We are, who we are.

I apologize profusely that this blog has fallen so far from what it started out to be,
I take a good chunk of responsibility for the lack of updates, and a general departure
from online posts. I feel like we’ve put so much into the podcast last season and early
this year, that it just seems like we’d be subjecting ya’ll to the same information.

But take this first post for the 2014 season as a starting point. We’ll do better to
keep you all in touch with our series previews as the season goes along.
All of that out-of-the-way, the Reds instagram account has had a contest running for
the last month. Each day is a new Reds related post, that has your personal touches
(and unbelievable filters).

This past week, I added what was only my second contribution, when it was a culmination
of sorts for everyone else. What being a Reds fan, means to me, or how we got here.

So let’s do a little history lesson, a quick rundown of how I got here.
Baseball is in my blood. My grandfather had one hell of an arm, and in the early 50’s
was in fact invited to the St.Louis Cardinals spring training. Personal circumstance
brought him back before he ever really got a shot, and instead started a family
with my Grandmother. My dad and his brothers all played baseball, so I grew up around
an entire generation of baseball players, and I cannot overstate how those summers would influence me as not just a baseball fan, but as a person.

Yeah, I know, hiss and boo because I have family ties to the enemy.

My mom’s side also has strong Pittsburgh roots, so feel free to run me out-of-town any
day now. And it was her father, my Grandpa Traverse, that really brought me into the
game. We would go on these province wide road trips that usually involved camping
myself and my three sisters in a pop up camper with both grandparents. It wasn’t the
trips, the swimming, the bonfires, or the wilderness hikes that I remember with
absolute clarity. It’s the late nights after everyone had gone to sleep, laying in a
bunk with my Grandpa, listening to Tom Cheek call Toronto Blue Jays games on the radio.
Where most kids had a lullaby, or stories to safely send them off to Neverland, for me
it was Kelly Gruber, Jesse Barfield, Tony Fernandez, Dave Steib and Tom Henke. I was
raised to cheer for the boys in blue. The sounds of the crickets chirping, the wind
playing the creaks and groans of the camper like a terrible orchestra backdrop to the
boys of summer. That’s where I came from. A good Canadian kid, that couldn’t skate, but
learned to throw a curveball.

I would split my summers between both grandparents’ towns. My Pops on my Dads side,
would tell me how the only player worth following was Pete Rose. He never slowed, he
never gave anything less than 100%, and how he’d kill a guy to win, and almost had at
one time. He never explained just how influential the Ray Fosse play was in defining
Charlie Hustle, but it’s something I still point to as a character moment for Pete.
At the same time, my Dad is a lifetime Phillies fan, so the Pete Rose influence for me
started early. It’s just that he was wearing a different jersey than I associate with
him now. My dad wanted me to be a third baseman, desperately, he’d send me out during
my practices to take grounders at third. My bruised and beaten arms and chest left a
lot to be desired, this is also why I gravitated to the outfield, the ball seemed far
less of a sociopath when it was hurtling back to earth, and ultimately my glove.

My relationship with my Dad early on was exceptionally destructive, his lifetime of
having an angry father took its toll, and had direct impact on his own four kids in
return. Don’t get me wrong, I do not begrudge or blame my dad for how he’d physically
reprimand us early on, it was all he had known. But this is also the catalyst for the
relationship and bond we share now.Dad entered anger management, where we’d have family sessions and openly discuss our feelings. With three sisters, I often felt left out of
the loop on time with either of my parents, mostly my father.

In 1995 my dad and I took our very first, and certainly not last, trip to a live ball
game. I had been to a few others, but with my Moms folks, never my own dad. We would
drive the two hours to Toronto, and talk about everything. How to read a ball off the
bat, what school was like. We began to develop a relationship that my own father came
to realize, he had always wanted with his own. My grandpa died in the winter of 1995,
one of two moments I have ever witnessed my hardened Dad cry. And not like, one of
those solitary tears and it’s over type deals, a full on emotionally devastated cry.

We had finally begun to cultivate a relationship ourselves, and it made my Dad realize
just how much he had missed out on as a kid growing up. So our baseball trips became a
yearly event, often times outside of Canada just to visit different ball parks. Our
first big road trip was to Jacobs Field in Cleveland, Ohio. I was enamored with Jim
Thome, and so badly wanted to see my favorite ball player live. And after a four-hour
rain delay, and a nine-hour drive home, I would be stuck waiting for another few years
before that came to fruition.

Our second trip, was to see the Los Angeles Dodgers take on the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field. Needless to say, I was fully behind the boys in blue that day. I detested the
stadium. From the trough style urinals, to the belligerent ticket lady that refused to
give me the Budweiser giveaway, because I was under the age of 21. The entire
experience left me disappointed.But hey, deep dish makes everything better.

Our third big trip, was to Veterans Stadium in its final year of hosting the
Philadelphia Phillies. I wish I could explain how excited my Dad was. A Phils, Eagles,
and Flyers fan, walking down Broad Street. At that point, I realized just how important
our road trips were. It didn’t matter where, because it was taking us to these
historically significant stadiums, cities, and seeing the teams that hundreds of
thousands of fans shared a love with. I saw Jim Thome play that day. But it was the
first time I saw the Cincinnati Reds in person. Years previous, we had been part of a
Scout Troop that visited Wright Patterson in Dayton, and while there a marine handed me
this rolled up paper. Years later, I would find it again. Great American Ball Park
plans, art work, blue prints.

It’s weird how this works, huh?

Our next three trips were back to Chicago, to see Frank Thomas, and the White Sox. If
you know me, you know my heart is broken into three pieces for baseball. The pale hose,
Jays, and our beloved Redlegs. I saw the Sox receive their world series rings, my dad
and I waiting in line outside of USCF for four and a half hours to ensure we got our
replica rings as part of the first twenty thousand through the gates. They had brought
Aaron Rowand back for the ceremony, and I teared up. It happens, baseball is so deeply
rooted in our hearts, that tugging at the strings of the old ticker happens a little
more easily. They lost to the bastards from Cleveland that day, Freddy Garcia pitched
like garbage but I finally experienced a chance to see my team celebrate a World Series.

We went to Detroit a few times after that, some minor league ball parks in Michigan, and finally back to Chicago in 2010 to see the same White Sox retire Frank Thomas’ number. Crying in baseball #2. I love the Big Hurt, and always will.

We’ve been through 12 years of baseball road trips, and in 2011, my dad and I made a trip to Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati, Ohio. The Reds Museum and Hall, a weekend long series against the Barves, and a Jonny Gomes bobble head later, we had our most memorable trip to date.

Friends from Wisconsin, Toronto, Michigan, and all over made the trip that weekend. We had 10 of our closest friends all in one place. After the Friday night game, and I will never forget this, Dad and I stood out on the concourse in center field above the Reds bullpen, the stadium lights the only thing left in the stadium. Dad turned to me and said one of the few things that ever really caught me off guard.

“These trips, make losing my Dad a little bit easier. Thank you”

I never realized how important it was until that moment, and even two years after our first trip, when we made our third pilgrimage to Cincinnati, I cannot express how full my heart is, knowing that while these moments have meant the world to me as a fan, they mean more to my Dad as a father.

Baseball is my heart, I share it with my best friends, my family, and the love of my life. So while we get ready for another season, I urge everyone to reflect on the moments that defined them as a fan. How they came to be Reds Country.

What’s your story?

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Fathers Day

Introduction

Hello all!

First off allow me to apologize for not being more proactive with keeping HFS updated the last few days.  I started back to work this week and its been somewhat busy since being out for a little over two weeks.

That being said, I was out for a reason that I’m sure most of you know.  I had a baby.  This is my first fathers day and with that it makes me want to reflect back on my father and fathers days past.

I am a Reds fan like my father before me

As you can probably guess I grew up Red.   My father being from around here also grew up Red.   Having grown up in Hamilton my dad grew up looking up to people like Joe Nuxhall a fondness that was passed down from generation to generation.  My father though unlike me grew up in the heyday of the 50’s and 60’s Reds and hit adulthood during the Big Red Machine Era.  Here he was able to see Reds players ranging from Frank Robinson and the Big Klu to Joe and then Pete and Johnny and Tony and well you know the Rest.  He got to see them play in the world series when he was only 10 years old and got to see them play in it 4 more times before I was ever around.

Its interesting because he got to see the Reds play in a world series at the age of 10, while I got to see them win one at the age of 9.  Trips to the ballpark with my dad when I was young were a treat.  I don’t know how many times we’d go a year but we would go.  Often he’d get tickets for free or as a gift and we’d go down to the stadium.  We didn’t often go to batting practice or stay long after the game, but the time we did spend down there was always special.  Often we’d arrive late for one reason or another, though we almost never left early.  The seats?  The seats didn’t matter.  We would go down and sit all over the place, except for the yellow seats, we almost never sat in the yellow seats.  More often than not though we would end up in the Red seats.  We loved the Red seats, if for no other reason than the “FROSTY MAAAAAAAALT” guy.  If you went down much in the early 90s you probably know who I’m talking about.  This guy had a gravely voice and would yell out (think a higher pitched Christian bale batman) FROOOOOSSSTTTY MAAAALLLLLLT.

When we knew we were in for a real treat is when we would see my dad coming in with those tickets with the Blue tip on the end of them.  Its one of the few things I miss about Riverfront/Cinergy field.  You knew the second you saw your tickets how “Good” they were.  My dad would get a couple of blue seats and for that night you knew you couldn’t be much closer to the action.

As we grew up and I got a little older and GABP opened we didn’t go nearly as often, it happens.  I worked, my dad worked and often life would just get in the way.  I can’t stress now how much I regret that.  Thankfully for me that all changed, in the mid 2000’s my dad started getting opening day tickets, every year like clockwork if we went to no other game we’d go to opening day.  Then in 2010 my mom realized how much opening day tickets cost and one of them suggested instead we buy Reds Power Pack tickets.  This turned out to be an amazing idea.  For not much more than our “after market” opening day tickets we were able to get 10 games!  10 games to see together like clockwork!  Has it worked out every year?  no.  Sometimes I have to miss a game, sometimes he has to miss a game, but since 2010 I cannot think of a year that went to less than 6 games together which will probably include this year as well.

The Next Generation

My dad imparted many a great things to me, my fandom being one of my most cherished.  I can only hope that I am able to impart that same feeling into my daughter.  As you all know from reading here, she has her Reds outfits (search baby pictures if you haven’t seen em) and with all luck will be going to a game later this season.

I Hope

I hope that one day my daughter looks back at her childhood with the fondness that I do. I hope that in the end I am at least half the father that my father has been.  My father is someone who I will love until the last day on this earth.  He has brought me up to be the man that I am today and where as often we talk about heroes like Joey Votto or Chris Sabo or Eric Davis my father is my hero.  He is who I strive to be as I raise my daughter and an inspiration to my life.

What about you?  Why not leave a story or some memories of  growing up with baseball.

-Richard

Follow me on twitter @hfspodcast

I’ll leave you with some photos of my daughter in her various Reds Outfits.

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