After eight months of saying I was going to do it (with many unforseen delays along the way), I have finally shown my love for the Reds, permanently.  Nothing says 'I love a baseball team' like a lifelong scar, huh?

For the longest time, I couldn't decide which 'Mr. Redlegs' design I would go with.  At first, I leaned towards the 'running' Mr. Red from the 90s, and then I was going to go with the current design.  Then, I found this site (www.crosley-field.com), which has several versions which date back fifty years... and I decided I would go with an older version of mascot.

So, there you have it - even if the Reds don't win ever again, and even if Jay Bruce and Joey Votto drop dead and the Reds sign Dusty Baker to a 30 year contract, or even if the Reds were to be contracted, I'm a fan for life!

Life has a funny way of teaching certain lessons.  I spent the last four days in Las Vegas - as it turns out, being a minister does have some perks.  Because of my ability to perform a legal wedding, the wife and I were able to enjoy an all expenses paid trip to Sin City, and all I had to do was about thirty minutes of work (counting the rehearsal and the ceremony).  What a country.  At any rate, as we were trying to find the mythical 'good deal' on dinner on Friday night, my wife discovered an add in a book of coupons:

MEET THE HIT KING!  PETE ROSE AT FIELD OF DREAMS THURSDAY-SUNDAY!

After finishing my naked dance of glee (don't ask), we sauntered over to the aforementioned store to get the scoop.  Yes, Pete Rose would be at the Caesar's Palace mall Saturday from noon to six.  Yes, I could meet him.  Yes, I'm a giant nerd, as this was the highlight of my weekend.

So, there it was Saturday, and I was at the shop, $70 8x10 photo in hand, dutifully waiting for my father's hero (his heroes are more impressive than mine.  Bret Boone and Reggie Sanders are not quite the Big Red Machine...).  At 12:07 sharp, Pete and his Barbie doll girlfriend finally showed (that's not a joke - she was around six foot, 125 pounds, and made almost entirely of plastic), and my fifteen seconds on the clock began.

Pete generally ignored my wife and I, not even looking up when asking who to sign the photo to.  I stuttered, 'To Drew, Stephanie and Griffey - Griffey is our dog.  He's named after Junior.  We're big Reds fans.'  I assume by the fact that Pete didn't respond that he thought it was cool to meet Reds fans in Nevada, and that's when a fantastic lesson hit me in the face - Pete had a question:

"How do you spell 'Griffey'?"

I pretty much lost it at that point - here was the self proclaimed 'Best Hitter of All Time,' and he was asking how to spell 'Griffey.'  There was only two options as to why this occurred:

1.) He had failed to hear me explain the origin of our dog's name; or, 2.) He's a complete moron.

Either way, I found it somewhat satisfying that a man who was still trying to make a buck on his accomplishments from thirty years ago couldn't spell the name of a legitmate Hall of Famer, not to mention the son of a teammate.  Maybe I'm a horrible person, or maybe it's just nice to know that even if I can't hit a baseball, I stil got a chance to correct the spelling of the best.