Thank you for the love of the game
"And it's SWUNG ON AND MISSED! And Tom Browning has pitched a perfect game! 27 outs in a row and he is being mobbed by his team mates just on the 3rd base side of the mound"
I will never forget that night. September 16th, 1988. I laid in my bed, listening to the Reds game on my clock radio that I had hidden under my pillow. It was a late night, as there was a lengthy rain delay to start the game. But it was worth it. I heard history. I never forgot Marty Brennaman's call of that final swing by Tracy Woodson, and can still recite it to this day.
Marty Brennaman was the voice of my childhood. I listened to every pitch of the 1990 World Series on the radio, while watching on TV. I took my small boom box in the backyard and threw a baseball through a tire that was hanging on the fence in Milford and listened to every game, every spring, summer and fall. He and Joe painted a picture, and I could see Larkin field the ball in the hole, Eric the Red climb the center field fence to steal a home run, or John Franco strike another batter out with that screwball. To me, Marty and Joe were the Reds.
2 weeks ago Marty called his last game ever for the Reds. After 46 seasons and thousands of games, it was time to go enjoy his life and family. He will be missed by millions who heard his voice and waited for him to say "And this one belongs to the Reds". It is bittersweet. But not the point of this post.
When I was younger, in the 70's and early 80's, my Mamaw would ask me regularly to watch the Reds games with her. But I was too young to understand. It wasn't until years later, right around 1986, that a man would come into my life and teach me the love of the game.
I do not remember the first time specifically that we met Mike Bromberg. But I do remember being excited that my Mom had a boyfriend. I remember this quiet man in his little Maroon Mazda taking us all to Perkins night after night after night, so often that the waitress would know our order before we sat down. Some nights he would change it up and we would go to McDonald's. I always ordered the McDLT, just like him.
Hot side hot. Cold side cold.
We did all kinds of cool stuff I had never done before. From the movies (I had never really been to a theatre before) to putt putt, we went everywhere. And he never got stopped at traffic lights. It was crazy. He said it was because he called ahead.
He married my Mom. That was cool. I thought we were big stuff back then. After all he was the President of Thomas More College. We had a cool house in Milford. Nice cars. And for the first time ever, we had a Dad. Like a real Dad. Not some drunk monster or absentee namesake. He was there. Kind. Gentle. Understanding. treated my Mom like a Queen.
He took me to a Reds game. He told me what to look for. He signed me up to play baseball and came to every game. He would tell me how to fix my swing or how to anticipate a pitch at any position. He taught me the love of the game. I can still hear him praising a throw I made from the outfield or telling me how to push a sacrifice bunt. He taught me how to keep score. He knew all of the ends and outs.
He taught me to love the game.
What an awesome gift.
My Dad has been gone now for 1 year and 13 days. We laid him to rest next to Mom, his soulmate, in Springfield, Illinois. My awesome nieces keep them company and put flowers on the headstone. I miss him, and her, so much. So many times I have needed to talk to them, only to realize I cannot.
I remember one of our last conversations. he was telling me about his beloved Red Sox, how special their team was, like the 1990 Cincinnati Reds. He said he hoped they would win it all again. A month and a half after he left us, they did just that. We put a pennant on his grave to celebrate.
Tomorrow that man, My Dad, would have been 67 years old. I will miss driving to his house to celebrate, I will miss hugging him and hearing his belly laugh when he is talking to his grandkids. But the thing I will miss the most is the conversation, where he would tell me who my Reds would sign this offseason (he ALWAYS knew ahead of time somehow) or how his beloved Red Sox missed the post season this year.
Happy Birthday Poppa. We all love you. Hope you and Nana have a great day together!
I will never forget that night. September 16th, 1988. I laid in my bed, listening to the Reds game on my clock radio that I had hidden under my pillow. It was a late night, as there was a lengthy rain delay to start the game. But it was worth it. I heard history. I never forgot Marty Brennaman's call of that final swing by Tracy Woodson, and can still recite it to this day.
Marty Brennaman was the voice of my childhood. I listened to every pitch of the 1990 World Series on the radio, while watching on TV. I took my small boom box in the backyard and threw a baseball through a tire that was hanging on the fence in Milford and listened to every game, every spring, summer and fall. He and Joe painted a picture, and I could see Larkin field the ball in the hole, Eric the Red climb the center field fence to steal a home run, or John Franco strike another batter out with that screwball. To me, Marty and Joe were the Reds.
2 weeks ago Marty called his last game ever for the Reds. After 46 seasons and thousands of games, it was time to go enjoy his life and family. He will be missed by millions who heard his voice and waited for him to say "And this one belongs to the Reds". It is bittersweet. But not the point of this post.
When I was younger, in the 70's and early 80's, my Mamaw would ask me regularly to watch the Reds games with her. But I was too young to understand. It wasn't until years later, right around 1986, that a man would come into my life and teach me the love of the game.
I do not remember the first time specifically that we met Mike Bromberg. But I do remember being excited that my Mom had a boyfriend. I remember this quiet man in his little Maroon Mazda taking us all to Perkins night after night after night, so often that the waitress would know our order before we sat down. Some nights he would change it up and we would go to McDonald's. I always ordered the McDLT, just like him.
Hot side hot. Cold side cold.
We did all kinds of cool stuff I had never done before. From the movies (I had never really been to a theatre before) to putt putt, we went everywhere. And he never got stopped at traffic lights. It was crazy. He said it was because he called ahead.
He married my Mom. That was cool. I thought we were big stuff back then. After all he was the President of Thomas More College. We had a cool house in Milford. Nice cars. And for the first time ever, we had a Dad. Like a real Dad. Not some drunk monster or absentee namesake. He was there. Kind. Gentle. Understanding. treated my Mom like a Queen.
He took me to a Reds game. He told me what to look for. He signed me up to play baseball and came to every game. He would tell me how to fix my swing or how to anticipate a pitch at any position. He taught me the love of the game. I can still hear him praising a throw I made from the outfield or telling me how to push a sacrifice bunt. He taught me how to keep score. He knew all of the ends and outs.
He taught me to love the game.
What an awesome gift.
My Dad has been gone now for 1 year and 13 days. We laid him to rest next to Mom, his soulmate, in Springfield, Illinois. My awesome nieces keep them company and put flowers on the headstone. I miss him, and her, so much. So many times I have needed to talk to them, only to realize I cannot.
I remember one of our last conversations. he was telling me about his beloved Red Sox, how special their team was, like the 1990 Cincinnati Reds. He said he hoped they would win it all again. A month and a half after he left us, they did just that. We put a pennant on his grave to celebrate.
Tomorrow that man, My Dad, would have been 67 years old. I will miss driving to his house to celebrate, I will miss hugging him and hearing his belly laugh when he is talking to his grandkids. But the thing I will miss the most is the conversation, where he would tell me who my Reds would sign this offseason (he ALWAYS knew ahead of time somehow) or how his beloved Red Sox missed the post season this year.
Happy Birthday Poppa. We all love you. Hope you and Nana have a great day together!
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