The Cincinnati Reds scored some runs. The Milwaukee Brewers scored more.

There was a brief moment earlier this week where the Cincinnati Reds and the Chicago Cubs were tied for the worst record in the National League Central. At that juncture, however, the Reds owned a slightly better run differential than the Cubs, and while I’m a) not sure that’s the tiebreaker when it comes to draft position and b) don’t care to look it up at this point on a Saturday evening, I’m going to wildly proclaim that - even after their 3-94 start to the season - there was at least one day this year in which the Reds were not in last place in the division.

Since then, the Cubs broke their 10-game losing streak and the Reds...well, the Reds ran into a hungry Milwaukee Brewers club who has dispatched them in both of the first two games of their series in GABP. The second of which, of course, came this afternoon as the Beers swatted around both Graham Ashcraft and Luis Cessa to take home a 7-3 victory.

Here I am, tasked for the thousandth time with writing a recap of a Cincinnati Reds baseball game, and all I can think about is just how bad most all of it has been - Saturday included. I apologize, especially to the noobs around here who didn’t get to watch AJ Morris and Tim Melville pitch during the last time the club started being this bad on purpose, but here we are.

Nick Senzel had a pair of hits, even though I’m pretty sure they both were hit with a wet noodle. Tommy Pham had a pair of hits, too, though he’ll be traded by the end of the month.

It was a 7-3 loss, one in which Ashcraft got tagged for 2 more runs than he probably should have because he was tasked with starting the 6th inning after clearly not having it all day and allowed a pair of baserunners that the bullpen immediately allowed to score. There should really, truly be a very obscure novel written about this kind of happenstance and its relevance to the Cincinnati Reds that, in 2072, some poor soul might stumble upon in the basement of an old bookstore somewhere. I don’t want to write it. Frankly, I don’t want to read it. That said, there’s a very parallel reality to this one in which I find myself where I both write it and, as a rickety old man, am that person who rediscovers it in the basement of a very, very old bookstore.

They’ll do this thing called baseball, or something similar again on Sunday at 1:40 PM ET. Give yourself a thorough pep-talk before engaging that with any sort of emotional attachment.

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