Playing the Fields

In an era when live major-league baseball has retreated to pleasure palaces packed with flashing videos, blaring music, and gut-busting food courts, has the old-fashioned game lost something? Across seven ballparks in seven days, one fan goes looking for an answer

By Jeff Ruby

(page 6 of 8)

GREAT AMERICAN BALL PARK
100 Main Street, Cincinnati

Opened 2003

Capacity 42,941

Nod to the past The scoreboard has a replica of the iconic Longines clock from old Crosley Field.

Say it ain't so Between innings, cheerleaders prance atop the Reds' dugout.

Other desperate measures Shooting T-shirts into crowd; adding a fuzzy red mascot named Gapper to the classic Mr. Red

Good idea, bad art Tile mosaics of the 1869 and 1975 Reds near home plate

Architectural gem "The Gap," a 35-foot opening in the stands that allows for views of the skyline—and a peek into the stadium from downtown.

Water, water everywhere Plenty of fountains spread through the park

What to order Montgomery Inn pork sandwich or a Big Red Smokey (a crusty burnt sausage); 44-ounce soda

What to avoid Having to park in Kentucky

GAME 5
Milwaukee Brewers vs. Cincinnati Reds
Great American Ball Park, Cincinnati
July 24, 2007

ODOMETER:
248
miles from Cleveland to Cincinnati

With hours of car time and nothing but Ohio fields to distract us, Dad and I fade in and out of conversation. Nothing too deep, like What It Means to Be a Father or How We're Feeling or anything like that. Mostly, we talk about baseball. As White Sox fans, we reminisce about the 2005 World Series.

"Remember Konerko's grand slam in game two?"

"And Uribe's catch in game four?"

"Man, what a great team that was."

It was only a few years ago, but it may as well have been 30. That's the way baseball memories are. The second the season ends, it's sealed in a time capsule and you forget everything but the good stuff. If there's no good stuff, you just forget everything.

* * *

We've scored top-notch seats in Cincinnati: left field bleachers, front row. That puts us so close to the action, we could almost give Adam Dunn, the Reds' hulking left fielder, a wet willie. (We decide against it.) Joining us tonight are my brother and his brother-in-law, both of whom are thrilled to be invited, despite the Reds' current losing streak. The ballpark is so empty, we can hear entire conversations from rows away, most of which are about how the Reds suck.

They didn't always, of course, but since moving into Great American Ball Park in 2003, this once-proud franchise has not had a single winning season. It's easy to take it out on the HOK-designed stadium, which the Cincinnati Enquirer columnist Paul Daugherty called "a cement island on a brown river." The park, whose majestic-sounding name actually comes from the Cincinnati-based Great American Insurance Group, has a clever riverboat theme that hasn't been overdone. Two outfield smokestacks shoot off fireworks, exude mist, and evoke the city's origins as a river town; above them is a riverboat rooftop, where the Reds' owner, Bob Castellini, periodically sits. From the upper deck, you've got a nifty view of Kentucky's rolling hills and passing boats on the Ohio River. As my brother points out, Riverfront Stadium, the Reds' old metal doughnut of a home, had none of this, but it had good teams.

Free with our ticket is admission to the Reds Hall of Fame adjacent to the stadium—and to "Pete: The Exhibit," a blatantly partisan tribute to Cincy's favorite disgraced son, Pete Rose. Frankly, all I need for my Reds fix is Crosley Terrace near the main entrance, which features bronze statues of legends such as Frank Robinson and Big Ted Kluszewski (bare biceps and all) in action.

Great American Ball Park boasts the best concessions of any stadium we've visited: fresh food, great beer selection, fair prices. The lack of lines certainly helps. While exploring the cavernous main concourse, I see a trim man sitting at a folding table. Turns out it's the Reds legend George Foster. The Destroyer! A cog in the 1970s Big Red Machine! Used to arrive at ballgames in a limo! Now he's sitting at a folding table, signing autographs for three kids. Strange days for Reds fans.

Adam Dunn, whom everyone here apparently hates, cracks a pointless home run in the eighth; fireworks explode. The only other player who creates any kind of passion tonight is Ken Griffey Jr. Last time I saw Junior, in 1994, he was the best ballplayer I'd ever seen. He's heavier now, and his body has broken down repeatedly, but he still makes two incredible catches in right field that keep the game interesting. In left field, Dunn is so blasé he looks more interested in my dad's hot dog. The Brewers, lackluster in Milwaukee four nights ago, must know we're here, and prevail 5-3. No one's too fussed, and I'm willing to bet George Foster split by the sixth inning.