– Field of Dreams, 1989
There are very few memories of my grandfather that don’t involve the Cincinnati Reds. No, we never went to a game together, but it seems like almost every holiday, family reunion or just dips in his pool during a visit on a hot summer afternoon the Reds game was on the radio or the TV even if just in the background. It was on a beat up AM radio as he converted an old lawn mower, with terrible navy blue paint job courtesy of my cousins, into a go-kart for his grandkids. The game was on the television during birthday celebrations and on the radio as he tried to teach me about all the tools he had in his barn. A game was on as he over paid a thirteen year old version of me to repaint a fence, not in need of repainting. The game was always on.
If you’re lucky, your favorite team wins the championship when you’re young enough to appreciate it. That certainly was the case for me. In 1990 I was twelve years old. That was the year the Reds swept the heavily favored Oakland Athletics in the World Series. If pressed, I could probably recite the starting lineup of both teams. The height of baseball card trading fever gripped my classmates and they began wearing sports glasses to be like Reds’ third basemen Chris Sabo. Kind of a geeky cool. We cheered on sweet Lou’s team as they went wire to wire. We rooted for Billy Hatcher, Paul O’Neil and Eric Davis. We loved the bullpen trio known as the Nasty Boys, Norm Charlton, Rob Dibble and Randy Myers. Grandpa always rooted a little more for Myers though, as he “must be somehow related.”
Time has a way of making us older and of course it did with me. I obtained other interests including girls, and in High School the division leading Reds were robbed at a chance at the post season by the strike shortened season. I never fully came back to baseball after that. In college I soon a found that as a casual fan the Reds were hard to follow. I’d always check the standings before a visit to my grandparents. Free agency, trades and other talent turn over meant I wouldn’t know half the players from one visit to the next, but by looking at the standings I’d be able to remark to Grandpa how the Reds were looking that year, which usually they weren’t looking good. When Barry Larkin finally retired in 2004 I’m not sure I could name a single player. Even the field had changed. As Grandpa’s eye sight, already limited by a childhood accident with Red Ryder carbine-action - two hundred shot air rifle with a compass in the stock, further deteriorated in his remaining eye he stopped watching the games on TV and started listening to the games on TV.
By 2008 I had started my own family; I had a career and house hours away from grandparents. At my job I was invited to a Reds “meet and greet.” Before spring training, most big league teams will send certain staff on a tour of the state, stopping for these meet and greets to be hosted by radio or television stations broadcasting the games. The stations in turn will invite local businesses they hope to buy advertising time during the games. Some people go because they’re legitimately interested in the advertising opportunity. Most go because they’re fans, or they want to meet someone famous. Some go for the free lunch.
I sat at a table in the conference room at a table with mostly women who wanted to meet someone famous, and some seeking autographs for disappointingly uninvited husbands. The voice of the Reds, Marty Brennaman was the first of the Reds staff to arrive. He took his seat at the front of the room and politely answered questions while signing autographs, including a baseball I picked up at the store on the way there. A man slightly resembling Alan Hale, Jr., the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island, soon bounded into the room with a “How-Dee Folks!” Former pitcher Tom Browning then preceded from table to table introducing himself and chatting with fans. He added his signature beside Bennaman’s.
Tables were then dismissed one by one to the buffet and as I waited in line Browning came out to join the queue. One fan offered to let him go ahead in line and he declined with a chuckle. “No thanks. They have to hold the Q&A for me, they might not for you” and he took his place at the back of the line behind me. Soon a father came up with his very young son. “Son, this Tom Browning” the father beamed. “He’s the only Reds’ pitcher to ever pitch a perfect game.” Browning shook the boy’s hand, and the son was awestruck despite the fact he was too young to understand the statistical feat of a perfect game. The father then asked “What do you remember most about that game?” I pondered for a moment how many times he’d wished he’d been asked a question about the other 321 games he played, but he didn’t seem to mind as he looked into the distance trying to recall a day years ago, but seemed like only yesterday. “I got into a fight with my wife,” he explained “so I got to the ball park early that day, then we had a rain delay, so I sat there and stewed on it even longer. I think I was so steamed about it, that it wasn’t until the fifth inning when my teammates started avoiding me for fear of jinxing it that it occurred to me what was going on.”
I returned to my table with a plate full of food. Soon a man dressed in baby blue sweater and matching knit cap, with designer sunglasses and gaudy gold jewelry entered the room. He went table to table, introducing himself to each and every person with a handshake and a non-optional autograph as (current second baseman and face of the club) Brandon Phillips. If you didn’t tell him your name when he introduced himself, he was sure to ask. A woman at my table returned from the buffet mid-introduction and shook his hand as she sat down. It was obvious to him, and the rest of the table, she fit into the “not a fan, but seeking n autograph for the husband” category. So to the amusement of the entire table he told her his name was Eddie Murphy. He added his signature to my ball and continued around the room.
That Christmas along with a new Reds’ baseball cap, I presented Grandpa with that autographed ball. I told him about how I had obtained the ball and who had signed it. I’m not sure he could read the signatures or even see the signatures at that stage in his life. But to this day it sits among the family photos on the bookshelf.
During the autumn of his 91st year, Grandpa took an unfortunate spill down the basement stairs. He spent most of the next few weeks in the hospital, in and out of consciousness, sometimes completely lucid, sometimes totally unaware of his surroundings. During the third week, he was again on the mend. I kept vigil at his bedside while my sister went home with my grandmother. Early in the evening, he woke and we spoke. I told him of Grandma’s suggestion to put the game on for him and asked him what he thought about that. “Oh I don’t know” and he laid his head down and closed his eyes. “You know I think I would like the television on.”
I sat down beside him and told him the score; Houston was up 2-1 in the sixth inning. If the Reds won, then they also won the division. Soon the game was tied and Grandpa again closed his eyes. I sat there with him through the next three innings not truly knowing if he was awake or not. Then in the bottom of the ninth the first batter, right-fielder Jay Bruce, hit a walk off, solo home run to give the Reds the win and first trip to the post season in 15 years. I watched the champagne celebration for a few minutes, then closed my eyes and for a moment I was twelve again.
It was Grandpa’s last game. He was gone four days later. He left behind three children, seven grandchildren, eleven great-grandchildren and his bride of sixty seven years. Joseph Boniface Myers, you may be gone from this world but your name lives on ... through your daughter and my mother, Bonnie and your great-granddaughter and my daughter, Josephine. To me it feels like you’re still here. There’s still a game on.
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