Friday, April 23, 1999
All that's left for Schott is an apology
BY PAUL DAUGHERTY
The Cincinnati Enquirer
They opened the doors to the Cincinnati Reds offices Tuesday, and the last 14 years blew out like an ill wind. Marge Schott was out. At 100 Cinergy Field, you could practically touch the relief.
The public doesn't know the half of dealing with or working for Marge. The public never will. It's barely relevant now. Schott is gone. All that needs deciding is if she keeps her 21 blue seats, an office at the stadium and her place in the Findlay Market parade.
Give her the seats and be done with it. Don't let her be the Reds' mascot. This isn't meanness. It's the desperate need for the Reds to move on.
It is time to bring the joy of the game back to its oldest professional city. It's time to resume the business of making Reds baseball important again.
The damage done
There used to be no baseball place like this. In the late 80s, the Dodgers would come in for the weekend, and it was all anyone wanted to talk about. The Reds would draw 35,000 Friday, 40,000 Saturday and 45,000 Sunday afternoon.
Now, people working for companies with free tickets give those tickets away. If they can. It's time to move on.
Lots of events have conspired to put this franchise in an unacceptable hole. The strike. Exploding salaries. A devastated farm system, the inexplicable departures of Lou Piniella and Davey Johnson, the classless ouster of Tony Perez, the stadium debate. You name it, this team has suffered it. But the one ongoing, spirit-sapping illness came from the big office at 100 Cinergy. Time to move on.
Baseball is not a diversion here. It's not some beer-drinking, beach ball-bopping party. Other places, people go to ballgames the way they go to a movie. If you've ever been to Dodger Stadium or Coors Field, you know what I'm talking about.
They don't take the game personally.
We take it personally.
Time for the healing to begin.
Schott can help. She can put a shine to a corner of her discredited legacy. She can apologize. That's right. She can say, “To everyone I've demeaned and mistreated, I am sorry.”
Nothing is so redemptive as an apology. Look what it did for Clinton. Look what it could have done for Pete Rose.
Hard to say "I'm sorry'
She can apologize to Eric Davis for not sending him an airplane in Oakland, for calling him a million-dollar you-know-what and for having him wear those stuffed dog ears at a press conference. Especially for having him wear the stuffed dog ears.
To Dave Parker.
To Bill Reik, Billy Hatcher and Lou Piniella. After sweeping Oakland to win the '90 World Series, the Reds returned to their hotel hungry. There was no food, though, only an open bar. Schott had sent the hotel's kitchen staff home.
Reik, now a majority partner; Hatcher, who had seven straight hits in the Series, and Piniella made a trip to a local fast-food joint. They bought burgers for the team.
Win a world title, get some fries. Damnedest thing I ever heard.
Sorry to Bob Quinn, for making him pay his own way to the All-Star Game and for making him scoop Schottzie's poop in the Reds offices. Really.
To Cam Bonifay, Chuck LaMar and every other scout who “watched ball games.”
To those same scouts who, when traveling for the club, had to wash their clothes at a laundromat and plop quarters into motel pay phones because Schott wouldn't pay for in-room local calls.
To every Reds coach who had to share one rental car with three or four other coaches at spring training.
To Johnson and Piniella, who wanted to stay.
Sorry.
To Jon Braude.
To whatchamadoodle.
To everyone who deserved better, which was just about everyone who ever worked for her.
Schott could apologize and leave us with a good memory. Probably she won't. More's the pity.
Goodbye, Mrs. Schott. Thank you. Please leave gracefully.
Enquirer columnist Paul Daugherty welcomes your comments at 768-8454.
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