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| "...And batting second, the left fielder, number 25..." |
I REMEMBER A WARM NIGHT in the summer of 1971, lying in bed late at night with a transistor radio glued to my ear. My dad would always watch the 11 o’clock news, then check on all of us before going to bed. When he saw I was still awake, he came in and sat at the foot of my bed.
“You okay?” he said.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking,” I said. “You know, about my future.”
I was listening to a Reds game played against the Dodgers in Los Angeles. Pete Rose had singled to left, and Johnny Bench was at the plate with a chance to knock in the go-ahead run. Al Michaels, now of Sunday Night Football fame, was the Reds’ play-by-play announcer back then, and he described the scene so well I could practically see each play.
Since my dad didn’t really follow sports all that much, I turned the sound down while we talked.
“Your future. Wow,” my dad said. “That’s so far away.”
Johnny took a call strike on the outside corner from Dodger righthander Don Sutton.
“Dad, I’m already eleven. I keep going back and forth between playing in the NBA, the NFL or for the Reds,” I said. “I know I’d be good at whatever I do, but I’ve decided I can’t play all three.”
My dad chuckled. “You’re sure about that?”
“Nobody plays all three, Dad. Now that I think about it, I’m not really sure I can even play two.”
Sutton walked Johnny Bench, bringing Tony Perez to the plate. The Big Dog was one of the most prolific hitters ever with runners in scoring position.
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” my dad said, knowing full well I had no idea what I was talking about. “So which sport do you think you’ll end up playing? Oh, wait, let me guess.”
“Baseball.” We both said it at the same time.
“You knew?” I asked.
“I had a hunch. But I’ll check back with you in the middle of football season. It wasn't that long ago you wanted to play running back for the Cleveland Indians.”
"Browns."
"Whatever."
"I know, but I always keep coming back to baseball. I gotta' do it."
I loved baseball because it was played almost every day, usually under a sun-drenched sky or a star-filled night and the fans packed the stadium every night. Unlike football, you got to see players’ faces, so you felt like you knew them better. Unlike basketball, you got to get dirty now and then, either because of stealing second or making a diving catch. In 1971, baseball was still the national pastime.
I loved baseball because it's a team game that showcases individual talent all at the same time. I could hustle like Pete and hit home runs like Johnny Bench, and then on defense I was as mobile as Davey Concepcion and as strong-armed as Caesar Geronimo. I had the whole package. The Reds and their fans would love me someday.
Yeah, baseball would be my future. Forget football.
I THOUGHT OF ALL THAT as my family and I went to a Reds’ game the other night. The players are all different now, and long gone are the days of old Crosley or even Riverfront Stadium, but the Reds are still the Reds, and they’re as much my team now as they’ve ever been.
I’d still play, if they’d let me.
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Dreams need to be followed.
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I’d gladly take the $400,000 major league minimum and play every day, without complaint or contract re-negotiation. I’d show up early, do as I’m told and donate the $89.50 a day food money to a homeless shelter. It’s not that I’m a charitable guy or anything, but who needs more money than that to live on? And who besides a Sumo wrestler needs more than $89.50 a day for food? I’d be fat and happy without it, in more ways than one.
With this love of baseball, I share something else in common with Kevin Costner … other than rugged good looks. I’m the die-hard underachiever who hangs on to a dream like he did in Bull Durham. I’m the aging veteran who finds it hard to hang up the spikes like his character in A League Of Their Own. And more than anything I’m the husband and father who’d risk just about everything to hang with the stars of yesteryear, like Field Of Dreams.
“If you build it, they will come.”
Baseball is the American dream. At least for me, even now.
SO THE NIGHT WILL BE COMING when my wife awakes in the middle of the night to find me on the living room sofa, listening to the radio. The Reds will be out on the West Coast re-visiting the now-gone glory days of playing the Dodgers.
“You okay” she’ll ask.
I’ll nod my head in agreement, then wipe the sleep from my eyes. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking,” I’ll say. “About my future.”
The legendary voice of Marty Brennaman will temporarily interrupt my train of thought. I’ve been listening to Marty since I was 13, which means I’ve listened to him call more than 6,000 Reds games in the past 39 years. His call is as comfortable to me as a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night.
She’ll say. “Am I in this future somewhere. I figured we’d downsize a little and then travel a lot.”
“Suppose we traveled a lot as part of a baseball team?” I'll say.
I’ll pause for effect as Marty sets the scene: Joey Votto is on second base with Brandon Phillips at the plate. A single will drive home the winning run. If it happens, Marty will deliver his now-famous closing line when the Reds take home the win: “…And this one belongs to the Reds!”
But the game goes on, and I'll turn my attention back to Kim. “I’ve gotta’ follow my dream while there’s still time. I can hit the curve ball and I think I can still get around on a fastball. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t do this.”
A guy can still dream, can't he?
She’ll be a little shocked at first. “You were wheezing when you climbed the stairs the other night.”
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| Pete ... with his signature head-first slide. |
Okay, so there will be a few flaws in my plan, just like when I was eleven. But she’ll see the seriousness in my eyes. And she’ll know better than to question my thinking. I’ve talked about it for years.
Baseball. The Reds. Getting paid to play a child’s game.
"You have three trials this week. How are you going to fit baseball in there somewhere?"
It will be an excellent question, but I'll be prepared for it. “We big leaguers do what we have to do. It's the price we pay for living the dream,” I’ll say. “I have to give this my all.”
“Doesn't seem like that long ago you were going to Pebble Beach to play in The Masters.”
"That's in Georgia."
"Whatever."
She'll be right. At least once or twice every year I think I need to dedicate myself to improving my golf game, to see where it might take me. "But I keep coming back to baseball," I'll say. "I gotta do it." She'll reluctantly agree. Because, in the end, a guy never strays too far from the dreams he had as a young boy.
As for me, mine has always been consistent...and this one belongs to the Reds.