Schott in the dark

One of the most intriguing and eclectic estate collections in America went up for bid earlier this week. But this involves baseball, so it will attract more than psychotropic tea drinkers who look like Salvador Dali.
But they might be kind of interested too.
With the right amount of money, you too can own a piece of Marge Schott's booty.
(Digest that one for awhile).
Much of the estate of the late Cincinnati Reds owner will be liquidated, with the proceeds going to Schott's charitable foundation.
Schott was known primary for two things: owning the Reds, and routinely giving groin shots to the concept of political correctness. At times, she was an indefensible bigot.
At times, she was just plain weird, keeping locks of hair from her dogs -- all named Schottzie -- around for good luck.
She once said Hitler was misunderstood. She once racially slurred Eric Davis. She once greeted a female reporter by asking her if she was her paper's "token girl reporter," probably meant to be a slam of the paper more than the reporter.
In short, she probably had a knack for making uncomfortable silence follow her comments.
Schott died in 2004. While her mouth frequently took the spotlight off baseball, the auction of her estate is one of the last remaining links to a bygone era of baseball in the Queen City, before the Reds faded into the background of mediocrity.
Two 12-inch replicas of the Reds' 1990 World Series trophy recall the good times that happened on Schott's watch. A Pete Rose jersey is a reminder of the Reds' darkest hour, when the franchise's patron saint was fingered as a sinner and thrown out of the game.
There are thousands upon thousands of packs of Reds baseball cards, a virtual master roster of the players that Schott paid.
There are bats and balls and Beanie Babies. The collection really has no rhyme or reason. As auctioneer Wes Cowan told CNNSI.com, any personal significance disappeared when Schott died.
It's an accumulation more than a collection. It makes no sense, yet it puts so much into perspective, hindsight being 20/20.
Those are the days the Reds might never want back, but now they know they'll never get them back, which creates a strange kind of longing. Kind of like dismissing a girl's advances and then feeling hurt when you see her on the arm of another guy.
Riverfront Stadium is gone. Schott is gone. Rose remains banned. Davey Johnson and Lou Piniella aren't managing at the moment. The careers of Davis, Barry Larkin, Jose Rijo, Rob Dibble and anyone else who endeared those Reds teams to their fans are over.
Great American Ballpark is beautiful. The Reds always manage a smattering of promising young players and offer the eternal hope the Ken Griffey Jr. will stay healthy for a whole season. But the Big Red Machine is gone. With the sale of Schott's estate, the personal effects of the Reds' glory days will be scattered around the country and world, and placed under glass.