Cincinnati Reds Baseball: A Divine Comedy

By Matt Groves

Hello. My name is Matt Groves. I’m a Cincinnati Reds fan. And I hate myself for it. 

Now, don’t go worrying about my feelings. It’s only seasonal, much like those who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which to simplify, involves depression which looms over you like the oft dreary days of early November through the winter months and includes symptoms like fatigue, hopelessness, and social withdrawal.

This (my) prognosis is similar to its medically diagnosed brethren in that feelings range from moderate pessimism… to outright rage and paranoia. UN-like the “real” SAD, my symptoms typically start around the time the Kentucky Wildcats disappointingly bow out of the NCAA men’s college basketball tournament licensed as “March Madness”; and they carry on throughout a Cincinnati Reds baseball season often devoid of many sweeps, streaks, no-no’s, sell-outs, and otherwise celebration-worthy accolades.

Are you excited for Opening Day yet? By the way, it’s Thursday, March 29th. The first pitch will be thrown at 4:10pm and you can catch it on Fox Sports – Ohio.

“Are you sure you’re a fan?”

If you’ve continued reading this so far, it’s probably because we’ve commiserated about it in the past. Make no mistake, I love the Cincinnati Reds. It’s a relationship which began when I was kid living in Norwood, Ohio and playing “knothole” baseball.

Players like Barry Larkin, Pokey Reese, Dimitri Young, and “The Mayor” (Sean Casey) developed in me a love for the game, the uniform, and the completely unjustified optimism each Spring sprouts anew in the souls of Reds fans everywhere. Let me quote myself to make my point here: “completely unjustified optimism each Spring sprou-“. And now let me interrupt myself because you get the point.

Since 1919, the good ole Redlegs have made 21 post-season appearances, according to the few remaining employees at ESPN. In those, the team has won five World Series’. Its current World Series drought takes us back to 1990. Rewind 14 years prior to that, they’d won their fourth ring. Look at any earlier archives and the argument could be made that the league was so different, those titles are meaningless to today’s generations.

Why be optimistic about a team who in the past two decades has given so little to cheer about, or, in moments, has raised our hopes to the heavens before crushing them into the chalk?

For me at least, the answer is simple. It’s because we love the game, and we love the team, but while not a single damned one of us is out on the hot corner or wrecking ourselves on the centerfield wall, we can’t separate ourselves from those that are. I’ve called for Billy Hamilton to be sent back down to the Daytona Tortugas after going “oh” for 20 on either side of the plate, but I’ve never felt the breeze of a 98 mile-per-hour as it whipped past my ear on a wild pitch. I’ve booed when everyone else “Bruuuuuuuuced” because the lethal lefty was in a slump that deemed too long for my liking, but I’ve never had the arm to throw out a guy diving for third from the right field warning track. Hell, I’ve judged the walk-up song of many a player as they approached the batter’s box, but I’ve never had to leave my family and friends in another country so I could chase a dream where only a rare select few get called up.

Over the course of the next few months, I’ll find my way downtown, pay too much money for a beer, cram my large frame into a less than comfortable stadium seat (and then make my way closer after the 3rd inning), sing the songs, try and pick which three, four, or five-way the baseball is hidden under on the big screen, and then leave grumbling after an Anthony Rizzo bomb in the ninth. Then I’ll curse myself for giving money to an organization which could clearly perform better with me in the Front Office.

My name is Matt Groves. I’m a Cincinnati Reds fan. And I hate myself for it.