The sky was so blue that late summer afternoon as I sat nestled in the upper deck before the 2015 All-Star Game. The fans were in full throat. Reverie was in the air. This was an evening that would burnish a 12-year old Great American Ballpark down to its rebar’d foundation, give it the kind of gravitas Riverfront long ago earned hosting all those important 1970s games. Cincinnati was once again the center of the baseball universe.
It was a perfect day, a celebration of what was billed as the “Franchise Four.” Bench. Larkin. Morgan. Rose. I was particularly amused when the big screen caught Mike Trout observing the proceedings from the rail, with an expression on his young face that seemed to ask, “who are these guys?