Tuesday, May 18, 1999

Fireworks guy helps Reds fans celebrate

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BY JOHN JOHNSTON
The Cincinnati Enquirer

Gene Donatell pulls an explosive load out of the tubes atop Cinergy Field. (Jeff Swinger photos) | ZOOM |

        Gene Donatell is easygoing and gregarious. But there's a time before Reds home games when he'd really rather not chit-chat.

        “This is the important part, setting up everything safely,” he says as he checks wires and firing tubes in a small open trailer on Cinergy Field's southeast plaza, overlooking the Ohio River. “You have to be focused, because if you make a mistake, it's a big mistake.”

        That's the cue to leave Mr. Donatell alone for a few minutes.

        On this clear, breezy Friday evening, a steady stream of baseball fans — some wearing Reds garb, some in Chicago Cubs blue — are making their way into the stadium. Traffic barricades keep them a fair distance from Mr. Donatell.

        He's the fireworks guy. The pyrotechnician. Rocket man.

        Since 1984, Reds' homers and wins at Cinergy Field have been applauded by brief bursts of fireworks. Since 1989, Mr. Donatell more often than not has been the man who makes it happen.

REDS' ROCKET GLARE

Here's what Rozzi's Famous Fireworks sends into the sky when the Reds hit a homer or notch a win at Cinergy Field:   Night game home run: Two 5-inch red and silver chrysanthemums (traditional fireworks that look like a giant flower with long thin arms extending from a brightly colored center); two 6-inch red and silver chrysanthemums; six 3-inch salutes (which simply explode with a boom).   Night game win: Double the above.   Grand slam, or a ninth-inning home run that wins the game: Triple that of a night-game home run.   Day game home run: One dozen 3-inch salutes.   Day game win: Two dozen 3-inch salutes.   Day game grand slam, or ninth-inning home run that wins the game: Three dozen 3-inch salutes.

Taking care
        The 44-year-old school psychologist, a married father of three, works for Rozzi's Famous Fireworks. The 104-year-old Loveland-based company is known for the dazzling displays that draw half a million people to the riverfront each Labor Day weekend.

        On game days, Mr. Donatell motors to the stadium in a white pickup with yellow warning signs (“Explosives”) on the front bumper, the rear gate and both sides of the truck's cap.

        “The most dangerous part of the job is driving with the explosives,” he says. “I don't ever want to have an accident in this truck.”

        About an hour before the first pitch at 7:05, he's ready. Two silver fire extinguishers sit near the red trailer, which is tilted slightly toward the Ohio River; in the trailer bed, shells have been loaded into rows of firing tubes that resemble organ pipes.

        An electrical cable leads from the trailer to the pickup, parked about 50 feet away. The cable connects to a control panel, a little larger than a laptop computer, with five rows of red buttons.

Donatell doesn't have to light a match, just flick a switch. | ZOOM |

        Mr. Donatell sets up two green folding chairs by the pickup, one for himself, and one for stadium security guard Butch Kammer, who steers away anyone setting foot inside the barricades.

        Then at game time, Mr. Donatell does what many Tristaters do: He turns on an AM radio, and listens to Marty and Joe. (For anyone out of the loop, that's Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxhall, the Reds' radio voices.)

        When Marty or Joe announces a Reds home run, Mr. Donatell fires away.

        In the meantime, he waits.

        And he waits.

Passing time
        To break the boredom, he sometimes brings a banjo (but not this night). He occasionally fires up a grill (which for safety reasons must be done outside the barricades). When he was working toward a doctorate, he read a lot of psychology books.

        “You have to find a way to use your time,” he says, opening a bag of Fritos.

        Two or three times a game, he steps inside the stadium (gate workers know him well) and watches as the visiting team bats.

Donatell often takes a seat to watch the visiting team bat. | ZOOM |

        He's not averse to taking a short nap, either.

        “Here's my pillow,” he says, pulling one from behind a seat in the pickup.

        He says he's never napped through a homer, thanks to the excitable Marty and Joe.

        “I've listened to them for hundreds of hours,” he says. “I've learned to key in on their voices. There's a distinct tone when a ball is hit real hard and looks like it's going out.”

        He'll work about 45 games this season, most of them in the summer, when school's out. As a psychologist at Sycamore High, he's in contact with kids and dealing with all manner of problems, from academic struggles to their parents' divorce to the recent tornado.

        The ballpark offers a change of pace. It's a place where he's removed from other people's problems.

        Used to be, he needed the fireworks money to pay for graduate school. Now, he wonders if he's outgrown the job.

        The days, and nights, can get long.

        Through 7¹/₂ innings on this Friday, it looks as though the only things sparkling in the sky above Cinergy Field will be Venus, Mars and lots of stars. But in the eighth inning, with Sean Casey at bat for the Reds, Marty Brennaman's voice ratchets up.

        “The shutout might be gone ... home run!”

        Mr. Donatell quickly turns a key on the control panel. Ten red buttons light up. “Here they go!” he says, pressing quickly.

        Shells soar more than 300 feet and explode, streaking red and silver across the black sky. Other shells boom like cannons.

        To fans inside the stadium, the fireworks appear to be exploding just behind center field. It's over in a few seconds.

        “That's all there is to it,” Mr. Donatell says, and he reaches into a bag of Fritos.

Calling the game
        The Reds still trail, 2-1, in the bottom of the ninth. But with Rod Beck pitching for the Cubs, Mr. Kammer, the security guard, is confident. “(The Reds) hit this guy hard, all the time. Everybody does.”

        Mr. Donatell is not so confident. He puts his green chair in the pickup.

        Mr. Brennaman tells his radio audience, “A long one would win it.”

        The Reds' Greg Vaughn hits a fly ball to right-center field. It's caught. Two outs.

        “Gimme your chair,” Mr. Donatell says to Mr. Kammer. “It's over.” The guard relinquishes it, and Mr. Donatell puts it in the truck. Then Sean Casey hits a double, and the Reds have men on second and third.

        Mr. Donatell takes the green chair back out of the truck for Mr. Kammer. Barry Larkin is coming to the plate.

        And then it all happens very quickly: Mr. Larkin smacking the second pitch for a double; Mr. Brennaman shouting, “And this one belongs to the Reds!” Mr. Donatell, turning the key on the control panel, laying his hands across those lighted buttons, 20 of them. And silver and red fireworks exploding in the sky overhead.

        “What did I tell you, Gene?” a satisfied Mr. Kammer says.

        “Butch knows his baseball,” Mr. Donatell acknowledges.

        And anyone within earshot knows what the thundering sound over Cinergy Field means.

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