Michele P. Etris Johnson lives in Bridgetown.For thousands of people who attended the Reds game on May 4, it might have been just another day at the ballpark or a bit of a special treat. For my brother, it was the last, best game of his life.
Steve Etris' love affair with Reds baseball spanned five decades. Able to name the players on the Big Red Machine position-by-position and an encyclopedia of Reds history, Steve was never without a strong opinion on a pitching change, umpire's call, injury or trade.
This love of baseball came from our dad, a Phillies fan who moved us from Philadelphia to Cincinnati in 1962. Steve was lucky enough to attend games at all three Reds stadiums with him.
In January, Steve's life as a truck driver, family man and Reds fan changed abruptly when scans unmasked a 15-centimeter cancerous tumor in his liver that quickly metastasized into his spine. He was 53 years old. Plans for him and his wife Shari to celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary in Cancun had to be canceled. Still, such an important milestone needed to be marked.
I contacted Reds officials, hoping to get four clubhouse seats so Steve, Shari and their kids, Cameron, 24, and Marisa, 19, could enjoy a game protected from the elements if necessary. Michael Anderson, public relations manager, and Kylee Barnett, diversity relations coordinator, came through with 16 tickets for the May 4 game against Milwaukee. A 16-seat suite, I repeated, thinking I must have misunderstood.
One week before the game, I took just four of those tickets on my regular visit with Steve. "Parking pass, cool," he said, looking into the envelope. "Wait a minute – these are clubhouse seats!" His eyes were wide with surprise and excitement as I turned on my laptop and pulled up the stadium map. Watching him as I zoomed in on the seats, I knew I had hit a home run with the bases loaded.
He came to the game in a wheelchair – a skeleton dressed in Reds gear, trying to smile. The posse surprised him, family and friends who gathered around, taking pictures and oh so gently hugging him. The cancer was taking my brother like quicksand and for the first time, I was shocked by his appearance. I knew his body wanted to stay home, but his love for the game willed him there.
Steve stood for the National Anthem, his legs barely holding him, his emaciated body almost swaying in the wind. It was the perfect day for a game, clear with temperatures in the 70s and a spring breeze. Game face on, he yelled at the players and ump in usual Steve fashion. Implicitly aware this would be his last game, he was desperate to drink in every moment. I caught his glance as the game passed into the 10th inning tied at 3 all. His body had struck out long ago, but his Herculean will would succumb to nothing. My eyes still focused on my brother, Todd Frazier hit a double into the left field corner, allowing Chris Heisey to score, as Milwaukee generously acquiesced to the Reds.
Three weeks later, Steve passed away. During those three weeks we talked about the game, family and his "bucket list." He was adamant that I write this article to advance public awareness of organizations that give unconditionally to the sick and dying. I want to thank everyone involved in making that last game happen and all those who have been a part of the Reds organization, past and present.
Steve, I kept my promise.