To my surprise, much of my working hours at the Reds Hall of Fame and Museum weren’t in the Hall of Fame and Museum, but out in the ballpark. April. July. October. January. I saw all the months, all the seats in all their configurations, all the tarps and all their positions.
No matter when I was in sight of the field, the groundskeepers were there too. I never had to wonder if anyone was babysitting the basepaths or fretting over the length of each individual blade. There was. I cautioned tour groups within an inch of their lives to avoid the grass, not necessarily because I’d been informed to pass this information along, but because I’d seen the crew on hands and knees along the warning track, endlessly grooming, with infant-sized manicure scissors from the looks of it, and woe to the tourist whose Crocs would stomp upon it.