Storm Doesn’t Dampen Reign of Reds’ Parade

It was like a scene out of a Woody Allen movie. The fans were celebrating. The scoreboard was flashing. The TV cameras were ready.

The field, with the exception of a wet tarp, was empty.

Perhaps it was only fitting that the Cincinnati Reds--the team that since the first of June had lost one game more than it had won but watched everyone fall apart trying to catch them--learned that they won the National League West Saturday while sitting in the clubhouse during a rain delay.

The Reds, trailing, 3-1, in the seventh inning to the San Diego Padres, were watching the Boston-Toronto game on television when it happened. Someone, no one remembers who, was listening to the Reds’ broadcast during the rain delay when the announcement came across the airwaves.

San Francisco 4, Dodgers 3.

The Reds, at 6:05 p.m. local time, were champions.

“Hey, no one said it was going to be pretty, and maybe the way we won it was pretty ugly,” Red pitcher Jose Rijo said. “But we won it. We finally won it.

“And you know, no one’s going to remember how we won it 50 years from now anyway.”

The news spread quickly through the crowd of 37,133, most of whom were under cover near the concession stands. Soon, fans emerged, tipping plastic cups of beer at one another. Shrieks of glee could be heard throughout the stands.

Yet there still was no official word on the Riverfront Stadium scoreboard, which was showing highlights of the 1970 World Series. The last Dodger score shown on the scoreboard was in the sixth, with the Giants leading, 4-2.

The delay apparently had been orchestrated by Marge Schott, the Reds’ owner. She instructed stadium officials before the game to delay updates of the Dodger game for several innings. If the Reds were going to win the title, she said, they were going to win it in style.

When the rain began at 5:27, and when home-plate umpire Dana DeMuth ordered the tarp to be placed on the field, Schott had no choice. You can hold back history only so long.

Finally, at 6:09, the scoreboard let everyone in on the news, showing the linescore of the Dodger game.

And just in case there was a soul in this town who didn’t understand the implications, one minute later, it came across the board: 1990 National League Western Division Champions.

The leader, as they say on the PGA Tour, was in the clubhouse.

It hardly mattered to Red fans, who have been awaiting this celebration for 11 years. They simply stood in the rain, laughing, cheering an empty tarp.

Three minutes later, some Reds appeared on the field, with Rob Dibble and Herm Winningham leading the entourage.

The only element missing from the Reds’ celebration was Schott. Where was the woman who has turned this town upside down?

She finally was discovered outside the press box, kicking the daylights out of the elevator door and screaming: “Where’s the . . . I want to be on the field now!”

Finally, the elevator door opened, she got in and moments later, at 6:16, there was Scott and her dog, Schottzie, parading around the field. Soon, reliever Randy Myers emerged, hugging Schott and patting Schottzie. There was Manager Lou Piniella, hugging the owner, but trying to ignore Schottzie. There was Schott leading her manager by the hand around the stadium, blowing kisses to the crowd. And there was Schottzie, holding up the procession, pausing by the Padre dugout to relieve herself.

Ah, yes, it was quite an afternoon.

Fortunately for the Reds, who couldn’t wait to wrap their hands around the bottles of champagne, they didn’t have to go out and finish the game. At 6:42 the game was called and the celebrating began in earnest.

Although the division championship seemed inevitable for the Reds in mid-summer after they had led since opening day, the anxiety was a painful burden to carry to the finish line.

“It was tough, we struggled for so long,” Rijo said. “San Francisco and L.A. were on our tail the whole way, it scared me. But it was like a dream for all of us, a Cinderella season.”

Rijo is one of 14 members of the Reds playoff roster who are castoffs from other teams, excluding Piniella. But they jelled into a championship team.

One of those castoffs was Mariano Duncan, traded by the Dodgers along with Tim Leary for Kal Daniels and Lenny Harris.

“You know what the difference is this year,” Duncan said. “I’ll tell you the difference. I hit .240 for them, but I know I’m not a .240 hitter all my life. But with the Dodgers, they have five or six guys that mix up your head. Everyone tell you what to do when you go to the plate, and every one of them is telling you something different.

“Here, there’s only one guy who helps me with my hitting, Tony Perez. That’s all I need, one guy. If the Dodgers had Tony Perez, they might be winning too.”

Said Rob Dibble: “You look at this team, and you won’t find a better clubhouse atmosphere than this one. We don’t have the best talent, everyone in baseball knows the Padres have the most in this division. But we play together. We go out together. We lived for this together.”

The Reds were laughing and scoffing at any questions about the Pittsburgh Pirates, who clinched at least a tie in the National League East.

Then someone mentioned the Big Red Machine, the dynasty that ruled all of baseball, responsible for the Reds’ last division championship in 1979.

Then someone mentioned a player from that era, the same one for whom a street had been named in front of Riverfront Stadium. The same one who is residing in the Marion, Ill., federal penitentiary.

Someone brought up the name, Pete Rose.

“I don’t know how anyone else is feeling around here,” said infielder Ron Oester, who has been with the Reds since being drafted in 1974. “But I’ve been thinking about him. I’ve been thinking about him a lot.

“I wish Pete could be a part of this. I really wish he could be here, because he deserves as much credit as anyone. In his heart, I think Pete Rose knows he has something to do with it.”