Day Three: Cincinnati and the Ohio River

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