A letter from Jason Cohen, a ''diehard, ultimate Reds fan'' in Monterey, Calif., says Marge Schott has turned Cincinnati's treasured baseball history into ''a tradition of having the most classless and poorly run organization in baseball, and in all of professional sports for that matter.''
Whew. That's saying a lot, even if you only compare the Reds to the referee-shoving L.A. Lakers or the coke-sniffing, ''South America's team'' Dallas Cowboys.
At the opposite end of the mailbox, with postmarks from Mars, are letters from local Margeophiles who are more loyal to Mrs. Schott than her own dog. If Mrs. Schott were caught tomorrow feeding orphans to her St. Bernard, by Friday we would get letters saying, ''Get off her back - she's just being Marge.''
My own opinion is that you should go to the horse's, err, mouth. More than you ever wanted to know about Marge is told in her own colorful words:
''Only fruits wear earrings.''
''Well . . . you're all Italian, you must be in the Mafia.''
She called Reds players ''million-dollar niggers.''
''I'm sick of that stadium thing,'' she said, just before taxpayers voted to generously build her a free ballpark. ''I have one question. Why do the Cincinnati Bengals need a stadium for 10 games a year? It makes no sense.''
''I don't believe it, snow this morning and now this. I don't believe it,'' she said, when umpire John McSherry keeled over with a heart attack and died on Opening Day. ''I feel cheated. . . . Nobody feels worse than me.''
And finally: ''I've got the worst publicity department in the United States of America.''
That last remark might be in the same county with reality. I don't suppose America's publicity all-stars are waiting in line to work for an extravagantly cheap tyrant who hands out stale candybars for Christmas bonuses and lops off heads like the Queen of Hearts having a bad day.
On the other hand, anyone doing public relations for Marge Schott deserves the kind of medal you'd give to O.J. Simpson's dating service or the Unabomber's barber. There's only so much you can do with the raw materials.
And in the case of Marge, we're talking totally uncooked. Her public comments are so raw they couldn't pass an FDA poultry inspection during a government shutdown. Forget the publicity department - she should be followed by a team in asbestos suits, standing by with flamethrowers to decontaminate her salmonella statements before they can spread an epidemic of national nausea.
Cincinnati probably fidgets too much about what ''everyone'' thinks. But in the case of Marge, we can't worry too much.
Mr. Cohen said in his letter that he wears a Reds hat ''everywhere I go.'' So he probably knows as well as anyone what ''everyone'' thinks. And he says, ''newspapers, television shows and fans everywhere think of the Cincinnati Reds and only think of Marge Schott.''
Brrrrr. If that's not enough to give Cincinnati seizures, imagine spending $250 million on a classy new ballpark - for the same deadbeat who won't pay her rent in the old one. It's like finding a puddle of oil under your new car.
No way. I'd much rather look forward to the day when I can get off Ronald Reagan Highway, drive past the Aronoff Center for the Arts, cruise down Pete Rose Way and pull up to . . .
Marge Schott Stadium.
Wait - before you lunge for an airsickness bag and start yawning in Technicolor, think about it. It makes sense.
Marge Schott was the first woman owner of a Major League team. She rescued our Reds when they were slipping away, first with sky-banner heckling, then with her checkbook. She has given Cincinnati a lot of winners. It's hard for newcomers like me to believe now, but she was such a genuine local hero that a 1984 Enquirer story saluted her takeover as a ''Breath of fresh air,'' saying, ''Schott is a reporter's dream. She's always quotable, always available and always interesting.''
Even after she started digging a trench with her tongue, cheaping out on Reds employees and raiding the till, Cincinnati took the attitude of a headline over a 1986 column by Tim Sullivan: ''Forgive her faults, we need Marge.''
But now the ''breath of fresh air'' has gone rancid like an unemptied ashtray. The ''reporter's dream'' is a civic nightmare who could make Morley Safer long for a ''no comment.''
So here's the deal: If she agrees to relinquish dictatorship of the Reds, Cincinnati can show its gratitude by naming our new ballpark Marge Schott Stadium.
Putting ''Marge Schott'' on the ballpark instead of the evening news might remove some of the stubborn stains from her name - and Cincinnati's.
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The Enquirer. If you have questions or comments, call 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.
