March 31, moving unto April. I'll be leaving the US this upcoming winter and I don't know when I'll be back. This summer is the last time I'll be able to celebrate with the Reds and not just alongside them. It's a moderately frightening aspect to leave unfinished business, but then I remember I've done it before.

This time last year I was flying back. Back from East Europe, back from a year of hiding from responsibility, from my family, from my niece. I had just returned from a year of metaphysical dick-twirling, back to the US where I had a few friends I owed favors to and a large family who regretted me leaving.

I flew back to New York City. I found a Reds bar and watched Opening Day. Ramon Hernandez did something beautiful, you may remember it. I high-fived some random folks in red wishbone C's, walked back eighty blocks thinking that the year of hustling news and playing journalism wasn't the dream, but the spring and summer of the Reds would be. After all, 2010 just happened, didn't it?

But things change, man. If you told me last year I'd be writing this whilst bleary-drunk in a South Carolina hotel room I wouldn't believe it. If you told me I was about to drive East with a 20-year-old I wouldn't believe it. If you told me I'd be writing inspired by a dude named after Mark McLemore, I would've probably believed it, but that's just weird, so hey.

There's probably a hundred theories on what the Reds did to move from perennial contenders throughout the Seventies into the Biggest and Reddest of Machines. They haven't figured it out yet, which is probably telling. All of their big players were beyond the "right" age, their pitching was actually at its nadir in re: the past couple decades and the next one, and there's generally no logic behind it. God or Slyde himself couldn't give a satisfactory explanation on why or how.

Is this year The Year? Logic wouldn't have a good reason why not. But this isn't a chess blog or even a chess pie blog, so I can't say any more than you can. We've all certainly projected a lot into this summer. Fat Vegas Alan, not so long ago, remarked on the Votto Window as:

Is it love? Yeah, it just might be. Will it last? No, probably not. But look kid, you’re holding hands and riding ferris wheels with the prettiest girl in town and she’s letting you do things you’ve never done before (at least not since ‘95) so it’s only right that you pay for her movie tickets and ice cream cones.

We still have those expectations. One doesn't take the prettiest girl in town to the ferris wheel just to hit singles. Me more than anyone here is an OBP hog, but I understand the need to hit some metaphorical extra bases when you're in such a position. I'm leaving the country this next autumn. I'd like to leave it with a ring.

But what can I, what can any of us do? When things get nasty, will I turn on my favorite team or will I cheer them through the Fire Swamp? I've invested a lot in these young men, and I can't think of any way I would root against them. I've invested so much into them and they've invested so little in to me. I could bark about how unfair this is, I could complain about Playing the Game the Right Way or Doing the Little Things or Showing Respect to the Game. Or I could just follow these goofy smiles, these balding youths, these huddled masses yearning to be free into my own perfectionist conceptualization of what they could be. Not because I think this is the best Reds team ever assembled but because I have nothing else to lose.

Life throws curves the like Joey Votto couldn't hit. Life will take a Johnny Cueto slider and deposit it into the left-centerfield gap of strained metaphors. I would love to be able to compare this year's projected Pythag to 1975's and say why this proves that the Reds will persevere. But we've all learned last year that such is horseshit when what we want is for saidsuch to be bueno.

I saw a wonderful team lose tonight. And, to be honest, I saw a wonderful team win as well. It broke my heart, but that'll happen in March. It won't be the last time.

I came into the 2011 season chipper and impervious. I forgot about the slog, I forgot about the 162-game torture. In Posnanski's book about that 1975 team, he writes about his slack-jawed awe at Pete Rose playing every game in a largely meaningless regular season. In our hearts, in our memory, we forget about the marathon and only remember the sprint.

This upcoming baseball season, like life, will give us our beatings. There will be losing streaks, there will be unfathomable injuries (even more, Godforbid), there will be epochal sadness the likes of which has only been plumbed in Werner Herzog films. The baseball season is a Sisyphean task and none of us, poor fans we be, are in any way prepared for the torment we are about to pay for.

Yet I, and perhaps you too, is chomping at the bit. Blood and Thunder, home runs off of Waino, and striking out the Milwaukee side may possibly great us. We will be persuaded, perhaps by groupthink, perhaps by personal negativity, to feed the likes of Bronson Arroyo or Juan Francisco into a woodchipper. We will be considering, in our darkest moments of our darkest days, about trading Joey Votto for flippin' prospects or summat.

Arguing logic is fun. Theorizing on where this season will take us will be a blast. But none of us knows where we'll stand in six months. All I can hope for, all we can hope for, is an exciting few seasons and a thrilling day-by-day. 1975 looked forlorn as well. It'll be a long strange trip that will make a certain Spring Training Red Reporter Trio's look like a card game of Hearts at the retirement center.

Things will be weird, things will be horrifying, and things will be beautiful. I'm just honored and privileged to spend all of the adjectives with you.

The Jews, from what I gather, celebrate the spring with a hearty "Next year in Jerusalem!"

I've been cut off long ago, but let me raise a metaphorical glass full of whatever you'd like to fill that metaphorical cup with and holler out a hearty, "This October in Great American!"

What the heck happened to our lovable scamps of the NL East? They used to play in an indeterminately named (I stuck with Pro Player) Stadium, they used to have no salary worth speaking of, they used to wear bright teal and have a roster seemingly solely constructed of middle infielders. And then, 2012.

They move into a new park. It's called "Marlins Park" and three of the four subcategories for History are "Struggles and Possible Relocation," "Financing and Lawsuit," and "SEC Investigation." Soooo, that's great. There's also the great big beautiful abomination in centerfield. That may be removed because left-handed hitters can't see over it.

I mean, I suppose this is worth tut-tutting. Removing teal for some aqua-and-orange combination certainly is. But in a way, I enjoy the Florida team turning heel. I cannot be alone, I hope, in seeing a distinct parallel with this strange turn for the franchise. The Florida Marlins to Miami Marlins escapade can be seen elsewhere in Mario's reimagination as something far weirder and more sinister [via wikipedia]

...he was not really a villain, and they did not consider this during development. They focused on his behavior, which alternates between good or evil... [They consider] Wario to be a reckless character, who uses his strength to overwhelm others... [They] described Wario as manly, and said he was "so uncool that he ends up being extremely cool". Because of this, he wished for Wario to come off as macho rather than silly, and requested that the art designers emphasize his masculinity. Wario was chosen as the star of the WarioWare series because the developers felt it was the best character for the franchise, in particular for frequently acting stupid.

And yup. There you have it.

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Continued from a brief hiatus as my computer crapped out for a while. And to give something to amuse you for 10 minutes on your [DEVICE THAT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN CONCEIVED OF 20 YEARS AGO HERE]. As a way for us to keep our baseball minds warmed up and our senses of irony attuned, I'd like to welcome back the series for a second half. I've gotten the imprimatur from our feared leaders to continue this, and I really want you all to get involved. So let me and us know which names you like most, which names are boring, and in which ways I'm trying too hard. We can't get anywhere without criticism.

Old people names are funny. To go back to our old introductions...

I want to celebrate the names, the ridiculous and the sublime, that make baseball what it is. This is largely inspired by a Joe Posnanski post where he said that Wally Moon was the most 1950’s name ever. That sparked me to take on this new project. The rules are that we begin with the decade they started their career in (i.e. Wally Post comes up in the 50's, not the 60's).

Let’s go through each decade of Reds’ history, from 1890s through the 2000’s and select the greatest names. We will have three categories: Best Name, Most Cincinnati Name, and Most 1980’s Name. I will list the names and how they got on the list below, and then choose my winners. Feel free to disagree in the comments.

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Continued from a brief hiatus as my computer crapped out for a while. As a way for us to keep our baseball minds warmed up and our senses of irony attuned, I'd like to welcome back the series for a second half. I've gotten the imprimatur from our feared leaders to continue this, and I really want you all to get involved. So let me and us know which names you like most, which names are boring, and in which ways I'm trying too hard. We can't get anywhere without criticism.

Old people names are funny. To go back to our old introductions...

I want to celebrate the names, the ridiculous and the sublime, that make baseball what it is. This is largely inspired by a Joe Posnanski post where he said that Wally Moon was the most 1950’s name ever. That sparked me to take on this new project. The rules are that we begin with the decade they started their career in (i.e. Wally Post comes up in the 50's, not the 60's).

Let’s go through each decade of Reds’ history, from 1890s through the 2000’s and select the greatest names. We will have three categories: Best Name, Most Cincinnati Name, and Most 1960’s Name. I will list the names and how they got on the list below, and then choose my winners. Feel free to disagree in the comments.

Davey Concepcion: It's always surprising to me that there aren't more Concepcions out there. It rolls off the tongue so beautifully, four of the more beautiful syllables out there.

Jimmy Stewart: All you people don't know about lost causes. An itinerant utility infielder does.

Angel Bravo: Outfielder? Porn star? 80's movie sidekick who gets killed 40 minutes in? You decide!

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Maybe you remember this somewhat-beloved and somewhat-ignored series from the last hot stove season. As a way for us to keep our baseball minds warmed up and our senses of irony attuned, I'd like to welcome back the series for a second half. I've gotten the imprimatur from our feared leaders to continue this, and I really want you all to get involved. So let me and us know which names you like most, which names are boring, and in which ways I'm trying too hard. We can't get anywhere without criticism.

Old people names are funny. To go back to our old introductions...

I want to celebrate the names, the ridiculous and the sublime, that make baseball what it is. This is largely inspired by a Joe Posnanski post where he said that Wally Moon was the most 1950’s name ever. That sparked me to take on this new project. The rules are that we begin with the decade they started their career in (i.e. Wally Post comes up in the 50's, not the 60's).

Let’s go through each decade of Reds’ history, from 1890s through the 2000’s and select the greatest names. We will have three categories: Best Name, Most Cincinnati Name, and Most 1960’s Name. I will list the names and how they got on the list below, and then choose my winners. Feel free to disagree in the comments.

Continue reading this post »

Maybe you remember this somewhat-beloved and somewhat-ignored series from the last hot stove season. As a way for us to keep our baseball minds warmed up and our senses of irony attuned, I'd like to welcome back the series for a second half. I've gotten the imprimatur from our feared leaders to continue this, and I really want you all to get involved. So let me and us know which names you like most, which names are boring, and in which ways I'm trying too hard. We can't get anywhere without criticism.

Old people names are funny. To go back to our old introductions...

I want to celebrate the names, the ridiculous and the sublime, that make baseball what it is. This is largely inspired by a Joe Posnanski post where he said that Wally Moon was the most 1950’s name ever. That sparked me to take on this new project. The rules are that we begin with the decade they started their career in (i.e. Wally Post comes up in the 50's, not the 60's).

Let’s go through each decade of Reds’ history, from 1890s through the 2000’s and select the greatest names. We will have three categories: Best Name, Most Cincinnati Name, and Most 1920’s Name. I will list the names and how they got on the list below, and then choose my winners. Feel free to disagree in the comments.The 1950's are what started this all. The golden generation, boys of summer, and all of that. Say "1950's baseball" and certain images come into your head of clean-shaven, clear-eyed, boys playing the game they love. And, for the first time, black people.  Enjoy.

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Nobody understood why I wanted to go to Billings. Eight hours north of Boulder, where I was settled for the summer, and in the middle of the Great Plains flatness. Initially, I was too ashamed to tell my coworkers and friends that I was driving 500+ miles (each way) to watch a minor league baseball game. So instead I went for the "I've always wanted to go" route, which only makes sense in a "How could you not like a baseball player named Bubba?" way.

I went to Billings because it was there. In this vast country of ours, there is always more land, always an opportunity to leave your past behind you (as long as you're not a registered sex offender) and make something of yourself. The act of leaving, of driving into Ursa Major, is one of opportunism. We are leaving all we know and trust to make something of ourselves in the vastness.

Thinking about it, baseball players, especially at the youngest rungs, are fulfilling this Manifest Destiny that our nation was built on. Billings players are all fresh out of college or a year or two out of high school. They all think that they'll make it to the Big Show, when in reality only a few will. They're out there on a signing bonus and a promise, in f-nowhere, MT far away from any friends or family besides those they put their pants on next to. Though they have a few more zeroes on their checks, there's not much separating them from the Cornish gold miners on Deadwood; toiling in obscurity in the hope - vain for most - that they'll be able to provide for their family.

Baseball has earned its moniker as "America's Game" for many reasons, but I think the Minor Leagues is a huge one. Mike Leake excluded, everybody must do their time, everybody must survive the cheese sandwiches, the 12 hour busrides, and all of that. I think this helps us connect to the ballplayers. They are all Horatio Algers, pulling themselves up by their bootstraps to get to the fancy cars and multiple houses. It's incredibly unfair, of course, but baseballers just aren't imagined as the entitled brats that make up the NBA and NFL. Baseball players are American Heroes. And at Billings, I was able to witness their origin story.

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This is the picture that shows up when I GIS'd "Schierholz." Makes sense.

It was a tug-of-war throughout the game. And much like tug-of-war, it wasn't too entertaining until you see the one side fall, flung into the mud. It was a tight game; well defended by the Reds, well-pitched by the Giants. Never more than a run separated the two, but in the end, that run mattered. Giants win on a walk-off single in the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs.

Joe Nuxhall Memorial Honorary Star of the Game

Brandon Phillips went 3-5 with a run scored and an ultimately irrelevant error. Hanigan is an honorable mention, going 2-4 with an RBI. Wood pitched 8 nervy innings, with 10 hits, 3 walks, and 4 k's. Sergio Romo had killer facial hair and a genocidal slider, striking out the side for the bad guys.

Key Plays

But unfortunately, the first inning. Old man Miggie hit a double with one out and was driven in by a Cody Ross single. Cody was thrown out trying to stretch into a double, but blood was drawn. Giants up 1-0.

The Reds' second inning started strange. After Rolen flew out, Heisey reached safely on an error and Hanigan reached on an infield single. The universe corrected itself as Paul Janish hit into a double play. He is now only 5 GIDP's behind Joey Votto. 

The top of the fourth was more promising. Scott Rolen is triple into "triple alley" started the inning. So seriously, guys. You can put a fence in an arc. It will still be a nice ballpark. Chris Heisey then walked, and Jocko Hanigan singled in Rolen. Janish, Wood, and Stubbs then got locked in an argument over who was more redneck. The country boys didn't survive, but the score was tied 1-1.

The 5th tried to make a pattern of two. Brandon Phillips singled up the middle (all three of his hits were ground balls within 5 feet of second base), during which Freddy Sanchez dove and "made an appointment with Dr. Kremchek" if you follow my drift. Votto walked and then Jay Bruce singled to load the bases. Scott Rolen struck out, but Heisey grounded into a clutch productive out. After the dust settled, the Reds were up 2-1 when they had the bases loaded and no out. It was that sort of game.

In the bottom of the 5th, Chris Stewart, the catcher, hit a bunt single. It was that sort of game. Miguel Tejada hit another double to tie it at two. 

The Giants brought out their top three arms for innings 7-8-9 and whew. Affeldt struck out two in the 7th. Sergio Romo threw 11 pitches in the 8th. 4 called strikes, 5 swinging strikes, and 2 foul balls. I have no clue how the Reds managed to foul two off. Brian Wilson only struck out one while looking nervously as Romo stole his shtick. 

Wood pitched 8 innings, and while he was no Cueto, he generally kept the ball on the ground and played to the defense. It was more than his bullpen could do. While the Giants K'ed 6 through 3, the Reds managed to walk 3 in one inning pitched. Arredondo walked Torres, then got Burris to sacrifice him over. He then (wisely, I think) intentionally walked Miguel Tejada to bring up the rookie shortstop Brandon Crawford. Billy Bray came in to face the lefty, and mule kicked him with a slider. Two out, two on. Logan Ondrusek then came on to face the righty Cody Ross. He of DeLuise mein and a .289/.351/.591 career line against lefties. He walked. Up came left handed hitting Nate Schierholtz, who has managed playing rightfield for 5 years with a .713 OPS. BBRef includes Alex Ochoa and a certain Bevo LeBourveau as comps. He then singled between Rolen and Phillips for the game winning single, Giants win 3-2.

via www.fangraphs.com

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I may not have made it clear before, but a trip to GABP is a rare pilgrimage indeed for me.

My story of Reds fandom is not a linear one. My parents met in the 1970's when they were students at University of Cincinnati. 10+ years later, I was born in South Bend, Indiana. Although the Silver Hawks were a White Sox Affiliate at the time, no number of low A league games would impress me. Road trips to the grandparents' house in the Cincy suburbs would. Even after we moved to Chicago and I only got to see the Reds 2-3 times at Wrigley a year, it was always imprinted on me, "Son, don't root for the Cubs." This has led to many life decisions. In 1998 the "Cubs = Bad" imprint left me rooting for Mark McGwire and made me the subject of plenty derision. My high school love became my high school love because she lived on the South Side. When everyone else was cooing for the Wild Card Cubs, she couldn't care less. The fact that she couldn't care less about my heart was only secondary.

The first trip I took to Riverfront was 1996. My father bought me a Reggie Sanders jersey before the doubleheader, and as we came to the stadium, an usher ran up to me. "Quick!" he said, "We can't start the game until you get into right field!"

I was allowed on the astroturf, pet Schottzie, and touched Bret Boone's bat that he hit a home run with later that day. Eating Graeter's in the car ride back to Chicago sealed the deal, I was now a Reds fan.

It wasn't until I went off to college, with my sisters in New York and my parents recently moved to Cleveland, that I recently understood what being a Reds fan meant to me. It meant a forced nostalgia. Being a Reds fan was playing the 1995 APBA set with my father, flaunting the untouchable Mike Jackson in relief, and then staying up all night playing by myself the day he let me into the basement to see his 1975 set. It was his awe of Joe Morgan that became my misplaced awe for Bret Boone and my ill-advised decision to put a picture of Pokey Reese on the front cover of my 8th grade autobiography. It was driving to St. Louis in August 2009 talking to my father about Brandon Phillips' smile and his on base percentage.

The summer of 2010 will always be a melancholy one for me. My father passed away suddenly in February, his father; the September before. Unable to concentrate in school or handle the responsibility of being the damn paterfamilias, I decided to leave St. Louis and try my luck in Istanbul. And the luck did come. I was able to chase my dream of being a journalist, I got an apartment with a balcony in Arnavutkoy, and I was able to tune into day games - 7 hours ahead - to watch our Reds inch closer and closer to the playoffs. I stayed up to watch Bruce's clinching bomb and was up through the night to see the playoff games, coming to work each day just a bit grumpier than the one two days before. On the morning of October 11 I was morose as all, realizing that I just went through the best summer of my life and had nobody to share it with. It is then when I owe you all the greatest appreciation I can muster.

When I came back to this great country of ours, I had missed Spring Training and the birth of my niece. But I didn't feel home when I landed in New York, even when I was bottle-feeding the youngest of the Schoureks. Having moved around so much and having to return to some exurban hell of Cleveland, I didn't know where to turn to find geographical comfort. It is then when I had that Castellini-forged Power of Tradition to thank.

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Dearest Reporters,

As I have mentioned in the 'Credsfest Fanpost, I will be in Cincinnati on Thursday to catch the Businessperson's Special before heading out west to meet the Reds (and my real life) in Saint Louis. I'll be getting in to Cincinnati late Wednesday night and I'll have the morning to spend before the game. I haven't been in Cincinnati in many years, and I haven't been there without visiting my grandparents. I'll be cold, wet, and alone. I'm actually kind of excited.

So anyways, I'll be staying downtown and I'll have some time before the game. So I come bearing 3 questions:

1) How much before first pitch do the gates open? For most parks, its 2 hours. Is GABP the same?

2) Where's a good place to have breakfast in downtown Cincinnati. I was recommended Palominos by my grandparents, but c'mon, they're grandparents. You all can do better.

3) Any good running routes that are easy to get to? Anything nice and peaceful and interesting that I could get 2-6 miles out of?

Any and all comments are appreciated. Many thanks, I'm hoping that this trip to the Queen City will #beeasy

Once upon a time, there was a crew. Harvard's varsity crew in 1974 and '75 was called the Rude and Smooth. There are different reasons for why they may have gotten their name, but its basically because they were tremendous assholes (even by Ivy League rowing standards - which is saying something) but also tremendous rowers. You hear stories like a rower standing up in his seat after a victory and shouting "Rise up to glory, ye Gods of Harvard!" which then led to a Yale coxswain, during the Harvard-Yale regatta, to say how far ahead they were of Harvard by exclaiming "We have one Harvard God! We have TWO Harvard Gods!" before, well, losing anyways. Halberstam's The Amateurs is one of best sports books you haven't read for a reason.

I'm going somewhere with this, I swear. There was much distress after Hanley Ramirez jogged after a ball last year, distress that lasted until Hanley put up another .300/.378/.475, so ummm, bye bye Fredi Gonzalez, who is now taking over Bobby Cox's mantle in Atlanta.

Rude and smooth defines the Marlins this year. Not just for Hanley's affrontery, but also for having the temerity to take other ballclubs' money for fielding their own damn good club. As for smooth, well, this is Florida. Break out the Malibu.

I believe that for Florida to try to make money, they're gonna need more than a new ballpark. Remember how the Tampa Bay Rays wore plaid last year? The Marlins should one-up that.

Including Rolex

I really think this is a good idea. Play smooth rock between innings, bring back the teal, and generally try to move along the same lines as the Dolphins and the Hurricanes, have a city-wide color code, and generally somehow convince people to spend their summers in an enclosed space watching a .500 baseball team.

Can my scheme work? Can the Marlins put up a fight against the Phillies and the Braves?

On to the preview...

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I want to celebrate the names, the ridiculous and the sublime, that make baseball what it is. This is largely inspired by a Joe Posnanski post where he said that Wally Moon was the most 1950’s name ever. That sparked me to take on this new project.

Let’s go through each decade of Reds’ history, from 1890s through the 2000’s and select the greatest names. We will have three categories: Best Name, Most Cincinnati Name, and Most 1920’s Name. I will list the names and how they got on the list below, and then choose my winners. Feel free to disagree in the comments. There's a tremendous amount of quantity AND quality in the 1940 class. Enjoy.

Morrie Arnovich: "Nu. So I'm on my ways to a career as a 5th outfielder then they Japs, they bomb my country. Now I'm just a nice Wisconsin boy but I says to myself, I says 'Ya gotta serve your country, ol' Morrie, ya gotta.' I get a game in 1946 but my career. Over. So thanks a lot, Pearl Harbor."

Jimmy Ripple: He played in 3 more World Series then Ernie Banks. Because life is unfair like that.

Willard Hershberger: You know he just had to be a catcher, and just had to play in the 40's, with a name like this.

Lefty Guise: Witt Orrison Guise has an improbably evil name. Also, Bill McKechnie drove him crazy buy calling him in from the bullpen screaming, "Hey, you Guise!"

Elmer Riddle: Had two incredible years, otherwise his arm was made of duct tape before duct tape existed. Also, fantastically was part of the same pitching staff as Lefty Guise. 

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I want to celebrate the names, the ridiculous and the sublime, that make baseball what it is. This is largely inspired by a Joe Posnanski post where he said that Wally Moon was the most 1950’s name ever. That sparked me to take on this new project.

Let’s go through each decade of Reds’ history, from 1890s through the 2000’s and select the greatest names. We will have three categories: Best Name, Most Cincinnati Name, and Most 1920’s Name. I will list the names and how they got on the list below, and then choose my winners. Feel free to disagree in the comments. I realize this is a long time coming, but I had a bit of a life hiccup that makes for a good story for later. For now...the names:

Biff Wysong: Terrible pitcher, died young, and carried the true first name of Harlan. Sounds like a Steinbeck character.

Casper Asbjornson: What a wonderfully ethnic name for the Scandinavian Sensation. Wins major baseball points for being buried in Williamsport, PA, home of the LLWS.

Otto Bluege: Squeaky Bluege had a brother Ossie who had a long and distinguished career as a Senator. Otto lasted a year and a bit as a no-hit infielder. Also, how do you plan on pronouncing that name?

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Now that we have the dead season upon us, I want to celebrate the names, the ridiculous and the sublime, that make baseball what it is. This is largely inspired by a Joe Posnanski post where he said that Wally Moon was the most 1950’s name ever. That sparked me to take on this new project.

Let’s go through each decade of Reds’ history, from 1890s through the 2000’s and select the greatest names. We will have three categories: Best Name, Most Cincinnati Name, and Most 1920’s Name. I will list the names and how they got on the list below, and then choose my winners. Feel free to disagree in the comments. I think this is my favorite decade of them all, so I'll be a bit biased here.

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