Dear Bob: A Journey to Cincinnati, Part VI - My last day, continued

Hi Bob, me again. Getting tired of me yet? It's been a month since the day I am describing. I wish I were there all over again. I get to see the Reds next week here in DC, but it just isn't the same as watching them at home. This year, though, I'm trying to make it a little more like home by inviting all of Cincinnati and displaced Reds fans to a tailgate party Thursday, August 2, 2007 from 5-6:30pm in front of RFK (location will be posted later). I'm grilling burgers (the best you'll ever have!) and making a pitcher of Homers. It's bring your own beer. Actually, I don't know if you're allowed to have beer at tailgate parties at RFK, but oh well. If you're in town, Bob, please come - everyone's invited, even Nats fans!

Speaking of dining, on our tour of the ballpark we went up to the Riverfront Club. I never could understand why someone would go to the ballpark for formal dining like this. Every time I go to a game, I see people sitting up in the restaurant instead of sitting out in the stands the way baseball was meant to be enjoyed. These little gimmicks mar the essence of the game, but it'd be a cool place to eat dinner on an off day!

I thought about making my own wine topper like this one using one of the Reds sundae helmets I picked up off the ground after a game, just like I used to do as a kid. I'm not a big ice cream eater these days, but I just love those helmets, and I didn't have any with the drop shadow wishbone C, so I scooped them right up (pun intended!)

Back in the Riverfront days, we used to hop around from aisle to aisle collecting left behind souvenir cups, sundae helmets, promotional giveaways, and whatever other Reds treasures we could find. I guess some things never change, even as they age.

Wine and baseball should never be combined. It's like wearing wool sweaters in ninety degree weather or putting sugar in your gas tank or rooting for the Yankees when you've grown up in Boston. They just don't go together. Now beer and baseball is a different story, like salt and pepper, Bono and the Edge, or Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean. (Yeah, I just referenced Olympic Ice Dancing.)

The tour also took us to Scout's Alley, which honors some great Reds scouts. I immediately noticed the names of Larry Barton, Jr. and Johnny Almaraz as those longtime scouts who quit because of Wayne Krivsky. Yet Wayne Krivsky still sits in his office, the seconds ticking down until the fateful trade deadline, inspiring worry and anxiety in Reds fans. HEY WAYNE, DON'T TRADE DUNN, GRIFFEY, PHILLIPS, OR ARROYO!

After the tour, we headed on down to Gameday to check it out. Neither of us had been there before - we've always just gone to Inn Between for pre-game beers. I can't decide which I like better, though I am a sucker for beer gardens and Gameday is lacking in that regard. There are few things in life better than sitting outside, drinking a beer, absorbing the warmth and glory of the sunshine, and doing it all right across from you team's home stadium before you're going to see a baseball game.

Of course, being at the game is better!

While waiting for the gates to open after visiting Gameday, we strolled the streets of Cincy. I was looking for a place to buy a black marker so I could write "This Reds fan loves Barry" on the flip side of my "FIRE NARRON" sign, over which I wrote "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED." (Yeah, think flight decks about that one.) The guy in this picture posing with my mom was a little old crazy dude who didn't quite get the concept of "countdown" but nonetheless was as excited as I was about Narron's firing.

And so, Bob, I must finish here. I have only one more part to go in my letter to you, that being the actual game on July 3 against the Giants and the post-game fireworks show. I'll leave you with a few more pics from the day, including one of the scoreboard operation room. Try to look at it with the awe of someone like me who has never had access to the behind-the-scenes stuff of putting on The Baseball Show, the best show on Earth.