Man Bun Night at the ball park, people. Buckle up.
Tonight the Reds begin a four-game series against the Padres, and because I’m an idiot who doesn’t check her calendar or open emails or manage her life in any way approaching that of an adult, I’m your game thread hostess for all of them.
|1. Zack Cozart (SS)
2. Billy Hamilton (CF)
3. Brandon Phillips (2B)
4. Jay Bruce (RF)
5. Adam Duvall (1B)
6. Eugenio Suarez (3B)
7. Jose Peraza (LF)
8. Ramon Cabrera (C)
9. John Lamb (P)
|1. Travis Jankowski (CF)
2. Wil Myers (1B)
3. Matt Kemp (RF)
4. Yangervis Solarte (3B)
5. Melvin Upton Jr. (LF)
6. Derek Norris (C)
7. Alexei Ramirez (SS)
8. Adam Rosales (2B)
9. Christian Friedrich (P)
THE MANY TRIALS OF BRAD
This season invites contemplation of the distance between reality and championship, a relationship which, we Cincinnatians have always comforted ourselves, is at least never as dysfunctional as that of our intrastate glaring partner, Cleveland. Since we can always depend upon Cleveland to screw things up, of course Cleveland managed to screw up losing by winning an NBA championship.
If Cleveland had to win something, I’ll take the NBA big silver disco ball, or whatever it is they get. Cincinnati does not have a directly competing franchise, and anyway I despise basketball, what with its uncalled travelling, squeakiness, and general group shoving.
But I had no choice to remain in the stream of up-to-the-millisecond updates on this year’s finals, as I have many friends from the upper half of the state, which means that for the past several days every single social media feed has been 100% exclamation points and crying. And I get it; I’ve long said that every little girl and little boy should experience at least one city championship shot.
In the case of Clevelanders, however, some of those championshipless little girls and boys are collecting Social Security, and, while their teams have climbed the mountain, they have never planted the flag. One of my firmest college memories is that of a dorm mate burrowed in a bean bag and several blankets, not-watching the Indians lose in the World Series while I wrote a paper and shouted discouragement.
This explains the case of Brad. Brad is in his 40’s. He’s smart, successful, and a great dad. He has a terrific singing voice. He pays his taxes and he’s the godfather of one of my own nephews. And the final buzzer on Sunday night saw him in the fetal position atop his coffee table.
Brad was raised in northern Ohio, and when he came to Miami University for college and nudged further south to Cincinnati for his career, he became that most tragic of all Cleveland figures: A Cleveland fan who doesn’t even enjoy the shared misery of other Cleveland fans. He stood with the Browns, and alone.
I would be the most soulless of creatures to not feel relief and happiness for Brad and his brethren who breathe the air of the Factory of Sadness decade in and decade out. Sleep well, Brad.
On the other hand, this has never been truer:
So chin up, Queen City! We’re mired in mediocrity, low expectations, and disappointment, but it’s diversified mediocrity, low expectations, and disappointment. Plus: STREETCAR.
|PITCHER||ERA||IP||SO||WHIP||DOES HIS NAME SOUND LIKE IT CAME OFF A CHARACTER LIST FOR “THE SOUND OF MUSIC”?|
|John Lamb||4.75||47.1||30||1.52||No, poor guy|
A THING FROM TWITTER
IF CLEVELAND CAN BREAK THE CURSE WE CAN WIN A PLAYOFF GAME @Bengals
— Jake Cahill (@cahill_42) June 20, 2016
Football season’s coming.
Proud aunt Mary Beth Ellis is a freelance writer and college teacher who lives in Cincinnati, OH. Her home site, BlondeChampagne.com, has existed in at least some form since 2003, and Mary Beth has been a regular columnist with one publication or another from the age of 16. Her first book, Drink to the Lasses, was published in 2006. She currently teaches college, runs personal wine tastings, gives literary readings, and stares into the middle distance.