Three generations appreciate the 'Great Eight'

I did not attend my wife's 13th birthday party. There were good reasons, too.

Reason No. 1: I did not know my wife on Oct. 17, 1976.

Reason No. 2: Even if I did, I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to attend Game 2 of the 1976 World Series between my two favorite baseball franchises – the Cincinnati Reds and the New York Yankees.

My children's grandfather and I watched the Reds' "Great Eight" take the field at Riverfront Stadium – only six years from the team's 1970 removal from Crosley Field – on a cold, windy Sunday night game. The first World Series night game was five years earlier, but this one was certainly among the coldest World Series games.

Among the several things I hope to always remember about Oct. 17, 1976 World Series is that my dad insisted that I dress appropriately for the weather. This meant layers of clothing. Longjohns. Check. Three pairs of socks. Check. Toboggan (the winter hat type, not the sled). Check. Gloves. Check. Hooded sweatshirt. Check. Winter coat. Check.

When we left our house near Mowrystown, my body moved in about the same manner of discomfort as Randy (Ralphie's little brother) from "A Christmas Story."

For all the advanced preparation for his son, however, my dad forgot one thing. His own coat.

I'll not argue the exact game-time temperature with anyone. But I was there. The Ohio River winds were rough that night, my friend. My dad was cold. Or at least he ought to have been cold.

Hell, I was cold and I wore more layers than a Tibetan Sherpa.

Dad demonstrated a great big ol' hang with 'em, though.

We took our seats prior to the Yankees' at bat in the top of the first.

Lo and behold (here's our "it's a small world" moment), we were seated in the Stadium Club seats (yellow level) directly behind two of our family friends from Hillsboro: Sam Shepard and Bill Jenkins.

Bill looked back at us and asked: "Charlie, aren't you cold?" to the man without a coat.

"Let's watch the ballgame," the old man said, without so much as a shiver or quiver.

Reds starter Fred Norman (a class act, who I would meet 20 years later at a golf outing with Phil Roberts), retired the Yanks in the top of the first.

In the bottom of the inning, one of my favorite pitchers – Jim "Catfish" Hunter – got leadoff hitter Pete Rose on a hard line drive to deep left. Ken Griffey was out on another long fly to left-center. Joe Morgan then singled up the middle to center. With Tony Perez at bat, Morgan stole second base. Moments later, Perez was out on a pop-up to Craig Nettles at third.

I was almost in shock.

Catfish Hunter had just retired Rose, Griffey and Perez, while stranding Morgan.

"Don't worry about it," my dad said. "We hit the ball hard with every batter. Hunter won't win tonight."

The Reds scored three runs in their next at bat. (Lesson learned: Listen to the old man.)

The Reds, of course, went on to a 4-3 win, as Perez delivered the game-winning RBI in the bottom of the ninth. Jack Billingham picked up the victory in relief. Hunter suffered the loss.

(By the way, former 1990 Reds World Series skipper Lou Piniella batted cleanup for New York that night.)

The Reds' "Great Eight" starting lineup included: Pete Rose, 3B; Ken Griffey, RF; Joe Morgan, 2B; Tony Perez, 1B; George Foster, LF; Johnny Bench, C; Cesar Geronimo, CF; and Dave Concepcion, SS.

Until this weekend, the Great Eight had not been together on a Major League baseball field in Cincinnati since that cold October night in 1976. Until two days ago, I was not aware of this fact.

It just never occurred to me.

But then, I do recall that former Reds GM Dick Wagner had traded Tony Perez to make room for Dan Driessen. Soon, many of the pieces of the real Big Red Machine began to disappear.

A transmission here, a hubcap there. All the parts were deemed too old to perform. (Wagner thought.) Hell, we almost lost Hall of Fame broadcaster Marty Brennaman, thanks to Wagner.

Pete Rose, Tony Perez and Joe Morgan would reunite on the Philadelphia Phillies a few years later. And another World Series, to their credit.

Dave Concepcion and Johnny Bench stuck around until retirement. Ken Griffey moved on, as did George Foster. I'm not sure where or when Cesar Geronimo played his last game.

This weekend, the Great Eight returned to a Major League Baseball field in Cincinnati. The occasion was "Joe Morgan Weekend," and the unveiling of Little Joe's statue at Great American Ball Park.

My oldest daughter was there, as was HCP sports editor Stephen Forsha. That makes me happy. (By the way, Stephen's presence at Reds games almost always results in extra innings.)

Had I known sooner, I may have planned to attend the Great Eight ceremony Friday night. But as my family will tell you, it's hard enough to get me to walk across the road to watch a pissant eat a bale of hay these days.

The 1975 and 1976 Reds won back-to-back World Series. They are the last National League team to accomplish this.

For those of us fortunate enough to have watched the 1975-76 Reds, we realize just how good Sparky Anderson's Boys of Summer were.

My dad always insisted the 1950 New York Yankees was the best team he ever saw in person. On Oct. 17, 1976, he conceded that the 1976 Reds were at least as good, if not better.

I still have my Oct. 17, 1976 World Series Game 2 ticket, as well as my dad's ticket. I will never part with them, although I may bequeath them to my son, with sincere apologies to my daughters. (But Colin earned them: He's the only child I ever hit in the face with a baseball. Like father, like son.)

Go Reds.

Rory Ryan is publisher of The Highland County Press.