What, you axe Marty, could possibly be considered bad about The Handlebar at The Riverfront Club? Only the ubiquitous consumer complaint; cost relative to service rendered.
Since I often attend Reds games with octogenarians who do not like to sit outside during inclement spring or hazy hot humid summer games I had become, over the past seasons, a fairly regular guest inside the old Riverfront Club. Originally, the Reds offered Riverfront Club access only to full-season (81 games) ticket holders and only via the purchase of an additional season-long membership somewhat akin to a country club membership. As I recall it was fairly expensive and, as one might expect, few in Reds Country took the bait. After a season or two of that initial policy, the Reds expanded the offer to purchase a Riverfront Club membership to any season ticket holder. This also seemed not to have increased interest in the old Riverfront Club. Eventually the Reds further relaxed restrictions, first allowing any season ticket holder to simply reserve a table on an individual game basis and then, finally, permitting anyone with a gameday ticket access. The Riverfront Club always offered two seating options, one an hour so in advance of the game and a second seating during the game. I consistently opted for the in-game seating so as to not be run off prior to the game's completion. In my experiences, the three levels of tables which all had a field view, were invariably occupied. The main level of the Riverfront Club also had tables (and the bar) but as they had no field view they routinely were unoccupied. The all-you-can-eat buffet was expansive in its dining options and the quality of offerings were unparalleled outside the best four- or five-star restaurants.
To be clear; you paid for the privilege of fine dining, climate control, and patrons still had a field view with the added benefit of having Marty & the Cowboy piped into the Riverfront Club (sans commercials, too!). Over the years, as I recall, the bill of fare usually worked out to approximately $50 per person before gratuity - drinks were not included in the price of the buffet, no free refills on soft drinks, and the excellent desserts were extra, also. Understanding and sympathetic to Bob Castellini's need to be profitable, and while fans couldn't quite get their money's worth, I think $50 +/- was a pretty fair deal. Just not one you'd wish to take advantage of more than a few times each season.
With the complete renovation of the Riverfront Club, in fact a transformation into The Handlebar, in advance of this summer's All-Star Game it is perfectly reasonable to expect an increase in pricing. The end product is a spectacular setting for an evening's entertainment at the ball yard. A variety of leather couches and chairs, high-backed upholstered chairs, tables & chairs and giant high-definition television screens, broadcast audio, the usual expansive view of ballpark and riverfront all achieved with high-end materials and a modern, stylish design ethos. The staff is friendly, helpful and engaging.
As you can see in the image above, aside from weekday games (but not weekend games) for season ticket holders, nobody can get into The Handlebar for less than $65 (and $85 for the non-season ticket holder riff-raff on weekends). Bear in mind, this is in addition to the cost of your admission ticket and - probably - parking. For Lou and I, that amounted to $93. Each.
So what's the problem? First, the minor issue we had of not being able to sit down at any point through the first 5 hours of the pre-game and ensuing rain delay. Yes, it is true that going in we understood there was no guarantee of either a direct field view nor any place to sit. It was a risk we took, but when one rolls the dice and comes up snake eyes, it may be understood why someone isn't happy. No doubt the Reds oversold admission but they didn't appear to be in violation of any fire codes so more power to 'em. Them's the breaks, as the old saying.
The primary compliant we had, really the only complaint - but it was significant - was not the quality of the buffet offerings (save for one example) but rather the selection offered. All-beef hot dogs (with all the standard fixings), some sort of gourmet sausage (for the uninitiated, gourmet means a dish with two too-many ingredients and it was prepared incorrectly), stir-fried rice (looked good, but a pretty inexpensive item), chicken wings (also inexpensive fare), two varieties of salad (ditto the rice and wings), tortilla chips with two varieties of gourmet salsa (but no nacho cheese, no traditional rojo salsa), popcorn, and peanuts. For dessert they made available sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies (both great), brownie bites (excellent), cake bites and bite-sized gourmet cookies of undetermined flavors. The chefs also offered something they referred to as a BLT slider. Served on a slider-sized bun (natch), the "bacon" as near as we could discern was a sort of Canadian bacon, blackened (gourmet) and tough as shoe leather. The "tomato", was a squirt of ketchup (I blame Dubya's FDA school lunch guidelines) and the "lettuce" was three thin sprigs of parsley. It was a serious disappointment. I'm sure the chefs' classmates back at gourmet school loved it. The soft drinks arrived in 10 oz cups, filled to the rim with ice. I had 4 Cokes, probably all-told about 16 ounces. All of which is a far cry from the prime rib and carved roast beef and hearty sides of yore in the Riverfront Club.
Throughout the duration of the rain delay, Lou and I updated the calculations on our running tab... we never came close to getting something like a fair deal. And we ate a ton of food. Understand this; the open bar included alcoholic beverages. For the half-day we spent in The Handlebar waiting out the rain delay there were patrons getting hammered to a degree seldom seen outside of Green Beer Day at Miami U. We surmised that if you're lucky enough to be in The Handlebar for a game which is delayed at the start for several hours and you intend to consume a half-dozen (or more) adult beverages and eat a truckload of food you might approach a fair deal at $65/per.
Part of the expressed desire to upgrade the old Riverfront Club was that it wasn't popular among fans (debatable) and that it also, significantly, was money-loser for the Reds. If it lost money, that was a pricing issue. Yet offering less for more isn't a long-term, viable solution to attract more patrons. To be fair, the Riverfront Club seats and carpeting was showing its age. I cannot imagine that once Reds fans experience the cost-to-service ratio of the new Handlebar that by season's end, and in following seasons, The Handlebar will be any more successful than the old Riverfront Club. Excepting an adjustment in pricing and/or offerings beyond what we experienced, I expect The Handlebar to be a ghost town saloon. Unfortunate, as The Handlebar is otherwise a well-executed facility.
My advice, unless you have a top secret source deep within the Reds organization who grants you free admission into The Handlebar, ixnay.
We got 'stached in The Handlbar!
Roll the credits!
This past weekend the Cincinnati Reds held a reunion of the Wire-to-Wire (horse racing terminology) World Champion 1990 Reds club. The team was honored with a post-game on-field introduction following the Friday night April 24 game which I did not attend. Lou and I attended the Saturday April 25 afternoon game as part of my regular season tickets. The as-planned festivities prior to Saturday's tilt versus the Cubbies included on-field individual introductions of the attending former players, recognition of those who were unwilling to attend (weddings) or unable to attend (death), video highlights of the 1990 season, speeches by current Reds officials as well as members of the '90 club and commemorative presentations to the World Champions. Fans were given a triple bobblehead of The Nasty Boys which was, in a word, unrecognizable. Following a remarkable uninterrupted string of ideal weather for every big event reaching back at least as far as the 1988 All-Star Game, the Reds finally were blighted with foul weather on a big occasion. Saturday was cloudy, windy, chilly and as of about 11am that morning - rainy. Brother, did it ever rain. It soon became evident with the increasingly heavy rains that the 1:10pm start time was in jeopardy of a rain delay.
Lou and I arrived at the ballpark at about noon. Emerging from the parking garage we soon found ourselves swimming against a tide of Reds faithful, boxes of Nasty Boys bobbleheads under their arms, heading for the exits. They got their free giveaway and could not wait to go home fast enough. Inside the gates, Lou and I first inspected the All-Star Game seat location I bought for July's Midsummer Classic; Lou deemed them acceptable. Desiring to seek out a dry and warm spot to wait out the imminent rain delay, and curious to explore the new Handlebar (formerly the Riverfront Club), we headed for Season Ticket Holder Central where we purchased passes for The Handlebar. Up the elevator we were whisked whereupon we were stuffed into an already jam-packed Handlebar.
With nowhere to sit (seats are not guaranteed with admission) and scant room to stand, Lou and I fought our way toward the playing field and out onto the open-air deck. A row of high chairs along a bartop-type railing sits above a level (or two? Couldn't quite tell from our vantage point) of reserved box seats. Special tickets, of which we did not posses, are required in order to sit at any of these outdoor areas. Fair enough, I think. Simultaneously Lou and I spied several members of the 1990 Reds seated in Handlebar box seats, immediately below where we were standing. Stepping back into the warmth of The Handlebar, Lou quickly surmised the planned on-field ceremony had been moved to The Handlebar so a to keep the World Champs dry. No wonder, said Lou, The Handlebar is so packed. 'Zactly! said I. With barely a square inch of room to spare, Lou and I found ourselves right back where we started near the entrance to The Handlebar (think of a lobby/waiting room/foyer and you've got the idea). A large, high-backed curved couch sat along the glass wall overlooking the Fan Zone and affixed to the back side of the couch was a narrow shelf just about bartop height. Perfect for Lou and I to stand behind, stash our stuff, and observe the proceedings. It was a bit awkward but with no room for anyone else to crowd us, we had our own little nook. Raiding the all-you-can-shovel buffet, Lou and I then watched on the numerous monitors found within The Handlebar as Hall of Fame broadcaster Marty Brennaman emceed the ceremony. Between bites, Lou - his wheels always turning - asked of me, "When this is over, where are the players going to exit?" My wheels grinding, I concluded that unless Riverfront Club renovations were more extensive than I thought, the players would be walking right past where Lou and I were camped out. Score! I mocked all those seated at the tables we coveted as they would have little or no view of the Handlebar player parade that was soon to sweep - much as the 1990 Reds swept the Oakland A's - right past me and my brother. Suckers! [In fact, I used stronger language that that directed at those fans seated at tables but we'll leave further detail as a private exchange between me and Lou]
What follows, with a minimum of description, is a small sample of the blizzard of photos we snapped in rapid-fire, sometimes blurry fashion:
#21 right fielder Paul O'Neill aka Big aka Jethro visiting with acquaintances.
#16 second baseman Ron Oester aka Ronny O-fer.
#23 first baseman Hal Morris aka Halvosky (Oester at left).
Outfielder Glenn Braggs gesturing to the crowd.
1988 NL Rookie of the Year Chris Sabo at far right, just barely in frame.
#29 outfielder Herm Winningham aka Herm Warfare and #36 outfielder Rolando Roomes.
#33 pitcher Ron Robinson aka The True Creature frightens an unsuspecting human being.
#34 catcher Jeff Reed.
Paul O'Neill, partially obscured by buffet structure, on approach.
Paulie, jersey removed, sprinting past.
Hall of Fame broadcaster Marty Brennaman.
#9 catcher Joe Oliver.
#25 first baseman Todd Benzinger.
#27 pitcher Jose Rijo, MVP of the 1990 World Series.
Pitcher Tom Browning aka Mr Perfect in red cap, second baseman Mariano Duncan at right.
Outfielder Eric Davis at left, Hall of Fame shortstop #11 Barry Larkin at right.
A better look at #44 Eric Davis aka Eric the Red.
Hall of Fame beat writer from the Dayton Daily News, Hal McCoy.
Two-thirds of The Nasty Boys, pitchers Norm Charlton (#37) and Rob Dibble (#49). Normie and Dibs parked themselves right in front of us for a minute as they waited for fellow Nasty Boy Randy Myers aka Randall Kirk to catch up. Lou and I took a boatload of photos of Norm and Dibs.
Eventually, Randy Myers caught up (below):
And all three left together. Fittingly, they were the last Reds to exit.
Roll the credits!
I found myself recently at Barney Kroger's and discovered in the wine cellar a selection of vino which should be mandatory for your Kentucky Derby party this Saturday (you are hosting a Derby party, aren't you?):
2012 must have been a good vintage, that was the year I'll Have Another won the Derby (I'll Have Another referred to cookies, but nevertheless.....). For those of you teetotalers and anti-gambling zealots, 14 Hands is a Washington state winery whose name derives from a measurement of height for a horse (as measured from the ground to the withers); one hand equals four inches. Thoroughbreds average something closer to 16 hands. One of this year's Derby contenders is a battleship of a horse named Dortmund. Various reports put his height at just over 17 hands (and nearly 1,300 .lbs). Dortmund is undefeated and The Old Master of the Turf says Never bet against a horse that's never been beaten. Dortmund has a win over the Churchill Downs surface and had a bullet workout last week. I'm just sayin'.
You'll need some good tunes for your mint julep-and-burgoo soiree. Everyone naturally considers themselves to be a paragon of music appreciation. Of course, this is factually only true of me. As proof, consider the broad genre of songs I rocked recently in the Jeep Main Battle Tank:
Speaking of songs, one in particular will at your Derby party become a topic of intense interest after the bugler calls horses to the post, that being Stephen Foster's chart-topping hit song from 1852 - "My Old Kentucky Home." In recent years, broadcasting networks have seen fit to display the lyrics upon the television screen for everyone at home to sing along with the 150,000 singing along at Churchill Downs. I don't fully grasp the reason why. Let me say this; all that matters today about "My Old Kentucky Home" - speaking, critically, as a non-Kentuckian - is the melody..... and, even then, it only should be heard as performed by the University of Louisville marching band. As a purist, some (like Phat Daddy) would say reactionary, in many/most things, the lyrical intent of Stephen Foster becomes obscured because they've been changed. The song as originally written by Stevie Foster includes certain sensitive, racial terminology which we today find distasteful. Historians of various stripes may have an interest in what those original lyrics were, but for the rest of the modern listening public there is no strong feeling against this lyrical alteration. One might argue that once some part of the original has been changed then the whole becomes something new and different thus rendering any or all perceived historical or sentimental connection to the original as irrelevant. The melody endures and that is what we should appreciate during the Derby post parade. Further still, among the millions singing along under the Twin Spires or watching the spectacle unfold in their homes around the globe on the First Saturday in May, nearly all are drunk and virtually none know the melody well enough to adequately sing along. Laboratory tests have proved the only American-penned song which should be sung by those whom have imbibed heavily is GNR's "Rocket Queen." All those drunks just turn the singing of "My Old Kentucky Home" into an incoherent wreck.
While regrettably I cannot attend your Derby party (thanks for the considerate invitation, though), I am happy to suggest a playlist for your hi-fidelity stereophonic sound system. You should be prepared for an all-day event and expect that some of your guests will linger well after sunset.
I captured the nearly cloudless sunset you see above in downtown Hamilton last week (courthouse at left). Inadvertently, I snapped a blurry version of the same sunset.
Let's call it artistic rather than blurry.
As the host of a Derby party you'll want to demonstrate an expertise in some area of thoroughbred horse racing so as to inform and entertain your invitees. Heavy Artillery often highlights the scenic and historic Calumet Farm in Lexington, KY. Last week, The Blood-Horse ran a photographic feature titled Calumet Farm: The Rebirth of a Legend. The feature is exceedingly light on text but heavily weighted with large, high-resolution photos of horses and horse farm. If you enjoy looking at photos of horses (and you know who you are), take 5 minutes and peruse the stunning imagery. And if you'd really like to blow away your guests with some timely #blacklivesmatter information, hit 'em with this story published recently in The Blood-Horse about William Walker, a Kentucky Derby-winning jockey born into slavery and who, later in life, became a leading expert in breeding.
Roll the credits!
Now that we are two weeks beyond Opening Day, and now that you've all had the opportunity to watch or listen to the ball game, read about it, call in to 700 WLW's "Extra Innings" with your comments on managerial maneuvers and complaints about the demise of the Banana Phone, I will turn my focus to the sights and sounds of Opening Day. Mostly the sights.
When last we met, Lou and I had exited stage left from the parade upon seeing some nefarious character transmitting to Vladimir from the back of a float. Arriving at the Great American Ball Orchard 15 minutes prior to the gates opening, we skirted the sea of humanity which had jammed up the Crosley Terrace main gate and secreted ourselves to a quiet entrance, evidently hidden in broad daylight as we were third in line. Someone should inform Reds fans that it's no longer the days of yore when your ticket had a gate number and the ex-Gestapo ushers would refuse you entry at any other gate. Someone should inform Reds fans of a lot of things, as will become obvious the further you read. Standing in line I spied just inside the gate a rather curious-looking apparatus (highlighted in the green box, below):
Geiger Counter was my best guess. Security measures have really gotten tight at the ol' ball yard. Whatever it was, it was still being charged up at the time of my photo. Wanting not to appear too suspicious with my unauthorized photographic activities, I took some other, less strategically sensitive pictures of the immediate area:
GABP is justifiably festooned with All-Star regalia, these banners (above) lining the exterior plaza. The Reds marketing department is absolutely crushing the All-Star Game lead up, from the logos to the fonts to the emblems, it all looks great! I really like this stylized, old school newsprint image of an 1869 Cincinnati Red Stocking.
Once inside the gates, the lower level concessions have had their facades remade to lend patrons the appearance of walking through or along a streetscape. I think it's all pretty nifty. It certainly beats the (former) alternative!
Many (but not all) of the hot dog-oriented concessions have been rebranded as the Cincinnati-centric (Cincentric? Cincinncentric?) Porkopolis Dogs and Sausage.
Go ahead, just try and convince me that doesn't sound and look awesome. All that brickwork and the cornices are all-new for 2015. So too for the stonework and cornice above the LaRosa's concession. In the photo (below) of the concourse, I capture Lou making a determined line for LaRosa's.
While Big Brother Lou was popping for the slices of 'zza, I snapped a photo of Geese 'n Pic prepping for the Fox Sports Ohio pregame live telecast:
For those of you familiar with the ritual, I did not feel any compulsion whatsoever to bang on the stainless steel bartops with reckless abandon. Lou and I took a seat in the Miami University-sponsored Reds Connect Zone, located down the left field line, whereupon we wolfed down our pizzas.
Among the multitude of improvements to be found at the ballpark this year is the promise of universally accessible Wi-Fi. What better place to try out this new era of connectivity than the Reds Connect Zone? After wiping pizza sauce off my hands, face, glasses (don't ask), I entered the ballpark's public Wi-Fi password ("BuzzwordCatchphrase") into my Android Galaxy S9000..... and nothing. I tried again. Nothing. And a third time. Nothing. Three strikes, yer out! I must allow for the possibility of a general level of recalcitrance from my 'Droid unit, as I did not receive any text messages from approximately Noon (when Lou and I first arrived downtown) until about 8:30pm (where we were hurtling along I-275) at which point my 'Droid exploded in an apoplectic fit of text message downloads, about a dozen all at once. Friends asking where I parked or where my seat location was or proclaiming the true greatness of Joey Votto. If you sent me a text that afternoon and I didn't reply, you now understand why. My 'Droid expresses its most humble apology. From where I was seated in the photo above, enjoying my LaRosa's pizza, I spied two of the newest concessions at the Great American Tilt Yard:
Taste of Belgium and Moerlein Lager House. Belgians and Germans side-by-side? What could possibly go wrong?
With more than an hour to kill before game time, Lou and I explored more of the ballpark. I snapped two views of the field from the concourse level of The Gap:
The visiting Pirates were taking batting practice under threatening skies at the moment. Taking a look at the Pittsburgh batting order, I said to Lou, "McCutchen is a great player, but the rest of this lineup - they can't beat us." And I was right!
The Frisch's Big Boy makes an appearance at GABP:
In reading fan reactions to all the new ballpark amenities the next morning, it seems the most popular new concession area is the Bootleggers Speakeasy found on the first base side of the field level concourse. It attempts to bring to life the kind of saloons that could be found throughout Cincinnati prior to Prohibition:
Note the "16th St." engraving at right, suggestive of a nineteenth century Over-the-Rhine establishment. The entire structure of the Bootleggers is new for 2015.
The nineteenth century motif is further developed inside Bootleggers with a massive bar (at right, in the photo above) which is itself evocative of Old World hand-carved woodworking craftsmanship. The artisanal pressed tin ceiling, the likes of which is on display at finer haute couture places such as Chick-Fil-A (but is cool nonetheless), is period-correct right down to the operational ceiling fans. The tile floor may also be period correct (I'm uncertain of that) but is certainly functional from a housekeeping perspective and is probably highly durable for the level of foot traffic Bootleggers expects. The highlight of the flooring, however, is the 1869 Cincinnati Red Stockings Ye Olde English "C" interwoven into the tile design:
When the world comes to GABP for the Mid-Summer Classic this July, Bob Castellini will blow their minds!
Walking through the Fan Zone, my line of sight was caught by a large banner affixed to the Moerlein Lager House mothership, across Joe Nuxhall Way from GABP, advertising a (new?) liquid refreshment; Moerlein Zeppelin [not named, obviously, for the English band but rather the German dirigible]. Being a big Jimmy Page fan, as you may have heard, and instantly being reminded of the steak I had recently at Jeff Ruby's Precinct, I said to Lou, "How can I not have a Zeppelin?" - the same kind of question I posed to him about The Brennaman barrel-cut filet. Later, as we headed for our seats, we hurriedly scanned the innumerable beer selections at a variety of concessions but, alas, found no Zeppelin on offer.
Down at the end of the right field line - near Mr Red's Smokehouse (if that helps) - can be found another new concession which seemed very popular as interpreted from the long line of customers, the Fry Box:
The Fry Box sign itself appears to be neon, probably looks cool at night.
With the Fry Box, we now arrive at the portion of today's post wherein I recount just a few of the moronic things I overheard alleged Reds fans say on Opening Day. At right in the photo above is a cryptic listing of letters and numbers having nothing to do with fries and headed by the word "REDS." In baseball, numbers (and statistics) are everything, unlike all the other so-called major sports (but also important in golf and horse racing which explains why golf and horse racing are so great). To any Reds fan with more than a single functioning brain cell, it becomes simple to decipher immediately the code. Regrettably, 90% of self-proclaimed Reds fans have but a single functioning brain cell [for reference, see; Banana Phone, "SportsTalk," "Extra Innings," "Hot Stove League," et al]. While snapping the photo of the Fry Box you see above, one of the amoeba in line asked of his fellow amoebae; "What's WC 19 40 75 76 90?"
I nearly punched him in his amoebic face.
His pals didn't have an answer. I walked away, unsurprised that a Reds fan couldn't identify Cincinnati's championship, pennant and Division title seasons, nor was it likely these Reds fans could identify any of the Reds former MVPs. There's no doubting the passion Reds fans have for their team, but most are grossly uninformed. Later in the game, when Jay Bruce ripped a ball foul, one fan in a row behind me yelled Get out of bounds! In another instance, a young father explained to his son why he was a Kentucky basketball fan, and an Alabama football fan, owing to the fact that neither state had an NFL team. He went on to say, "I know Alabama doesn't have a pro baseball team [he meant to say Major League, as minor league teams are also professional], but I'm not sure about Kentucky." The emphasis mine. The imbecility his.
The much-hyped self-serve beer stands also proved too vexing for some Reds fans.
Lou and I watched as staff explained to patron after patron how the machines operated, with more than a few fans walking away sans beer and shaking their heads. Among the four steps outlined on the front of the machine, with the fourth step being "Enjoy" (so that step doesn't really count), "Tilt" seemed too difficult a concept for one Reds fan that Lou and I observed (tilting being a concept most of us learned in high school). He held his cup perfectly upright and poured himself a draft that was 75% foamy head. Loser. Watching this spectacle got me to wondering, though, at the Moerlein Lager House if I could order a draf[t] Zeppelin. Get it? Draf? Like Graf Zeppelin? OK, really bad pun. But I'll bet there were only 25 people in the ballpark that would have gotten the joke (pun). Lou was one of the 25. As for the self-serve beer kiosk, I surmise it will be akin to betting machines at race tracks. The older generation won't go near the things but they'll be popular among the younger set.
And as for my seats:
Worst. Seats. Ever.
Note in the photo, above, the fans highlighted in green boxes. This photograph was of Johnny Cueto's first pitch and the highlighted "Reds fans" weren't watching the action.
With the zoom function on my Nikon fully activated, straining the limits of machine and man, I captured the Nasty Boys in the act of throwing out the game's ceremonial first pitches:
Without the aid of the scoreboard, I'd have not known if Devin Mesoraco, Gookie Dawkins or Champ Summers was batting for the Redlegs. Alright, that's a minor exaggeration. Any further from home plate and I would have been sitting atop the Riverfront Coliseum. Maybe Tom Browning was out there?
The forecasted rains came during the second inning, sending less hearty fans scrambling for cover. Lou and I held our position. When in the 6th inning, an hour or so after the rain first began to fall and the grounds crew unfurled the tarp ahead of a 30-minute rain delay, Lou and I finally sought shelter ourselves. Lightning had been flashing over River City for a few minutes prior to the stoppage in action, but shortly after the umpires waved the two teams off the field, that is when the rains really came down in a torrent:
It was during this rain delay that Lou and I heard our fifth John Fogerty (technically, CCR) song of the day, as "Have You Ever Seen The Rain?" entertained [sic] the soggy Reds faithful. So long as we're on a Led Zeppelin kick, why didn't the Reds play "Rain Song" over the P.A.? I'll bet that would sound especially good with a Moerlein Zeppelin in hand.
I spotted a fellow Brave sharing the same shelter as us:
For those few fortunate enough to have received the AK Bulletin (Kuertz' affiliate Heavy Artillery publication) following Opening Day, in it the author recounted - and naturally took credit for - the moment Todd Frazier blasted his game-winning home run in the bottom half of the 8th inning. Kuertz makes claim to having called the shot in his piece titled "How I Won Opening Day," a highly dubious assertion save for the corroboration of his Lady Cassandra, an unassailable source of truth and integrity. Well, in the top half of the 8th inning, I too am credited with a home run... albeit for the enemy (such is the strength with which the Dark Side of the Force is within me). In the top of the 8th, protecting Johnny Cueto's scant 2-run lead, Dat Manager BP brought in former Chicago Cub and walking disaster Eric Ggreggg to face a Pirate pinch hitter. In an at-bat that went on far too long, the Pirate pinch hitter fouled off approximately eight thousand pitches before flying out to deep center field. Pirate lead off hitter and Cincy native Josh Harrison promptly ripped a single to left field. The next Pittsburgher blasted a line drive out to deep left field. With Ggreggg teetering on the edge of collapse, and former MVP Andrew McCutchen sauntering up to the plate representin' the Pirates tying run I said to Lou, I can't watch McCutchen tie this game up, I'm going to the Men's Room. No sooner did I reach the View Level concourse when a mighty, agonized groan escaped the lips of Reds fandom. 'Cutch hammered a 2-run homer to center field. Tie game. Saw it coming, I did.
Happily for Reds Country, Todd Frazier Aaron came through in the clutch in the bottom half of the 8th. For appearing with Nuxy on the Star of the Game Report, Kuertz received a Longines wristwatch from Shillito's.
Going back, for a moment, to Kuertz' called shot; So bad were our seats that when Frazier crushed his upper deck, tie-breaking 3-run bomb, I was look down on the trajectory of the ball. From my vantage point I wasn't sure if his blast was a line drive out to the left fielder or a home run. Mind you, it was upper deck.
Roll the credits!
