As I write these words, there are fewer than 24 hours before the start of my 55th birthday. Double nickels with only a few signs of slowing down. In addition, looking backward, we are fewer than 24 hours away from the 2023 Cincinnati Reds being mathematically eliminated from the baseball playoffs. The fact that it took 161 games to reach that point is something that no amount of birthday wishes would have made seem possible back when the season began. But these words will not be spent reviewing the Reds’ record or dreaming about what might have been. Instead, let’s consider heroes. 

I have spent the overwhelming majority of these past 55 years being a fan of baseball and, more specifically, the Cincinnati Reds. As a (mostly) lifelong resident of Columbus, Ohio, just about smack dab between Cincinnati and Cleveland, I have often been asked how I chose my allegiance. I respond that it’s actually quite simple when one considers what was happening along the Ohio River versus Lake Erie baseball-wise in the mid-1970s. I have been told my imaginary friends’ names were Johnny Bench and Pete Rose. My grandmother loved to tell stories about me providing play-by-play commentary when we watched The Big Red Machine games on television. On my seventh birthday, the Reds had already won 108 games and were getting ready to sweep past Pittsburgh and then win one of the most famous and dramatic World Series ever played. In Little League, when at bat, I pumped my back elbow like Joe Morgan. Does that make me a frontrunner or a bandwagon-jumper? Maybe. Were they my heroes? Certainly.

Years passed, and these players moved on. Later, some of their reputations were tarnished. But new stars and new teams came along. I watched every inning of the 1990 World Series in my college apartment, cheering for players like Eric Davis, Jose Rijo, and Barry Larkin. About the same time, the son of one of those 1976-’76 Reds began to make a name for himself. I still marveled at their talents and their exploits, but there were lots of other things that garnered my attention. There was a wife and kids. Jobs. Concerts. Responsibilities. There was also the baseball strike, steroid users, and lots of other real-world type things that dimmed my enthusiasm. Life, and heroes, are a lot simpler when you’re seven.

Then Joey Votto arrived in Cincinnati at the end of the 2007 season. As someone who always played first base himself, I paid extra attention to whoever held that position for the Reds. (I still will argue that history doesn’t give Hal Morris his due.) But Votto would have found my spotlight no matter where he played. He hit with machine-like efficiency, an artistic flair, and possessed an uncanny sense of the strike zone. It felt like something special was on its way.  

It was a Saturday night in September 2010 when two eras of my fandom collided. The family and I headed south to catch the Reds against the Pirates. For the first time, MLB was going to allow Pete Rose to be honored in person inside the stadium. To be honest, I don’t remember if we had chosen to attend that game because of this event, or if it was just a surprise announced after we had our tickets. Regardless, we were there in the left-field seats to watch Rose ride around the field in a golf cart as well as nine innings of deadlocked baseball. With the score tied, my fan-brain quickly gave way to my father-brain which was mentally plotting ways to keep everyone engaged in the game and trying not to think about the two-hour drive to get back home. I didn’t need to worry. In the bottom of the tenth inning, Votto hit his first career walk-off homer. I screamed myself hoarse. Not only did he win the game, he got us on the road as quickly as possible. For that feat alone, he deserved the MVP award he would win that season. I had a new hero.  

Watch Reds vs Pirates 09/11/2010

Votto continued to be one of the best players in the league, but there was little postseason success for the team, and the Reds’ record plummeted after 2013. Fan frustration grew. Votto kept on hitting, but now when he spoke about the science of his hitting approach, cranks and grouches just pointed at the team record and Votto’s contract. Getting on base is fine and all, but they wanted wins. Did they think the players didn’t? 

Even with his early batting success, one of the first times Votto received his most widespread attention was when he missed a series of games while facing anxiety and depression after his father passed away. I’m sure players in the past had done the same before under the guise of a few days off, or resting some other mystery ailment. But I couldn’t remember any other player saying as much publicly. And while such issues are thankfully more accepted and understood now, I do remember the eye-rolls and gripes from fans that figured he could just suck it up and hit. Is it any wonder that Votto, a thoughtful introvert by nature, might withdraw further? He did. But then he didn’t.

Many writers who are much better than I have written about the caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation of Joey Votto’s public image in recent years. (Click here or here.) What teammates and others behind the scenes knew, suddenly was on display as Votto became less interested in dodging spotlights. He spent more time in Spring Training signing baseballs for kids. When injured, he roamed the stadium during games or camped out behind a microphone in the broadcast booth. He quietly continued his visits to children in the hospital. He learned chess. He took improv classes. He faked tossing foul balls to fans in the seats. He chucked other foul balls up into the higher decks. He reveled in the youthful energy of this year’s teammates. He inspired “Joey Votto Still Bangs” t-shirts.    

As I write these words, on a shelf above my monitor sits bobbleheads of Tony Perez, Ken Griffey, Jr., and Joseph Danial Votto. (There’s also one of James Thurber, but that’s not the point.) Hanging on the back of my chair is a Votto City-Connect jersey; the only jersey I’ve ever bought in my life. These words are not to debate if Votto should come back to the Reds next year (though I hope with all my heart he will) or argue if he belongs in the Baseball Hall of Fame (he does). They are not about whether he took too many walks (he didn’t) or if the Reds’ organization wasted Votto’s prime by not building a constant contender around him (they did). It’s about the fact that, as I’m not getting any younger, I want to publicly celebrate the man who will be one of the last heroes - maybe the last hero - I ever have. 

I’ve been plotting what I wanted to say with these words over the last few days. I didn’t want to lean on his mountains of impressive statistics. I didn’t want to rehash his heroics or fall into mawkish praise for his playing the game and living his life the right way. For all the tangible reasons that exist to admire him, I think so much of what other fans like me feel boils down to “if you know, you know.”

Then, just a few hours ago, before the second inning in what might have been his final professional baseball game, Joey Votto was ejected by the umpire for arguing balls and strikes. It didn’t matter that the computer overlay showed he was correct (reminding me of another great t-shirt sometimes seen around Reds’ games: “If Joey Votto Didn’t Swing, It Wasn’t A Strike.”). On social media and in interviews after the game, he apologized to the fans who came to see him play and said he needed to keep his emotions in check. It certainly wasn’t the standing ovation he received after hitting a typical Votto single up the middle in his last game in Cincinnati last weekend. If this is indeed the end, it would be a unique closure for one of the game’s most unique players. Plus, it provided me with a solid conclusion for these words. 

That’s my hero. - James Baumann