F.S. Player: Charlie

An homage to the man who re-introduced me to the joys of a Cookies and Cream Milkshake.

Cincinnati

In 1994 Bud Adams broke the heart of every powder blue Oiler fan across the globe, moving the team to the state of Phil Fulmer (Phil Fulmer?!), and giving the NFL the first of a new breed of generic football team names and logos. The crushed 12 year old I was looked elsewhere for a team, and the image of Icky Woods, shuffling over the Oilers years earlier, the Bengal player shifting the ball hand to hand mid dive in the playoffs to score a TD, the black on orange, and my sordid love affair with Cincinnati began.
This was my second trip to the city on the banks of the Ohio River, and both of them have been nothing short of well above average. Whether it be the Hoffbrauhaus representing sister city Munich, the homey bar area of Mt. Adams, or the nearby casinos where I first learned the beginnings of how to shoot craps, Cincy is fun. Ignoring the black stain that the restaurant Skyline has cast on it, the skyline of the city is actually quite impressive, with each skyscraper seemingly assigned a different neon glow to cast their building in. This creates an impressive sight when the skyline appears upon you quite suddenly between two hills, presenting itself with one of the best first impressions a city can make. For a place with no beach, theater, lake, or other major unique draw to it, Cincinnati is cimply fun. Just watch out for the billboards, they’ve got some strange standards of beauty to be considered a model.

Reds vs. Angels June 13th

Cincinnati was destined for fun. Any city with sin it in twice, as my farm system friend Charlie pointed out to me, can't be bad. I say that any city that shares a border with Kentucky is predestined for glory. "Why?" oh silly naive readers may ask. Keeping my judgment of such a stupid question to myself, I will tell you. If you share a border with Kentucky, you share a city with Kentuckians—people who think that Basketball is the best sport around. Who grow more pot than the rest of the continental U.S. People who frequent the Kentucky Hooters on the banks of the Ohio River. For one magical evening, we walked amongst these giants.

The inane redundancy of paying for parking to pay for transportation when, for once, we had an unapologetic Designated Driver as Charlie is the friend (yes, singular) that doesn’t drink, was swept aside at the sight of a glorious ferry boat pulling up to the river front to whisk us across to Cincinnati's Great American Ballpark. Greeted with an Adam Harang Bobble Head doll, the four of us in our group somehow managed to sneak down to the best seats I've gotten this side of Oakland--and at a much better ballpark. We were close enough to smell to aristocracy around us. Close enough to hear the crack of the bat at the same time that it makes contact instead of seconds afterwards as it is in the outer outfield seats. Close enough that, were I smart enough to have brought Ken Griffey Jr. Major League Baseball to the game, I could have gotten Jr. Himself to sign it. Or just put "ditto" afterwards, since his name is already on the game. Close enough for Adam "Donkey" Dunn to hear us inform him of his nickname as often and as loudly as possible. Donkey. We sat very close.

Little did I know that we were also in close proximity to the worst Ballpark Hot Dog ever cursed upon God's Green Earth. Even worse, this hot dog, like Hebrew National (we're Kosher!) or Nathans' hot dogs in other parks, it is not purely confined to the friendly fences of the Reds Ballpark. Quite the opposite. Philly has Cheese steaks, Kansas City has Arthur Bryants, and Cincinnati has Skyline. A Skyline "Coney" is a mildly heated flaccid wiener on an oversized bun, covered with a resemblance of cheese that would make Movie Nachos blanch, sandwiched around a concoction called chili that isn't dignified by the worst of Taco Bell's burritos. In restaurants out of the park, there is a straight Skyline Chili served, in which the aforementioned concoction is served over spaghetti, adding more non flavor to the steaming hot serving of preservatives and additives. The incredulously awful appetizers served by this restaurant would not be so bad were they not so abundant. They literally are the signature restaurant of Cincinnati, and for this I am sad. Such disappointment should not come from the city that gave us all Graeters Ice cream.

It appears that I have gone off on a tangent.

While I while summoning the courage to eat my Skyline, Charlie was thinking outside of the box. He wears lots of different hats, and is a real go getter. So when he decided that he wanted a bit of popcorn with his hot dog, he made things happen. The look on the sweet little girls faces as they tried to make the first, and hopefully last Popdog was priceless. Did I mention that Charlie has the mentality of a 12 yr old? I know when I was 12, I’d put cheetos in my sandwiches and think it was the coolest thing in the world. Such is the essence of Charlie, but more on him in a different post.

On our return from the game, the ferry was packed, rocking left and right despite the Reds losing the game to Vlad Guerrero. People were waiting on the shore when he emerged from the crowd like some mystic lake creature. A quick scientific take on him might have thought to have made him kin to the Milwaukee Fan of the Game, adorned with jorts and high top sneakers as he was. Yet this was not the case. This FotG had existed in the wild for quite some time, cursing random other men, growing out facial hair, refusing to wear proper amounts of clothing. I first I was hesitant to approach him. I feared how he would react to a slightly more hygienic body entering into his alpha area. As I inched forward, I realized the error of my ways. This was no Fan of the Game, content to stand alone for all the world to see. He was a man of the masses, proudly proclaiming how it took him nine years to earn the handle bar moustache so ornately framing his impressive mandible. Hat in hand, I asked for a photograph with him, adding that I had hoped one day to embody the beard he wore so well. With a quick “Hell, I don’t give a shit. Lets do it.” A fist pump. The camera clicks. A hero captured on film forever.

I shaved my beard the next day, knowing that I would never reach the pinnacle I had witnessed the night before.