper and Racker.  “Walks will haunt…means ducks on a pond.”  We are still arguing over “We want a pitcher”.  As he would finish with “Not an underwear stitcher” which hardly works with the meter.  The proper ending is, “Not a belly itcher.”  But this could be a northern vs. southern Ohio thing.

5.     The nachos at the Mission Chips stand. Finally, and it only took four tries, to establish a more healthy eating habit at the ballpark through the Macho Nachos, which I joked with the cashier and asked if I could order the Feminine Nachos. She hardly knew what to do with that question, flustered by the long lines. Needless to say, I went with the chicken, and not the beef.

6.     Talking about Joey, will he shave that day. Watching Joey, as he bends over while keeping a runner at first. Cursing Joey after he takes a walk, with a run positioned on third base. Joey, in general.

7.     Todd Frazier’s Walk up song,  Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars,  an old Frank Sintra favorite, reminding me of my mother each time Frazier sauntered to the plate - Sinatra was her favorite performer - and how she was the sports fanatic in the family.

8.     The aliveness of the city, little girls splashing in the water fountain features or swinging on the giant swings overlooking the river, people overflowing from bars and restaurants into the streets, awakening so many fans to the very fact that Cincinnati has come back.

9.     Two of Mark’s business partners, who once called us crazy for wanting to live downtown, moved into the Banks, and proudly invited us to their view level homes before and after games.  A smug satisfaction crossed our face each time we encountered them, knowing we were once called crazy.

10. My sister, texting me during the losing stretches, while she sat a downtown restaurant or bar, waiting for us to abandon our team on losing nights and come join her.  Perhaps she was prescient about the nights the Reds would lose. I wished she would have informed me before game time.

Baseball. I forgot to mention baseball. Well, what is there to say about baseball, other than there is so much life lived between each ball and strike, that as a writer, I was more taken by those moments than the actual playing of the game - other than watching Brandon Philipps amazing flips and Derek Robinson’s flash.

But mostly, I will miss our long walks from 1419 Race St., our future home, past Washington Park, remarking on the scheduled event for the evening, strolling past students and fans, young and old, black and white.  I will miss the long trek down Race, commenting on each new square of sidewalk poured, or history still hanging. I will miss our pass through Fountain Square where hundreds often gathered to watch the game on the big screen above Macy’s if they weren’t attending the game.  I will miss the water/sunflower seed man, who sat on his cooler waiting for buyers. I will miss coming down Vine or Race or Walnut and seeing the throngs of people coming together, in the city, marveling at the new energy, the new businesses, the new attitudes.

I will miss the stroll back home, encountering an occasional resident asking about the outcome of the game, then stopping at A Tavola for one of Aaron’s cocktails, and a margarita pizza served by our sassy friend Stephen, and the late night comraderie of the patrons.

Then the twenty mile drive back to home, which by then, all the air has been let out of our balloons, and we fall into bed with dreams of “when we live downtown.”

And I will miss the one man who stood by me all season, not Dusty or Billy Hatcher, or Joey, even though he played all 162 games, but my husband, who once swore to me, before our marriage, that he was not a fan of professional sports, a husband who now booes and hisses with the best of them, like a Clevelander I dare say.