This is one of my favorites of this trip.
Day Three: Cincinnati and the Ohio River
I decided to forgo the interstate and
journey down Route 7, which hugs the Ohio River toward Marietta. Marietta is where I spent four months in
1976, practically having arrived at it as my college of choice using a
dartboard and a blindfold during the years when my studies took a backseat to
many things at Darien High School. I
transferred to Syracuse after one semester at Marietta, having achieved the 3.5
GPA Syracuse required to make such an early transfer, which should give one and
idea of what it takes to make the decision to move to Marietta, Ohio, and what
one will do to ensure a move out. My
short visit yesterday once again made me shake my head in awe of how
ill-equipped an 18-year old really is to plan one’s life (I guess I should just
speak for myself, rather than dragging all the kids who can actually form an
base of knowledge from which to choose a college into the category of
“Clueless” with me).
On the way down the river, we passed
through little towns like Shadyside, Powhatan Point, New Matamoras (wondering
where the original was) and Steinersville, during which Parker asked me why all
the cars were trucks and quite “junky ones”, at that. I explained to the boys that most of these
people probably worked for the aluminum plant on the river and one of the great
ironies in life is that while these people worked so hard and had no choice but
to be loyal to this one company that basically had the river and its people by
a chokehold in more ways than one, they had very little to show for it. Yet, there must have been good times rolling,
since we saw many signs in each little town promoting the local Bingo night, or
a Pork Pull Dinner, or Disco Dance Night at the American Legion Hall. So all was OK in Fly, Ohio, where we stopped
for breakfast, at the Country Kitchen Restaurant, which claimed to have a great
view of the river. Unfortunately, the
architect of this little jernt must have been dyslexic because the only windows
in the place faced the road, and the river could only be seen if you walked to
the side of the building after you parked your car before walking in. So, the only way to enjoy the river was to
take in the vision, and keep the memory alive as we were handed nice thick
vinyl covered tan menus, making our way to the rather small-formed formica
booths butting up against the dark brown paneling. I realized at that point they didn’t take
credit cards and I only had $22. in one pocket and $2.40 in the other, but
looking at the prices for “Babe’s Full Country Breakfast” or “Fran’s Special”,
I think I was safe in knowing we wouldn’t have to be washing dishes (although
perhaps there was a view of the river from the kitchen).
As we were eating, a young family with a
little high-chair bound kid entered. It
didn’t take long for all hell to break loose, as the kid began crying and
screaming over something and the Dad, wearing an attractive baby-blue tank top,
bellowed out one warning, and then grabbed the kid out of the high chair by the
arm, and dragged him out to the car, exclaiming to the child, “I told you if
you didn’t stop it we’re just gonna haveta put you in the treck”. (not a typo) Where I come from, putting a two year old in
a steaming hot pick-up truck and leaving him there would be called
child-abuse. The Dad went out after
three minutes or so to “git him”, and of course it did no good--now the kid was
yelling even louder. But I am absolutely
sure he learned his lesson. The sick
thing was that I found myself rather enjoying this entertainment, not because
of the accents and the outfits, but because in some odd way I thought maybe
this was making ME look like a better father to MY kids. Nah, I thought. My kids must think we’re on
another planet, so this comparison has nothing to do with us. My boys are smarter than their father anyway,
reminding myself that I was the one who chose to move here at 18.
Oh, yes.
Breakfast for three: $12.80.
First item of note: Outside of New York, security isn’t an
issue. At Shea they search heavily. At any of the three parks I’ve been to so
far, there has been neither visible security nor any kind of visible
warning. I could have walked into
Riverfront with a bazooka. Which, come
to think of it, wouldn’t have been a bad idea.
Riverfront Stadium, devoid of its history,
is a God-awful place. What made it even
worse than it should have been was that patrons this year are being teased with
the construction of the can’t-get-here-too-soon new ballpark that exists
practically IN the outfield. It’s so
imposing that they took out the scoreboard to make way for the imposing cement
of Great American Ballpark, scheduled to open in “43 games” as the countdown
board between the first and second tier extolled. I thought that was a working name for the new
park, but later noticed there was a bank or something by that name. At least it’s better than “Cinergy Field”,
which I can only imagine is Cincinnati’s power company. When one thinks of it, why on Earth would a
local power company need to use the marketing power of having a field
entitlement? The product can’t be used
by anyone outside the local area, and anyone IN the local area HAS to use the
product. I guess the brass at Cinergy
Company wanted great seats.
While acknowledging that the imposition of
the new park’s construction certainly casts a cloud over the entire aesthetic
experience, the park itself is just butt-ugly, with the tiers painted red,
yellow and green. It’s like a small Shea
Stadium, but to me it had absolutely no charm.
From where we sat, we couldn’t see the scoreboard, and then I realized
that about one third of the stadium couldn’t either, since it was placed on the
first base side way up on the upper tier.
The food choices here, although the cheapest of any park I’ve been to,
were slim—very.
The hot dogs were placed once again in a
foil wrapper. If they’re going to do
that, they should give you packets of ketchup and mustard, since to me it makes
no sense to have to walk over to the condiment counter, which in this case was
about as wide as one-third the depth of the cardboard food container they give
you, so it couldn’t even sit on the counter as you embarked on the ridiculous
task of removing the dogs from the wrapper (not easy, since you basically have
to turn them upside down and shake them to get the gooey steamed bun and dog
out) and then sticking them under the mustard squirter (only to misgauge the
thrusting power of the thing to have triple the mustard than you wanted on this
undercooked Kahn’s tube of muck). I had
to ask the boys to hold the cardboard container while I did the condiment
squirting. Only problem was, Parker
couldn’t hold it because he was holding the drink that WOULDN’T fit in any of
the FOUR cup indentations of the container!!!
How ridiculous is all of this? No
one’s complained? No one’s figured this
out? All these Ohioans and Kentuckians
are taking this sitting down?
Hot Dog ($2.75) Rating: 3 (I
overlooked giving PNC’s rating. It was a
10-equal to those at Shea.) Shea serves
Kahn’s too. I guess it’s all in the
preparation. Scary thought.
OK, so after I had done nothing but think
of criticism after criticism of this place, as the ballgame started and Ken
Griffey Junior came to the plate, I reminded myself that all this comfort stuff
wasn’t all that important. What was
important is that Junior’s Dad played here with one of the greatest teams
boasting some of the greatest players in the history of this wonderful
game: Pete Rose. Johnny Bench.
Tony Perez. Joe Morgan. Sparky Anderson was the Manager. And of course, my beloved Tom Seaver, who, as
it turns out, was featured on the front of my ticket. That’s a travesty. Seaver’s a Met, sorry. Got that, Red fans? He’s ours.
You’ve got zillions of players you could feature. All we’ve got in the Hall is Seaver. Leave
him off your damn ticket.
The park oozes Red. At least 60% of the fans sported red. Even style-conscious women featured red, with
taste—in some cases—as the base color in their outfits.
The PA announcer, to a New Yorker, featured
a style that was quite annoying. At
Shea, the guy sounds as though he’s reading the paper and he’s being
interrupted to announce the next batter.
“Now batting: George
Theodore. Right Fielder.” At Yankee Stadium, it’s classic: a simple, yet perfect announcement of the
batter and his number. Here, what you
get is something from the Nickelodeon channel:
“Now beeeeyatting for the Reds, Ken Grrrrrrrrrrriiiiffey, Jeeeeeeeeeyooooooooonior!!!!!!,”
in a high-pitched annoying disc jockey voice that was so unbearable I hoped
Aaron Harang of the A’s would chuck a perfect game just to keep those
announcements to a minimum.
There was one fan to our right, sporting a
plaid shirt and matching plaid pants, a black man having had just a few too
many Bud Lights, who began letting his presence be known roundabout the third
inning. “Let’s go RAY-EDS” over and
over. “Who y’all cheering foe”? He’d ask as everyone turned around to see who
was cheering so loudly. His wife (or
maybe his sister), quite overweight and content to be eating throughout all his
cheering, never once turned to him to express that perhaps he should tone it
down a bit… it was as though she’d been listening to that in front of the TV
for years and just didn’t even notice it.
He continued with the “Let’s go RAY-EDS” until we decided to “upgrade”
our seat location after the sixth. So tame--his
cheer. In New York, what I’d be hearing is… “Justice!! You suck!!! No wonder Hale left, you, you bum!!” Here, a simple, “Let’s Go RAY-EDS.”
The Reds didn’t “Go” enough. They took it on the chin, 5-3. That’s four straight wins for the A’s, and
four straight losses for the Reds. But
Red fans can take some solace in the fact that when it really mattered; their
beloved nine swept the A’s in four games in 1990 to take the Series title. It’s right there to see—in right field--the
commemorative banner. And that--is why we were
at Riverfront.
Next:
Chicago. Two days off from
baseball (although we might consider a ride up to see the Brewers on
Sunday). Wrigley Monday night against
these same Reds. Too cool.
copyright © 2002 Chris Angelus
