The Boys of Summer Return

"Vas you effer in Zinzinnati?"

When I was in the fourth grade, I had a paper route for The Cincinnati Enquirer. In the spring, if I got five new customers, I won two tickets to the Cincinnati Reds' Opening Day game at Crosley Field. Then, as now, this was considered acceptable grounds for being excused from school. I can still remember my dad and I sitting in the stands, watching hometown boy Pete Rose getting his first knocks on the old melon by sliding into a base. I remember the best hot dogs I ever tasted. Why didn't they taste like that anywhere else? My dad bought a big cup of Burger Beer. I got a pop (or, as they say on the East Coast, a soda). At one point, the organmeister would play "My Old Kentucky Home," and native sons of the Bluegrass State would stand with their hats off, as they would The Star Spangled Banner.

When I got older, I learned of other cities, with other baseball teams, who had the unmitigated gall to start their season on the same day, and even call it "opening day." But yesterday, for the 135th year, the real Opening Day Game took place in the Reds' new riverfront palace, fittingly known as The Great American Ball Park. Coincidentally named for an insurance corporation based in the Queen City of the West, it has already been trashed by snotty architects from out of town. But the fans love it, even though the first regular game was a loss (that, on top of two earlier exhibition losses to -- I almost hate to admit it -- the @$ߥ%?& Cleveland Indians!!!).

Meanwhile, on the west coast, my cousin Tom Lampkin retired from the game, and looks forward to spending the year with his family. After that, who knows? He may never get into the Hall of Fame. But he had his shot, and that's not too shabby. A lot of guys never did -- including his younger brother, who was considered his equal if not better, and only played one year for a farm team in Edmonton, Alberta.

The game is like that. So is life. And so, both go on...