Every night, as a kid, I listened to the Reds on 700 WLW. Every night. Without fail.
Some nights, particularly those when the Reds played teams on the west coast, my parents would tell me to go to bed round about the sixth or seventh inning, just as things were getting good.
“Awww, Mom! Come on! Eric Davis is up first next inning. Can’t I just stay up till then?”
“No. Bedtime. Get upstairs.”
It was all a ruse, of course. I had found an abandoned radio in a parking lot down the hill from my house when I was probably too young to be hanging out in old parking lots by myself.