It was a Very Goodyear

By: Rich Walburg

Eleven women and me. 

At my workplace, I am diversity. 

Outside of the office, I have a wife, a mother and two dogs, all females. Sure, I have great guy friends, but I don’t see them with the regularity with which I enjoy time with women. 

That’s why I was anxious, in every sense of the word, to visit Goodyear, Arizona for my first Cincinnati Reds Spring Training. I had been invited to join a dozen men in the dry heat. 

Jesus and his 12 male friends had good chats in the desert, but even Christ was known to pull an Irish goodbye, hiking up the mountain for some alone time. And with all of those needy guys asking all of those meaty questions, it’s no miracle that Jesus stepped out of the boat. 

Just hours before the Spring Training trip, I was texting a friend also heading to Arizona. 

“Are you checking a bag?”
“Are you taking swim trunks?”
“Do you have travel-size sunscreen?” 

On a trip full of Tim Allen, I was Woody Allen. 

They are Buzz Lightyear. I am Woody. 

Allen. 

Minus most of the creepy stuff. 

Deplane. Deplane. 

Max & Erma’s pours a lot of Bud Light at 8:46 a.m. The airport refuge was our five-hour distraction from a delayed flight with a mechanical issue. Not an engine issue. Not a problem with landing gear. The latch on a galley cart was busted. 

The delay started as a paperwork issue that grew into a quick-fix and ended with us exiting the aircraft, two hours later, due to a kitchen fixture. We were going to miss an afternoon of sunshine and baseball due to the federal protection of Biscoff. 

The needed latch wasn’t available in Cincinnati. Thankfully, it was being flown in from Atlanta, presumably on the Wright Flyer. 

We arrived in Phoenix just in time to miss whatever game was happening at the Giants ballpark (known for its spectacular views) and decided to focus on basketball broadcast from another city onto our television. The RnR Gastropub in Scottsdale provided indoor/outdoor seating and a 180 square foot video wall.

We were joined in cursing cheering our Bearcats by four San Francisco fans. The ladies at the adjacent table were Gert, Gert, Gert and Marie.

Giving me a complex 

Near the Reds Spring Training facility is the Goodyear airplane graveyard, where aircraft are stored and stripped for parts. We stopped by to pick up a galley latch. 

The eighty-sixed 747s were along our drive to the Cincinnati Reds Player Development Complex. One of the guys on the trip is friends with the guy who was able to get us in touch with the guy who could get us inside. Access for the entire sounder!

You know the strange men who hang around little league fields, peering through the backstop fencing? That was us – only this wasn’t Rumpke Park. We were just feet from Votto, Castillo and Shogo. But even when Joey Votto is close, he seems so distant. 

Baseball players were doing baseball things. Some of them were talking to some of the others, likely sharing tales of pine tar, groupies and sunflower seeds. 

I shook hands with a grown man named Corky. 

Then, it was time to experience a real-live fake baseball game versus Milwaukee. Brewers fans were tailgating outside of Goodyear Ballpark, taunting us. 

“Hope you brought tissues, because you’re going to be crying when the Reds lose.”

After the Reds loss, we made our way to Roman’s Oasis – and no, we didn’t bring tissues, because ew. 

The Oasis, built in the catacombs of a one-story ranch, is spacious, dark and smells like your Aunt Viv’s cellar (not a euphemism). The self-described watering hole features cheap, cold six packs and a corral in the parking lot to tie up your horse. At midnight, you can send your camel to bed. 

Crispety, Crunchety, Peanut Buttery! 

As we were calling it quits for the night, we passed an inebriated guest shaking a candy bar at the hotel desk receptionist. 

“Do you like Baby Ruth?,” he grunted, swaying as he pointed the candy. 

“Do you?” 

“Do you like Baby Ruth?” 

The receptionist finally gave in. “Yes, sir, I like Baby Ruth – but you’re holding a Butterfinger.” 

Live Like You Were Dying 

Look for the window painting of a chimpanzee wearing a crown, smoking a pipe. That’s the Mojo Smoke Palace. Just to the right, its strip-mall neighbor is the Asian massage parlor, Country Spa. Based on its name, we can assume it offers a non-therapeutic exchange with a side of biscuits-n-gravy. 

What you want is to the left. The Mesa Drummer is a Mesa Arizona bar and grill,and our first destination on our last full day of the Spring Training trip. It’s where we wasted a few minutes and fewer dollars before heading to Hohokam Stadium for the Reds at A’s. The Miller Lites were cheap, and the burgers were cooked to order on a cooktop within eyesight, behind the bar. The Drummer is staffed by three women (likely named Linda) and one man (likely named Chad Everett). 

After the game, we were met by a Chevy Flex and our Lyft driver, Francisco. His radio was loud and letting us know that Francisco likes him some Tim McGraw. Unfortunately, for all involved, Francisco’s wife called , and called again – and because the phone was patched through the Flex’s Bluetooth speakers – she was announced by Siri every time. 

🔔 “My baby girl, smiley face, smiley face, smiley face.” 

After 11 missed calls, we were beginning to worry that Francisco’s wife had accidentally lopped off a toe. On the next ring, Francisco answered. 

🔔 My baby girl, smiley face, smiley face, smiley face 

“Hello.”
“No, don’t buy anything until I get home”
“I’m with riders, baby.”
“Just wait ‘til I get home.”
“Don’t buy anything.” 

“-- Call ended --" 

During the remainder of the ride, Francisco’s wife phoned 31 times.

🎶 I went skydiving 🎶 

🔔 “My baby girl, smiley face, smiley face, smiley face.” 

🎶 I went Rocky Mountain climbing 🎶

🔔 “My baby girl, smiley face, smiley face, smiley face.” 

THERE’S NO CRYING 

The biggest take-away from this baseball trip was how little it had to do with baseball. We went to three games in four days but used that time to share stories and hold court. Truth is, we drank more pitchers than we watched. 

There were tales of Pete Rose, Axl Rose, and the wife of a once budding Cincinnati politician. The latter may have been BS. 

The group was comprised of bar owners, homebuilders, broadcasters and plumbers. Many have been friends so long that they refer to each other with names from the childhood knothole field – Jimmy and Donny and Kenny. Others just had nicknames like Snorkel. 

While in Arizona, I learned through social media that my friend, Danny, had passed away at the age of 37. He had tremendous love for his wife, his children and his God. Baseball, beer and sunshine are great – but Love is first and always. 

I was apprehensive about a trip with 12 men, but what they showed me was their brand of kindness. Please don’t let them know that I noticed. 

They walked with me back to the hotel when I knew I had enough. They pointed out old stadia and boarded-up restaurants they used to visit, and they made sure I had my first-ever In-N-Out burger. I was included and it’s appreciated. That’s the special sauce. 

Someday, I hope you get the chance... 

🔔 “My baby girl, smiley face, smiley face, smiley face.”