There’s not a lot to add to what I’ve already typed about Marty here, here, and here, but as the final game approached, I was confident that new material would write itself. It did.
(Note how we professional sportswriters throw all AP style out the window and simply call him “Marty” here at Redleg Nation: We know you know who we mean. That in itself is a tribute.)
Since it’s my job to think about the Reds, I thought I was emotionally immune to Marty’s final game–in a sense I just wanted to get it over with rather than continuing to drag out the lasts and the overwhelming emotion–but then my sister made a long post on Facebook which tagged transistor radios, our grandparent’s back porch, the Corolla we shared, and her renewed gratitude for West Coat games while rocking my then-baby nephews to sleep at night.