I had just gone to my very first major league ball game at old Crosley Field in Cincinnati, Ohio. I didn’t know what to expect but was surely very excited as I passed old “Peanut Joe.”
Growing up in Cincinnati, Ohio, I still remember that game as it if was yesterday. I wore my little league uniform, and my rubber cleats. Absolutely, I took my mitt; the one that I oiled every night, that my Dad ran over with the family car (purposefully) to break it in like a worn saddle. The Red’s had the coolest uniforms, sleeveless, full of red (my favorite color) and white. The players appeared on the field, the organ shouted the Star-Spangled Banner, and the umpire yelled that infamous cadence, “Play Ball!” Right then and with one more “charge” fanfare, I knew I was hooked. I was one of the millions of young boys that stood at the imaginary plate, in the bottom of the 9th with two outs and a full count. Of course, I hit the game-winning, walk-off, home run with the unbelievable roar of a home-town crowd. We all had dreams. Dreams turned into passions and baseball was mine then and it is now.