The Grease movie and its soundtrack were cultural juggernauts in the summer of '78, and I was ten years old, the perfect age for a boy to believe that a summer could last forever, and that baseball was the center of the universe. As the lyrics "Summer loving… had me a blast..." from the soundtrack to Grease blares through the chocolate brown Ford Maverick's stock AM radio and sound system, the Great 1978 Family Road Trip begins. In the post 4th of July heat of that year, the world was a canvas of endless asphalt, a lotta trees, farms, deserts, calling out the name of out of state license plates, and the crack of a baseball bat echoing through AM radio static as the signal comes in and out while driving through mountain passes and endless deserts.
At that time we lived in New England, right on the baseball "Mason-Dixon line." Straddled exactly ninety miles from New York City and ninety miles from Boston, we were smack in the middle of a perpetual turf war between Yankees fans and Red Sox fans, with a smattering of weirdo New York Mets fans thrown in just for cultural confusion. That summer, my second-favorite team, the Boston Red Sox, was riding high, leading those bitter rivals from New York by a staggering double-digit margin, a lead I endlessly kidded my Yankee-loving schoolmates about as I left for summer vacation. But my true allegiance lay elsewhere. I was a die-hard devotee of the "Big Red Machine," the legendary Cincinnati Reds.
I had come of age watching baseball in 1976, back when the Reds dominated the airwaves on the NBC Saturday Game of the Week. In those days of limited baseball media, that weekly broadcast was my window to the world, and Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, Johnny Bench, and Tony Perez quickly became my ultimate heroes. Wearing my favorite, very worn, sweat-encrusted Cincinnati Reds cap, proudly ordered from the pages of a Sears catalog for a Christmas ‘76 gift, I was a double anomaly in our neighborhood. That cap was my armor, shielding me from the sarcastic remarks and verbal disgust of the local Yankees and Red Sox loyalists I would encounter while traversing our town on my bike, hanging out at playgrounds, or frequenting the local ballfields. Local Mets fans occasionally thought they had found a sympathetic ally who also rejected the expected New England societal norms. But they were sorely mistaken. Never. My Reds were back-to-back World Series champions in 1975 and 1976 while boasting the greatest players to ever play the game, at least in the infallible opinion of this ten-year-old fan, and the Mets, well, the Mets were just the Mets in 1978. It was this treasured, battle-tested cap that accompanied me as my family packed up the car and set out on our grand, cross-country summer vacation.
The first major memory of this road trip began with Pennsylvania, a state that, to a ten-year-old in the back seat, felt like it took an eternity to cross. But the monotony was broken by two distinct worlds. First, we stopped in Pennsylvania Dutch country. Watching horse-drawn buggies share the road with modern cars was a quiet, eye-opening revelation of a different way of life. That rustic simplicity was quickly contrasted by the sweet luxury of staying at the Hershey Hotel, where the very air seemed to carry the scent of chocolate.
As we pushed further west, the weather and the cultural landscape began to shift. In Indianapolis, the sky turned an ominous, bruised charcoal gray, triggering a terrifying tornado warning that kept us on edge. Further down the highway, in Oklahoma City, we experienced a different kind of chill. We sat at a restaurant table for what felt like hours, ignored by the staff who walked right past us without a word. Eventually, we left without eating. My Pops quietly suggested that maybe we "looked too Catholic," a comment that flew a bit over my ten-year-old head but registered deeply enough to become a permanent bookmark in my memory of the American road.
But the Southwest quickly washed away any lingering bitterness. The majestic, ancient Pueblo settlements of New Mexico and the jaw-dropping, dizzying expanse of the Grand Canyon in Arizona left me utterly spellbound. They were places of profound beauty that made me feel wonderfully small and opened a lifetime love of the study of the varying Native American cultures that are part of the mosaic of the American story.
Then, disaster struck. We were about seventy-five miles down the highway from the Denny’s where we had stopped for a getaway breakfast during our departure from the Southwest when the sudden, cold realization hit me: my beloved Cincinnati Reds hat was gone. Devastated doesn't even begin to describe it; I felt like I had lost a piece of my very identity. I still remember the immediate feeling of utter grief, the first stage of grief was a desperate wave of denial. I had only set my cap down by my side on the vinyl seat of the booth after my Pops told me to take it off before we sat down as a family for breakfast. How could I have been so stupid to leave it? The anger was hot, sharp, and entirely self-inflicted. From the backseat of the Maverick, I launched into an intense round of bargaining. My parents passionately debated the logistics of turning back versus the stark reality of time and the high probability that my beloved, but hideously in need of a washing cap, had already been taken or thrown away by this time. We were deep in the desert, with no towns for miles and miles, so I offered to go without an allowance for an entire month if they would just stop at the next town or rest area with a payphone. But my logical bargaining was crushed by a heavy sense of depression when Pops declared that a long-distance call to the restaurant would be too expensive and would take far too long. Personally, and a bit sarcastically, I've always thought our discriminatory encounter in Oklahoma City, combined with his love of paranoid 1970s survival thrillers like Deliverance and Race with the Devil, had made him highly gun-shy about stopping in small, isolated towns and showing strangers our potential weaknesses. And so, my treasured armor was left behind, and we rolled on.
However, even to this day, whenever I sit in a booth at any restaurant and place my hat, wallet, or phone down next to me, I quadruple check that my belongings are still there throughout the meal, and end up in my hands when we leave!
The decision was made. The road waits for no grieving fan, and we pressed on toward Memphis, Tennessee, so my mother could make a sacred pilgrimage to Graceland. Elvis Presley had passed away just a year earlier, and the air in Memphis was still thick with collective grief and reverence. My memories of our Memphis visit are quadruple -natured: the oppressive, sticky Southern heat, Graceland and the purchase of an Elivs Presly garbage can that I still use to this day in my office, the pure bliss of a cold motel swimming pool, even with every kid yelling “Jaws!” which would instantly paralyze everyone for a split second as we scanned the water, terrified, looking for a rogue fin, and the magic of the 1978 MLB All-Star Game.
That night in Memphis, in my parents' loving attempt to lighten my grief from the previous day, I was allowed to retreat to the air-conditioned sanctuary of our motel room to watch the All-Star Game. To this day, when I see clips of that game, I am instantly transported back to that wood-paneled room. Lying on the bed, I can still see the brilliant, golden Southern California sunlight drenching San Diego’s Jack Murphy Stadium. It was a visual postcard of pure joy, a happy place forever frozen in time. As a ten-year-old, I watched the pre-game player introductions with wide-eyed awe. My heart swelled as three of the first three National League starters introduced were none other than my Big Red Machine heroes: Pete Rose leading off at third base, Joe Morgan batting second at second, and George Foster hitting third in center field. Seeing them run out onto that pristine, sunlit field felt like watching real-life superheroes step onto their stage. For a moment, a wave of pure, lucid joy washed over me, completely overtaking the numb trauma of the previous day’s loss. The game itself certainly didn’t disappoint, either. The American League jumped out to an early lead behind Rod Carew's triples, but the NL clawed back. The absolute climax for me was the bottom of the eighth, when Steve Garvey, from our NL West rival Dodgers, tripled off the formidable, mustache-wearing Yankees closer Rich "Goose" Gossage, scoring on a wild pitch to break a tense 3-3 tie and spark a four-run National League rally. Seeing the NL, and by extension my Reds, triumph over the AL (and a Yankee pitcher, to boot) was the perfect ending to a magical night in that cool, air-conditioned Memphis motel room. My only regret was that I wasn't back home on the Mason-Dixon line, where I could have gloated to my Yankee-loving friends the very next day.
By now, the whole family was back from the pool and crowded into the air-conditioned room. With the game over, my little sister was finally allowed to watch whatever she wanted on the TV as we all got ready to settle down for the night. My sister and I were sharing one of the double beds, winding down from the day's excitement. My Mom was sitting on the other bed and organizing maps and some post cards that she was going to send and my Dad was walking across the room. Before heading into the bathroom to take his shower, my Dad looked at us, broke into a grin, and announced a major detour: we were heading to Cincinnati to catch a Reds game AND I would be getting a brand new Cincinnati Reds hat directly from the Mecca that is Riverfront stadium.
I thanked my Mom and Dad and was “truly” happy, again.
We arrived in Cincinnati a day early, the city's baseball energy immediately sweeping us up. As we drove in, I can still remember seeing the massive, concrete saucer of Riverfront Stadium for the first time looming from the freeway, a coliseum of dreams rising up beside the Ohio River. Pops wanted to buy the game tickets for the next night directly from the stadium box office, so we made that our first stop. While securing our four precious tickets, Pops somehow discovered that Sparky Anderson, the legendary manager of the Big Red Machine and one of my absolute heroes, was doing a promotional signing at a local business that very day. Tickets in hand, Pops wasted no time and took us straight to meet "Mr. Anderson."
Standing in that line, my heart hammered against my ribs. I felt exactly like Ralphie from A Christmas Story waiting to meet Santa at the top of the department store slide, my mind racing over what to say. Mr. Anderson was signing glossy 8x10 black-and-white photographs. Years later, I found out my father had spent some of that wait worrying about me meeting one of my ultimate heroes, concerned that the reality wouldn’t live up to the massive hype, thus moving further away from the innocence of childhood. Nonetheless, here we were, standing on the precipice of the most intense baseball moment of my young life. According to my father, who wrote down our quick exchange later that night in our motel room, It was now my turn and I walked up to the front of the table where Mr. Anderson sat, and said, "Hi, Mr. Anderson." Immediately, Sparky Anderson extended his hand, and while shaking it, he gave me a warm, genuine smile and said, "Call me, Sparky and what’s your name?" I froze for a pregnant, silent second. Just as the moment was about to cross the line into becoming officially awkward, my ten-year-old stream of consciousness finally broke loose.
"I’m Dave and I want to play for the Reds when I grow up," I blurted out.
Mr. Anderson, I mean, “Sparky” since now we’re on a first name basis, looked up, his face incredibly kind, creased with a warm, genuine smile. "Dave, I'd love to have you play for us in “Cincinnata.'" he said, his distinct pronunciation of the city's name sticking with me forever. As he signed the 8x10 he said, "Just do good in school, listen to your parents, and do your best." and with that, Sparky said, “Nice meeting you, Dave” while handing me my signed 8x10, shook my hand and my Pops hand, waved at my Mom and sister, and just like that I had my personalized 8x10 in hand and moved along. I was on Cloud 9, I know we did some sightseeing in Kentucky, don’t really remember much about it, then went to our motel, played in the pool and got ready for the next night.
The next afternoon around 4pm, we drove into the Riverfront stadium early to be able to watch batting practice and, of course, buy a brand new Cincinnati Reds hat. We walk into the stadium and the first thing we see in the concourse is a souvenir stand with what seemed like a million Cincinnati Reds hats. These were not “knock offs,” these were the real deal. I finally find “the one.” A fitted New Era 5950 wool hat with brown leather headband. There are many hats like it, but this was mine! The bill was flat, and I didn’t get how to make it curve, so my Pops bent or broke in the brim. It was perfect. I also got a Reds t-shirt. I thanked my Mom and Dad. That moment is still burnt into my memory. All four of us were purely happy at that exact moment. You can’t buy moments like that. They just happen and then they’re gone.
As for the game, I couldn’t believe it. We were sitting in the home of the Big Red Machine or BRM. I had seen the BRM previously when my Pops and Grandpa took me to Shea in Flushing Queens in New York City in 1977. However, now we sat in the stands of Riverfront Stadium to watch the Reds take on, ironically enough, the New York Mets. We didn't just watch a game; we witnessed baseball history. Pete Rose stepped up to the plate and extended his historic hitting streak, simultaneously breaking the Reds' all-time consecutive hits record. On this night, Pete, who went 3-for-4 on the day, singled to center field leading off the third-inning off of Mets starter Craig Swan, hitting safely in his 28th consecutive game and claiming the franchise record entirely for himself. For decades afterward, my father and I would laugh about that historic moment, because Pops had chosen that half inning to run to the concession stand to grab food and drinks for the family. He missed the hit, but heard the roar of the crowd on the concourse while waiting in line, the memory of our laughter over it became far more valuable than the play itself. However, at that moment in Cincinnati, I left Riverfront Stadium with a Reds 7-5 win, a Pete Rose clinic on hitting, and with a brand-new Cincinnati Reds hat, bought right from the source.
That summer vacation was a tapestry of geography, family, and the unifying thread of baseball. But the story of the 1978 baseball season had more drama to offer.
After we returned to New England the baseball season of ‘78 was entering the “dog days” of August. I still remember the morning I woke up and went straight to the morning newspaper to read the sports page to see how Pete Rose did with his hitting streak. I was shocked to see the headline that Pete Rose’s hitting streak had come to an end. Say it ain’t so.
Then I headed back to school after Labor Day, and the unthinkable had happened. The Red Sox's seemingly insurmountable double-digit lead in the AL East that existed when I left for Summer Break completely evaporated. The Yankees surged, culminating in the infamous "Boston Massacre" in September. Later in September after the last game of the year, both the Red Sox and Yankees were tied atop the AL East. The tie forced the legendary, heartbreaking one-game playoff, cementing Bucky Dent’s unlikely place in Major League Baseball lore and breaking New England hearts.
Looking back, the summer of 1978 was a defining chapter of my youth. It was a season of wonders, minor heartbreaks, legendary encounters, and family bonds forged on the highway. Decades later, the heat of Memphis, the sun of Jack Murphy Stadium, the kindness of Sparky Anderson, and the thrill of Riverfront Stadium and my new Reds lid remain as vibrant as a fresh baseball card, keeping the kid in me forever grateful.
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