There is no quarrel with those choices, but what took them so long to acknowledge Piniella?
It has been 35 years since he managed the Reds to their last World Series trophy and it would seem he would have been recognized at least 25 years ago.
Known as Sweet Lou, he was anything but sweet. He was a demanding, unrelenting leader with a high explosive temper.
Three cases.
There was the time he thought umpire Dutch Rennert missed a call at first base. During the argument Piniella picked up first base and whirled it into right field.
Unhappy with his distance, he trotted into right field, picked up the bag and hurled it deeper toward the wall.
A couple of weeks later it was brought up in his office and he said, “Y’know, Hal, after I did that my wife wouldn’t speak to me for a week. And if I had known that I would have done it sooner.”
Then there was Piniella’s infamous clubhouse fight/skirmish with his closer, Rob Dibble.
I inadvertently started that wrestling match.
One night Dibble didn’t pitch when it was obvious he should be in the game.
I asked Piniella after the game why he didn’t use Dibble and he said, “He told me before the game he had a little twinge in his elbow.”
So I went to Dibble and asked what was wrong with his elbow.
“What d’ya mean?” he said.
“Your manager said you had a twinge in your elbow,” I said.
“Well,” said Dibble, “The manager is a damn liar.”
So I went back into Piniella’s office and said, “Dibble just called you a liar.”
Credit: PHOTO COURTESY OF THE CINCINNATI REDS
Credit: PHOTO COURTESY OF THE CINCINNATI REDS
Piniella bolted from his chair behind his desk, nearly knocked me over, rushed toward Dibble’s locker, jumped on him and the fight was on.
And I had a great story.
In the last year of Piniella’s tenure in Cincinnati, we were in San Diego in late September on a Saturday morning. Piniella, a lover of the ponies, asked me to go to Del Mar Park for the races.
About the fifth race, I looked at my watch and said, “Lou, it’s almost time for batting practice.”
He was engrossed in the Racing Form and he had hit three of the first four races and said, “A couple more races.”
Finally I dragged him away and we got into my rental car. The discussion arose that he had asked for a contract extension but majority owner Marge Schott wouldn’t discuss it.
“Man, we’re gonna be late for batting practice,” I said.
“Ah, hell, I don’t care,” he said. “I ain’t coming back next year anyway.”
And I had another great story.
Nevertheless, Piniella was a great baseball mind, a stern and respected leader.
Not only was Brandon Phillips adept with a bat in his hand, he was arguably the best defensive second baseman of his time.
He was a showboat with no boat, but he backed it up with the stickiest glove in baseball.
Phillips and I had a great relationship. He gave me great quotes during one-on-one talks, better than the quotes he gave during interview scrums surrounded by seven or eight media members.
Phillips was injured and missed a few games before the St. Louis Cardinals were coming to Great American Ball Park.
I asked Phillips, “Are you going to play?”
He gave me that river-wide smile and said, “You know I wouldn’t miss this series. I can’t stand the Cardinals. They’re a bunch of whiney little b------.”
I asked if that was for print and said, “Go with it.” And I did.
The next day, Phillips approached home plate in the first inning and as he did with all catchers, he tapped Yadi Molina’s shin guard with his bat.
Molina and the Cardinals obviously read the quote. Molina whipped off his mask and got into Phillips’ face. There was a shove and a push and suddenly there was an on-the-field brawl.
And I thought, “Oh, oh. Phillips is going to say he was misquoted or his words were taken out of context.”
But after the game, he walked up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Great story.”
But there was a story I wrote a year later in which I said some negative things about him and he told me not to try to talk to him again.
If he was doing a group interview around his locker and spotted me close by, he quit talking and stared me down.
My mentor, Earl Lawson of the Cincinnati Post & Times Star, told me early in my career, “The players will turn on you at the drop of an adjective.”
Phillips proved him right. But I never lost respect for his playing ability. He was a legitimate All-Star.
Phillips was half of a coup pulled off by former Reds general manager Wayne Krivsky just before the 2006 season. Just days apart, he acquired Phillips and pitcher Bronson Arroyo, practically as gifts.
For Phillips, Krivsky sent the Cleveland Indians minor league pitcher Jeff Stevens. For Arroyo, he sent the Boston Red Sox outfielder Wily Mo Pena.
Phillips played 11 seasons for the Reds. His best season was 2007 when he hit 30 homers and drove in 94. In 2011 he hit .300 for the only time, a slash line of .303/.353/.457.
He had a strange 2013 season when he hit only .262 with 18 homers, but drove in a career-best 103 runs.
Reggie Sanders was as mild-mannered as any player I ever covered. If he wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t breathing.
He was so easy-going that pitchers constantly pitched him inside, drove him off the plate, knowing he wouldn’t retaliate.
Teammate and team captain Barry Larkin lectured him one day about being too laid-back, too reticent. Told him to quit permitting pitchers to intimidate him.
Not long after that, the Reds were in Montreal facing Pedro Martinez, who would throw inside on his grandmother if he thought she was too close to the plate.
Sure enough, early in the game, Martinez threw a couple of pitches high-and-tight. Then in the eighth inning, he hit Sanders with a pitch.
Sanders dropped his bat and charged the mound, igniting a brawl.
Larkin was beside himself and confronted Sanders after the game.
“You were dead wrong in charging the mound, Reggie,” he said. “Martinez was not trying to hit you. Why would he do that? He was throwing a perfect game.”
Indeed, he was. It was the eighth inning and no Reds batter had reached first base, so it was obvious he wasn’t throwing at Sanders.
Sanders, a seventh-round draft pick out of Florence, S.C. in 1987, was with the Reds from 1991 through 1998 and played for seven different teams through 2007.
His best season for the Reds was 1995 when he hit 28 homers, 36 doubles, drove in 99 and stole 36 bases with a slash line of .308/.397/.579.
After the 1998 season he was traded to the San Diego Padres for Greg Vaughn and Mark Sweeney.
Aaron Harang, a 6-foot-7, 260-pound right-hander, pitched eight seasons for the Reds and was 75-77.
Credit: Associated Press photo
Credit: Associated Press photo
Starting in 2004 he reached double figures in wins four straight seasons as the team’s No. 1 starter —10, 11, 16 and 16. His 16 wins in 2006 led the National League.
But in 2008 he was 6-17 and in 2009 he was 6-14.
He was a free agent after the 2010 season and on the last day of the season, when the Reds told him they were not interested in re-signing him, he packed his gear with tears streaming down his face.
He signed a deal with the San Diego Padres.
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