Pete Rose and the Reds Room

For those of you who know, I have a fairly significant Cincinnati Reds memorabilia display in my home. My wife calls it a museum. I'll concede it's over the top, and admit that to others as they come to see it. But I'm a fan. I've been a Reds fan since I was a little boy, and the Cincinnati Reds hold a place near and dear to my heart for reasons that go far and beyond simple fandom. Perhaps someday I'll write something explaining that more, but for now, let's just say I'm a big fan.

The room, for me, scratches an itch that I miss about living in Indiana. I had family who lived in Cincinnati as I was growing up, and I spent a lot of time there in my younger days. I still have a cousin of whom I'm very fond who lives there. Being just a couple hours away from Cincy, it was a fairly easy car ride over, and as I grew older and had a family of my own, we would often visit my cousin there, take a quick 2 or 3 day vacation there, or just drive over on a given day and catch a game. Being able to just hop in the car and go to a game there is one of the few things I miss about living in Indiana.

So I brought my memorabilia with me to South Carolina and now have a room completely dedicated to the Cincinnati Reds, simply dubbed, "The Reds Room." In Indiana, my collection wasn't seen as such a big deal, but down here, oh boy, it elicits a wide range of responses from those who see it for the first time, even after I've warned them, "Whatever you have in your mind about what this looks like, I can assure you it's more than that." Most people either cuss, or cry out to Jesus upon seeing it. Some do both.

After the initial shock wears off, almost to a person, they tell me that even if they didn't grow up Reds fans, or even baseball fans, they always loved the Big Red Machine. And they'll mention the names: Johnny Bench, Tony Perez, Joe Morgan, and, of course, Pete Rose. And tell me how much they respected all those guys, even if the Reds weren't their team.

And then, almost without fail, I'll get this question: "What do you think about Pete Rose?"

As you know by now, Pete passed away yesterday. In my mind, especially after Joe Morgan passed a few years ago, I knew it was coming at some point. I mean, all our heroes eventually pass away, don't they? Pete was the eldest of the Big Red Machine guys. Truth is, the Big Red Machine literally began and ended with Pete Rose.

I have very strong opinions about the Pete Rose/MLB saga. Happy to share sometime if you want to hear them. But today? I'm just sad. Very sad.

Some deaths can best be described as just... bummers. Not devastating, per se, although every death could be described that way. Not even overly hurt. But rather, just sad. You're just bummed that somebody is gone. Names like Steve Irwin and Andy Griffith come to mind. Just guys you're just bummed they're not around anymore.

Pete was 83 years old. And if there's one thing you can say about him, he lived a full life. Nobody can say Pete got cheated out of life, in general. And so it's hard to be shocked or devastated anytime someone of advanced age passes when you know they've lived life to the fullest. But Pete was always just... around... even as MLB tried like the dickens for him not to be. And now, he won't be around anymore. That's just a bummer.

Of course, I say that as a fan. If you weren't from Cincinnati, or a Reds fan -- especially as fans of other teams -- you might really not like Pete Rose all that much. And his death may not be the bummer to you it is to me. But I would argue that his fanbase was more dedicated and devoted to Pete Rose than almost any other sports star. Names like Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, Ken Griffey, Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, Tom Brady, and even the likes of Johnny Bench all had massive, dedicated fans. But not like Rose.

Rose was a Cincinnati kid. Hard-nosed, lower class, street kid. Grew up in Cincy. Went to school in Cincy. And played his game harder and with more hustle than virtually anybody who ever played sports. Played it like you would expect a hard nosed street kid would play the game, and then some. None of those other guys grew up in the town in which they became famous. Rose fans weren't just his fans, they were his brothers and his neighbors and his teachers and his friends. He was, quite literally, one of a kind.

Many media outlets are categorizing him as "polarizing" as they announce his passing. I know what they mean, even if they don't, but I'm not sure I agree. Rose's troubles off the field were many, well-noted, and in many cases, really misunderstood. And I could likely write very little that hasn't already been written by others about all that, so I'll just save that discussion for another day. Today is just a day for sadness.

This much is true: for every one of us who ever watched Pete Rose dive headfirst into a base when we were growing up, we simply do not care about all that other nonsense.

As for me, yeah, I'm really bummed today. Rose was not my favorite player on the Reds. But even if he wasn't your "favorite," if you were a Reds fan, you still loved him, and respected him. I can share any number of stories about watching him growing up, but I'll share this one, and maybe -- just maybe -- it will give you a glimpse of what he meant to me as a fan.

In August of 1984, Rose returned to the Reds as player-manager after having played elsewhere for 5 seasons. As a young 8-year old when Rose left the Reds, I vaguely remember being very upset he was leaving, but it took a few more years of growing up to realize his impact on the Reds and the city so that when he returned, I was keenly aware as a now 14-year old the magnitude of the moment. And boy was I excited.

It just so happened I was visiting my aforementioned cousins in Cincinnati the day Rose returned to the Reds. It also happened that for some reason I cannot remember, as the game got underway, I was actually at their home alone. Being in Cincy, the game was on TV and I was watching along with a sold-out crowd at Riverfront Stadium and maybe millions on TV. In my uncle's downstairs living room, by myself, I watched as Rose was introduced for his first at-bat back home, and even at 14 years old, I was choked up.

Batting left handed, Rose leveled the bat, and laced one his patented line-drive singles into centerfield. I jumped up -- again, alone -- and shot my arms up in the air, as the crowd and the announcers went crazy. And then, the ball got past the centerfielder, and 42-year old Pete Rose was off to the races. I jumped up on the couch, and even though he probably didn't have to, Rose dove head first into 3rd base. Rose didn't "slide" head first, ever. He "dove" head first. As pandemonium was breaking out on TV, I was jumping up and down on my uncle's sofa, alone in his living room, screaming at the top of my lungs.

Nearly 20 years later in 2002, at the last event ever held at Riverfront Stadium -- a celebrity softball game featuring a whole host of former big leaguers, including most of the Big Red Machine -- I was in attendance with a sold-out crowd of over 55,000 other fans and watched a then 60-year-old Rose once again dive head first into 3rd base, and was part of what is still to this day the most thunderous ovation I've ever witnessed in person.

Quite simply, you either loved him or hated him, but Rose was one of a kind. And we've never seen the like since. A piece of my childhood is gone now. Other pieces will eventually follow and we'll watch, as we all do, those bits of our past slowly slip away. The debate over Pete Rose is not over, and will surely ramp up over the next few days and weeks. But we'll talk about that later.

Today, I'm just bummed. I'll hang out in my Reds Room a little more over the next few days but, man... what I wouldn't do to be able to jump up and down on my uncle's sofa and watch Rose dive into 3rd base just one more time.

A Friend: Tony West

 I threw up in his car.

And when I say I threw up... I. THREW. UP. This wasn't some small urp in my throat. I completely hosed the inside front of his car, and quite a bit down the outside passenger side once I got the window down. But more about all that later.

I met Tony West on the first day of my sophomore year of high school. I was fortunate enough to have been tabbed as the guitar player for our award-winning high school show choir. Sophomores RARELY made it into the group at all, and I was indeed the only male 10th grader in the group that year.

Tony was a junior, a year older than me, and, up to that point, one of only two freshman to had ever made the group. He was the drummer, and a good one -- to this day, still one of the best I've every played with -- and now, in his third year in the group, a seasoned veteran, as it were.

I walked into the 4th period class that first day of school, and not knowing the protocol, simply sat in one of the empty seats in the choir room. As the performers started straggling in and taking their seats, I finally heard someone from the back yell at me... "Hey! The musicians sit here in the back." It was Tony, along with the senior bass player, Mike Bridgewater. Their statement to me dripped with the disdain of, "oh, the stupid new kid."

I quickly moved to my seat next to Tony, and what developed over the next several weeks and months was a fast, if not odd, friendship that grew strong for the next two years, and then, as quickly as it had started, was over in a flash, to my detriment and through no fault of Tony's.

Although just a year older than me, I looked up to Tony as a mentor. I was solidly wet behind the ears, and yet Tony oozed with a maturity beyond his years. And though I have no idea why, Tony took my under his wing, befriended me, showed me the ropes, ultimately treated me as an equal, and helped me grow up.

First of all... Tony could drive and had a car. As a 15 year old yet to have his driver's license, having a friend with a car was a BIG deal, and Tony would regularly usher me along and invite me on whatever outing he was taking at any given time. We spent a lot of time in that hatchback over the next couple of years.

Tony taught me how to tie a tie. Before our first Spotlighter performance that year, as we were getting dressed for our Fall show, I was fumbling with my tie in the bathroom. Tony, in his frustrated voice, said, "What the hell are doing?" -- a question I would hear often from him. In a whip, he spun me around facing the mirror, and quickly tied my tie into a knot with a simple technique I still use to this day.

Though I'm sure he wouldn't have been overly proud to admit, Tony introduced me to chewing tobacco, which, all things considered, was certainly not the worst thing to which he could have exposed me. Tony loved his Skoal, and while he never pressured me to partake, was more than happy to share from his can if I asked. Which wasn't often, but memorable when I did. (Foreshadow hint!)

One evening, I was riding in the back of his hatchback, while another friend occupied the front passenger seat, and I asked Tony if he had any Skoal with him. "I only have these Bandits. They didn't have any cans at the store today. You can have one if you want." And he handed me a Skoal Bandit. Several minutes later on, I hear Tony's voice boom from the driver's seat. (I'd be lying if I told you the following exchange was verbatim. As it took place 40 years, ago, I may have a few of the details a bit mixed up. But this sums it up pretty good.)

"What the hell are you doing?" I look up to notice he's eyeballing me through the rearview mirror.

"I can't get this stupid little pouch open," I exclaimed.

"Dear God," Tony exhaled. "You don't tear the pouch open, you moron, you put the whole pouch in your mouth and suck on it." I had no idea. I'd never seen a Skoal Bandit, and I just assumed they were little pre-packaged portions of can tobacco. Which they are, of course, but you don't open the pouch to get to the tobacco. The pouch is a akin to a tiny tea bag, and you just pop it in your mouth. I was sufficiently mortified with embarrassment, and it was just another reason to question why Tony hung around with me in the first place.

Tony introduced me to music I'd never heard before. A myriad of classic rock bands I'd simply never listened to before. But mostly, I remember listening to The Doors. Tony loved The Doors. I'd never heard of them. And much to my wife's disappointment, I'm still a Doors fan today. That's because of Tony.

Which mostly highlights the irony of our friendship. Other than being musicians, we had little in common. Tony was not a school jock. I was a hotshot baseball player. Tony and I ran in different circles. We listened to different music. We looked different. We talked different. We acted differently. Being a young teenager not knowing any better, Tony wasn't the kind of guy who I would have immediately gravitated to as a friend. Outside of being thrust together in a choir room, there was no reason for us to bond. And yet we did, and he deserves the most credit for it.

I don't know what he saw in me, but he befriended me. So much so that when he graduated high school the following year, I openly wept as we hugged after his graduation. He was truly one of my best friends at that time, and I knew I would seriously miss not having him around during my senior year of school. And I did. Spotlighters simply was not as much fun without him.

And then, just like that, it was over. We bumped into each other a time or two over the next year, and at a couple friends' weddings, but that was it. I honestly don't think I ever saw him again after that. There's no one to blame, although I'll gladly bear it. We simply moved on with our lives. I was seriously dating my future wife by that time. I was in a regularly gigging band. I went off to college, then started a career and a family. He lived his life as well. I can only assume he continued to be the same cool dude I'd known him to be.

For most of the next 30 years, I stayed in our hometown, and Tony lived just a couple towns over, but we never reconnected, outside of social media. I moved to South Carolina eight years ago, and as friends on Facebook, we occasionally commented on the other's posts, but had no serious conversations. A couple years ago, he sent the sweetest private message to my wife congratulating her on her weight loss journey, which was somewhat out of the norm as we didn't carry on any regular relationship, and yet typical Tony, just being nice to someone even when it wasn't necessary.

I regret not meeting his wife and kids. I take that blame. It would have been a pleasure, and I would have told them this story:

It was our first year in Spotlighters together, and the previous day -- a Saturday -- we had traveled to Piqua, Ohio, for our first show choir competition, and we won the Grand Championship. As Piqua was just a few hours away, it was only a day trip for our group, but we didn't return home until about 3:00 that Sunday morning. I crashed asleep, and woke back up around 10:00 am, having slept so hard I actually had a head ache -- much like I hear from people with hangovers, though I wouldn't know personally because I don't drink alcohol and have never been drunk in my life.

About 10:30, my house phone rang and it was Tony on the other line, sounding as hungover as I felt, and asking me if I wanted to ride along with him as he was going to go out shopping for new speakers for his car. I said sure, and before he arrived, I scarfed down a couple slices of cold pizza I found in the fridge left over apparently from the night before.

Tony arrived and I hopped in. The speaker shops Tony was hoping to visit ended up being closed as it was a Sunday. So we ended up hitting a couple places looking for a trench coats, of all things. And hour or so into the trek, I asked Tony to share some of his chewing tobacco. He gave me a pinch of Skoal, and I chewed on it briefly, but I didn't enjoy it, and spit it out after just a few minutes.

We finally ventured into an open flea market on West Washington Street in Indianapolis -- not a high-rent market, if you catch my drift. I'm sure my Indy peeps know the one of which I speak. We strolled around inside, and I took a refreshing drink from their water fountain in the back of the building. After several minutes, bored, worn out, and trench-coatless, we left and headed for home.

About 10 minutes into the drive home, it happened: Very suddenly, I didn't feel well. I looked at Tony and said, "Man, I don't feel too good." And almost before I could finish the sentence, I spewed forth. In a panic, not knowing what else to do, I thrust my hands to my mouth, which did little else but make the spray spread laterally.

Tony exclaimed, "Shit! Roll down the window." Which I was already trying to do as the excitement mounted. Not before I had hosed most of the inside front of the car, I got the window down and hung my head out the window. As Tony desperately tried to find a place to pull over, I finished up by spewing down the side of his car as well.

Tony finally got the car pulled over, and we both sat in stunned silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally able to compose myself, I immediately began apologizing. Not only was the entire dash covered, and windows splattered, but the floorboard where I sat was filled an inch or so deep. As I apologized further, Tony sat in a daze and finally said in the most hurt voice possible, "I've never had anybody puke in my car before, let alone on me." I looked and Tony had indeed not dodged the line of lateral fire, and his right leg was pretty soaked.

Inexplicably, in a mystery I haven't been able to solve to this day, but in the world's largest stroke of luck, the only thing Tony had in his car that day besides us and a can of Skoal was several new, freshly washed and folded large beach towels in the hatchback. Why? I have no idea and he didn't explain. And there, on the side of the road, we began to sop up the mess with those beach towels. Every couple minutes I would hear Tony exclaim from his side of the car, "Oh God, gross, there's more under here!" Every time a beach towel became completely sogged, it was discarded into the ditch. And that went on until every towel was used up.

And yes, Tony left every one of those brand new, now-destroyed beach towels in that ditch to rot forever.

On the way home, the car reaking, and our clothes sufficiently stained, I continued to apologize. And I asked him, "C'mon, Tony, this is embarrassing man. Don't tell anybody about this."

"I won't," he assured me, though his frustration with me was palpable in his voice. The mood lightened a bit by the time we got home, and he dropped me at my house. I offered again to help clean up anything further. He assured me he'd take care of the rest of it when he got home we'd never speak of it again.

The next morning at school, as I walked to my locker upon arriving, no less than three different people passed by and said something to the effect of, "Hey Paul... puke in anybody's car lately?" Apparently, Tony took the opportunity to phone anyone he could later on after we got home to tell the tale, despite his promise to me not to do so. I couldn't complain. Had to admit I deserved it. But there was one more humiliation to suffer...

Moments after arriving at my locker, I turned to a tap on my shoulder to come face-to-face with Tony, who had a very unpleasant look on his face. In his most deadpanned, disdained voice, with no, "Hey, how ya feelin'?" he drolled... "Don't ever... try to... dilute the smell... of puke... with Lysol."

"Oh, Tony... no."

"Oh yeah... when I got home," he explained, "I cleaned a few up a few more spots and thought I'd try to get the smell out of the car. So I sprayed down the inside with Lysol and closed it up for the night. This morning, when I opened the door, the car REAKED of puke AND Lysol. It was worse than yesterday!"

And just for good measure, since it was winter time, he shared that when he turned on his defroster that morning, some remnants of the previous day's festivities blasted forth from the register on to the windshield. He was still totally disgusted and I was totally mortified.

And that was that. In the following days and weeks, there was some debate as to the cause. I was sure it was a combination of the tobacco and cold pizza, but Tony was convinced it was bad water from the fountain at the flea market. According to him, he'd had another buddy who'd gotten sick after drinking from that same fountain. As time went on, it because just another funny story, though Tony stayed pretty disgusted by it for some time.

To this day, I tell people I've got to be the only guy on the planet who's never been drunk to both puke in a buddy's car, AND have to take a breathalyzer test. Some other day, I'll tell you about the breathalyzer.

An now Tony's gone, and I strangely miss him. Maybe nostalgia from bygone days... maybe. But I miss a long-ago friend, and I'm sorry I didn't make more of an effort. I feel like Tony and I would still have gotten along well, and it would have been nice to spend time with each other's families. I blame me.

So rest in piece brother. Maybe again, someday.

Next time, I'll clean up.

How did I know?

Mere days after Donald Trump won the 2016 election, I predicted his next opponent for President in 2020 would be a black woman. I felt so strongly that I bet someone a $250 steak dinner on it. In 2018, I was convinced it would be Kamala Harris, and I almost placed a bet on her at the Bellagio Sports Book in Las Vegas. Not totally understanding how professional betting works, I ultimately passed on making the bet.

Of course, we all know now, in the interest of full disclosure and ultimate humility, I ended up being wrong. But BARELY.

In fact, after Biden was crowned the nominee in 2020, I STILL predicted he'd either bow out before the election, or would most surely pick a black woman as his running mate. And on that, I was right. When Kamala Harris was the first candidate of any gender or race to withdraw from the primary cycle of 2019/2020, I was not convinced she wouldn't be on the ticket in some capacity. Even after all my Democrat friends told me, "Paul, she's out. Nobody likes her," (irony-intended) I still replied, "No, it ain't over. I'm betting Kamala is on the ticket."

Flash forward to 2023. As 2023 was drawing to a close, and it was looking more and more like Joe Biden would run unopposed in the primaries, I again predicted there was no way the Democrats would run Joe Biden in 2024. I told anyone who would listen. My friends and acquaintances have heard me droll on about it for almost a year now... "Not a chance Joe Biden is the Dem nominee in 2024."

I explained again and again: I fully believed the Dems would allow Joe Biden to go thru the primaries unopposed, and then would either be removed beforehand, or would step down during the convention so the party could then choose their nominee without leaving it in the hands of the voters. If I said it once, I said it a hundred times.

Ask anyone who knows me.

It's hard on me being right all the time.

Which begs the question: Why was I right? How did I know all this? How did I know that a black woman would either be the nominee or at least on the ticket in 2020? Especially Kamala Harris -- even after her horrid primary campaign in 2019?

And how did I know the Democrats would do exactly what they've ended up doing with Joe Biden? A full year before they did it?

How did I know all that?

Do I have special prognosticative powers? Am I psychic? Do I know a Washington insider, much less a Democrat insider? Am I someone special who can see and figure out things other people can't?

And why me? Some nobody born and raised in Indiana, now wasting away in Margaritaville? A hopeless Cincinnati Reds fan who can't run a washing machine?

I'm not a political insider. I've never run for office. I don't have any sort of political science degree, or otherwise any other political experience. And no... I'm not a psychic and I don't have any special powers.

Simply put... I'm nobody special. And I didn't see anything anybody else couldn't see if they just paid attention.

And that's what I do: I pay attention. I watch what's going on. I strive to be an informed voter. I watch the news and check a variety of news sources. But I don't blindly follow one over another and swallow hook, line, and sinker everything they tell me. I don't mind saying that after 54 years of life, I've come to know some news outlets are better than others, and end up being more truthful and factual than others, but I'll leave that debate for another time.

I watch what's going on around me. I pay attention to what my leaders -- those I support and those I don't -- tell me. And then I see if they follow thru. I look at the big picture. I don't look at single events. I look at events in context to other events. I watch for trends, practices, paths. I watch to see how one event precedes or follows another, and how they play off each other. I listen to what they say, and then I watch what they do.

See, this isn't a commentary on the policies. Make no mistake... I have strong feelings and opinions about the policies, but the policies are irrelevant in this matter. The question is why can some dopey guy in Bluffton, SC, with no political background tell you what the Democrat party is gonna do a year before they do it?

Sadly... the political arena in general has become very predictable over the past several years. However, during a climate where a non-political, non-insider businessman can come in and completely turn one party on it's ear, and fundamentally change the way Washington works, he simultaneously has made the Democrat party more predictable than ever.

I watched events play out with Barack Obama -- a political outcome that couldn't have been more predictable -- and I watched how they ditched Hillary Clinton in 2008 only to groom her for eight years to set her up for 2016. In that context, the moment Donald Trump rode down the Trump Tower elevator in 2015, I knew he'd win. When everybody else thought it was a joke, I called my son the very next day and told him Donald Trump would be the next President.

I'm not bragging or boasting -- indeed, I'm rather shocked more people haven't been clued in to what's going on. Bigger still -- I'm stunned the Dems and their media minions still can't see how Donald Trump played them all then, and is still playing them today. Perhaps one of these days I'll write a blog explaining how I know these things. But if others would just open their eyes, see the big picture, and pay attention -- and, more importantly, quit ignoring or outright denying the facts before them -- they could see it too.

The lefts hatred for and in turn, fear of Donald Trump is unprecedented. Whether you hate him or love him, you have to admit that what he's been thru in the past eight years has no rival in our presidential history. For four years, they made up every lie they could about Trump. From fake dossiers, to Russian collusion, to inane impeachment allegations, they threw everything at their political opponent that would have otherwise taken down any normal politician. When that didn't work, they created and manipulated a worldwide pandemic to unconstitutionally change election laws to literally steal an election.

In the four years since, when most new administrations simply move on from former presidents, they continued to pursue Trump to a degree never seen in American politics. From falsely prosecuting his supporters, to falsely prosecuting him, to attempting to unconstitutionally remove him from ballots, to -- dare I say it -- a failed assassination attempt, they're desperate in a way we've never seen.

In THIS context, how they're eating their own and the paths they take are evident months, sometimes years ahead of time. In their claims to "preserve democracy," they have, in reality, highjacked democracy. After 8 years, I saw it coming a mile away. I just paid attention.

For your own good, I would suggest you do too.

And you heard it here first... in 2028, the Dems will run a gay man for President.

A Shrine to Plummer... and a Nod to Bobby

So, back in the mid 2000’s, I met and had the pleasure of working with one of the most talented musicians I’ve ever worked with in central Indiana. He had been a child prodigy at one point, and had actually played stadium organ with the Indianapolis Indians at only 9 years old! Weeks into our friendship, he found out I was a big Reds fan, and commented, as many people do, how big a fan he had been of the Big Red Machine growing up as a young boy. He told me Johnny Bench was his favorite player growing up.

He went on to relay a story to me that his father had taken him to his first Reds game sometime in the mid ’70’s, and he was so excited to get to see his idol, Johnny Bench play. He said, “I got to the game and looked around to see Johnny on the field, and I looked down the base line to the bullpen, and I see some guy named “Plummer” catching!”

I said, “Yeah, Bill Plummer.”

“You know who Bill Plummer is?”

“Of course I do,” I commented. “In fact, I may be one of the few people you’ll ever meet who knows who Bill Plummer is, but he was Bench’s backup in those days.”

“Yeah, well, imagine my disappointment,” my buddy complained, “to go to my first Reds game to see Johnny Bench play, and some weirdo named “Plummer” is catching. I never did see Bench the whole game!”

I laughed and jokingly teased him that he just happened to be at one of maybe three or four games Plummer ever played. It was a funny moment for both of us.

Flash forward about a year. I’m attending RedsFest, and as you may or may not know, autographs for Reds players are free once you pay your admission. So after years of attending the fan festival, I’d never had to pay for a single Reds autograph. However, this particular year, a local non-profit that had a booth set up had none other than Bill Plummer in the booth signing autographs for charity, and they were charging $20 for a signature and photograph. I told my wife, “I’m gonna get Plummer’s autograph and give it to my buddy as a gag gift.” So I did. I paid $20 for Bill Plummer’s autograph — the only Reds player autograph I have ever paid for in my life — and made sure my wife got a picture of him signing his name.

I bought a black and white Plummer 8x10 at another booth, and when I got home, I assembled the 8x10, the autograph, a 1978 Plummer Topps card and the picture of him signing into a frame. At our next band practice, I eagerly approached my buddy and told him I had procured him a gift from RedsFest. Excited it might be some Bench memorabilia, I instead handed him the Plummer frame. I exclaimed that he is now in possession of what might possibly be the only Bill Plummer shrine ever assembled. BIG laffs! And a big hug. He loved the gag, and the gift, and we laughed about it time and again.

Flash forward another three years. At 47 years old, my friend tragically died from a massive and very sudden heart attack. Having been summoned to his home by his family as one of his close friends, I was walking around his house in a grief-ridden fog. I strolled through his bedroom, and on top of his dresser I saw three items… One was a Colts football signed by Peyton Manning. Another was a signed photo of an Indiana Pacer who I cannot remember now. And in between them both was the 8x10 shrine of Bill Plummer. I’m tearing up now writing this as I did at that moment I saw the picture.

I walked outside and spoke to my buddy’s father-in-law, a local pastor and another dear friend of mine. I told him about the picture and that I didn’t want things to be odd, but I’d like to have it back if and when the family decided it was OK. He said to me, “Paul, nobody knows anything about that picture. Go take it now. No one here is going to be bothered by that.”

I took it home with me, and it hung in my Reds Room in Indy, and I am proud to say it now hangs right by the door in a very prominent place in my Reds Room here in South Carolina. It was one of the first pieces to go up when I moved here seven years ago and it is one of my most prized pieces. I’ve included a picture of it here for you to see. Perhaps you’ll find it as amusing as we did.

I share this with all due respect to Bill Plummer, who had a fine MLB playing and coaching career, and will live forever in our hearts as a special member of the BRM. My sympathies and prayers go out to his family at his loss. For me, seeing the glee on my buddy’s face as an adult at my gift after what must had been a massive disappointment as a young boy in not getting to see his idol play is one of the most cherished memories I have.

Thanks, Bill. Maybe say Hi to Bobby for me.