Kuzul

For much of the season, the Reds have been atop the National League in most every offensive category. Seemingly each everyday player has come through in the clutch.

The Reds lead the majors in walk-off wins and rank second in wins in their last at-bat.

Everyone seems to be having career years at the plate. Everyone, except for Jay Bruce.

Bruce, whose hustle and defensive abilities will never be a question mark, remains an offensive mystery.

In 108 games in 2008, Bruce hit .254 with 21 homers and 52 runs batted in. Last season, in 101 games, Bruce hit just .223, but managed to smack 22 long balls and drive in 58.

The numbers get increasingly odd when one takes a closer look at Bruce’s splits. The league average for on-base percentage hovers around .330.

Bruce is barely above that at .332. He’s also struck out an eye-opening 86 times in 92 games this season.

The two biggest indicators of Bruce’s trials and tribulations at the plate are his difficulties with runners in scoring position and problems against left-handed pitching.

The left-handed swinging 2005 first round pick of the Reds is hitting a measly .205 with runners in scoring position and a lackluster .182 with runners in scoring position and two outs.

More than a quarter of the Texas native’s at-bats have come with runners in scoring position.

He’s also batting .245 against southpaws this season. While that statistic isn’t terrible, one can actually see Jay’s frustrations just by watching him swing the bat.

As Reds analyst and former big league relief pitcher Jeff Brantley pointed out, Bruce appears to be intent on swinging at the first pitch if it’s anywhere near the strike zone.

What usually happens is Bruce gets behind in the count and then presses even more.

Bruce’s swing has always been on the long side, so when he’s presses at the dish, he appears to guess at what pitch is being thrown more often than not.

The Reds right fielder is 0 for his last 13. They are running out of excuses for their youngster. Bruce also seems to be bothered by the shifts opponents are playing on him in the field.

Brantley hypothesized that Dusty Baker may start a platoon in right field, with rookie Chris Heisey seeing time against left-handers.

Heisey has pop, evidenced by his five home runs in just 70 at-bats (also half of Bruce’s home run total on the season).

He’s also a small notch below Bruce on the field, who is nothing short of a Gold Glove-caliber right fielder.

If a platoon isn’t in the cards, I’d try and move Bruce up in the order. It may sound crazy, but Orlando Cabrera isn’t exactly setting the world on fire in the two spot.

Batting second would give Bruce more opportunities to hit-and-run with Brandon Phillips and take the pressure off of him as a run-producer, instead making him an initiator in the Reds lineup.

Nonetheless, the Reds are slowly running out of time with Bruce. It appears Dusty Baker may have to make yet another adjustment in his lineup.

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A part of my childhood died Wednesday.

No, my dog didn’t pass away. My mother didn’t give away the stuffed bear my parents bought for me the day I was brought into this world. And my trophy collection is still intact on the shelves of my West Chester bedroom. Nonetheless, I felt as if any one of those things had actually happened.

Which is why when Ken Griffey Jr. announced his retirement on Wednesday, I very nearly shed a tear. Sure, his play had deteriorated in recent years. The recent drama over whether he took an in-game nap will weigh on my mind for awhile longer. But it will soon become an afterthought.

Baseball in my family is a tradition passed down like heirlooms and bad jokes. Chances are if you cut open one of my veins and let me bleed for a few minutes, a sunflower seed may escape my body.

My elders love to talk about how great the Big Red Machine was. They gush about what a honor it was to see Pete Rose play the game like his hair was on fire, or how Tony Perez was so clutch and how Johnny Bench was a strong as an ox.

But I take great pride in saying Junior Griffey was my childhood hero. When my kids ask me, “Daddy, who was the best ballplayer you ever saw?” I won’t even have to think.

The Kid.

I could go on about his tumultuous tenure in Cincinnati. Or how ownership never fulfilled their promise to build a championship-caliber team around him. Perhaps I could question why Junior only trained hard after he suffered major injuries. Maybe wonder why he never made it to a World Series.

And here’s the proverbial Junior question: If he’d been relatively healthy during the last half of his career, would he have broken Henry Aaron’s home run record?

I usually openly give in to this small talk, and wonder what if. After all, what kind of true sports fan doesn’t love to speculate?

Not today.

I wasn’t old enough to remember “The Double” in the 1995 American League Division Series, which featured Griffey scoring the winning run from first in the bottom of the 11th inning to beat the Yankees and essentially save baseball in Seattle.

When I watch the replay of Edgar Martinez’s drive down the left-field line against Yankee ace Jack McDowell, two things stick out. Griffey elegantly galloping around the bases, taking each base at the perfect angle and sliding safely into home.

The other image is after the players are creating a mosh pit home plate, Griffey’s head emerges from the bottom of the pile. He was smiling cheek-to-cheek, pure joy emanating from his smile, which reflected the way he played the game.

There are so many spitting images of Griffey. There would be times you’d see him gallivanting around the outfield during batting practice, shagging balls and constantly joking with his teammates.

I always marveled at his swing, which was nothing less than a work of art. I’ll never forget his Home Run Derby shot off the Camden Yards warehouse. Or his power to all fields.

As a defense-first person, I have no problem stating that Junior reinvented the way center-field was played. No ball was uncatchable, whether that meant diving headlong into the grass or leaping over the ball.

In every sense of the word, Junior was a baseball player. Not just because he could hit for average, hit for power, run the bases, throw hard, and catch anything in sight. But because of something more.

The Kid loved the game. And I think it’s safe to say it loved him back.

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