According to the Chinese zodiac, this was the Year of the Dog. If you spent much time at Great American Ball Park, you know it was just a dog of a year. Every game seemed a bark in the park, with too many games off the leash before the first time through the order, with everyone howling by evening’s end. Frustration reached a boiling point. A mere fortnight and a half into it, everyone was done with a season rudely stamped and all-too familiarly stained, attention turning instead to what must be done to make 2019 watchable.
I still have a hard time understanding why so many think the Reds should have turned this around in short order.