I like this picture. (referring to the north lot photo) Why? It makes me think of the times that I was going to a game and I was still on this side of the wall. I could see the fans that were in the stands and hear their noise but I couldn't see the field. Those already in and seated were involved in that I was not yet a part of seeing the Reds in person. They were in...I was out.       They were eating hot dogs and drinking Burger Beer. They could see Vada Pinson making a shoestring catch. They were watching Don Hoak foul one off or Jim Maloney break off a curve ball. McMillan, Temple and Big Klu had just completed a double play. They, inside, were smelling years of dried up Coke syrup that had soaked into the con- crete and years of cigarette smoke that seemed to have been absorbed by the wood of the old seats.       Then, when I entered the place, I was special too, just because I was inside Crosley Field watching the Cincinnati Reds. My friends were at home doing boring things but I was special for I was actually watching the Reds in person and in color. For three or four hours I was in baseball heaven.       On the other side of the wall were the guys that I expected to win all of the time just because they were wearing red and white and they had names like Post, Kasko, Coleman, McCool, Brosnan, and Robinson. I know they had their own lives away from baseball and Crosley Field but I kind of imagined that they were part and parcel of the place.       Some were just average players but they were great because I, a kid, wanted them to be great. They were great because they were Reds. Once traded, they were no longer great. In my memories they never struck out, they always made the catch, they fanned the side, they hit the big home run. My Reds played under an overcast sky that threatened rain. The outfield lights were on making their home whites appear immaculate. Their black cleats were shined better than my Sunday School shoes.       Crosley Field to me was symbolic of a great sport and my area was deemed important enough to be a representative of big time baseball. Even today, when I pass the site where Crosley once seemed to breathe, it still seems alive. When I walked around the site this past summer I conjured up the image of fans inside on a warm summer afternoon or a chilly evening inside a little, pretty jewel of a ballpark standing amidst the dumpiness of a rundown area. I think that is why I liked it so much, it was in the rotten part of town.       Thomas Pierett 1998