Johnny Bench’s New Home Run
In the heart of Cincinnati’s West End, a once-forgotten Victorian house stood with boarded windows and a sagging porch. It was the kind of place people walked past without a second glance. But today, the house pulsed with life. TV trucks lined the street, and neighbors gathered on sidewalks. A large banner fluttered above the door: “Bench’s House: A Safe Place for Cincinnati’s Youth.”
At 77, Johnny Bench—Cincinnati Reds legend, Hall of Famer, and beloved hometown hero—stood before a microphone in front of the crowd, flanked by city officials and wide-eyed teenagers.
“I caught fastballs from the greatest pitchers in the world,” Johnny began, his voice steady, “but the toughest pitch life throws isn’t from the mound—it’s poverty. It’s homelessness. It’s fear.”
The crowd murmured in agreement. Cameras clicked.
“I was lucky,” he continued. “Baseball gave me a path. But too many kids in this city don’t have one. So I’m investing in something more important than the game—home. A place to belong. A place to start over.”
Johnny had quietly purchased the dilapidated property a year earlier for $350,000. Over the next twelve months, he poured in $3.6 million—his own money—into its transformation. The result was nothing short of stunning. The three-story structure now gleamed with fresh paint, modern security systems, communal kitchens, a garden in the backyard, and twelve private bedrooms for up to 20 homeless youth.
But the soul of the home wasn’t just the renovation. It was the mission.
Each resident would receive job training, mental health support, mentorship, and a path to permanent housing. There were classrooms upstairs, a digital learning lab with donated laptops, and even a small baseball diamond out back where Johnny had personally installed the bases.
Inside the home, a wall bore framed photographs of Johnny’s storied career. Not as trophies, but as encouragement. Each photo was paired with handwritten quotes:
“You don’t have to be famous to be great.”
“Tough days make tough players.”
“You’re not alone.”
The idea for the shelter had taken root years earlier when Johnny had met a homeless teenager during a charity event. The boy, Jamal, had been living in a tent under the I-75 overpass.
“I asked him what he needed,” Johnny recalled. “He didn’t say money. He said, ‘Somewhere to be safe. Somewhere to not feel invisible.’ That never left me.”
Johnny had followed up with Jamal, helped him get into a GED program, and introduced him to a former Reds trainer who offered him a part-time job. Today, Jamal stood near the podium, dressed in a red “Bench’s House” staff shirt. He was now 22 and a full-time employee at the shelter.
“I didn’t have a dad,” Jamal said quietly, taking the microphone for a moment. “But I had Johnny Bench.”
The audience cheered. Johnny, eyes misty, nodded.
“I didn’t do this alone,” he said after the applause faded. “This isn’t just my money—it’s my legacy. But it belongs to all of us. To every coach who believed in me, to every fan who cheered. Now it’s our turn to pay it forward.”
The shelter quickly became a beacon of hope in Cincinnati. Local businesses donated supplies. Volunteers showed up weekly. Former Reds players held community nights, and the kitchen buzzed with young people learning to cook spaghetti and chili—the way Johnny liked it, of course.
News outlets ran features on the “Hall of Fame Heart” behind the project. But Johnny deflected the praise. “The real heroes are these kids,” he said. “They’re stepping up to bat in a world that’s never pitched them a fair game.”
Inside the home, a new arrival named Tasha unpacked her backpack in Room 4. She’d spent the last year couch surfing, her childhood fractured by addiction and foster care. She paused as she placed a worn baseball cap—her grandfather’s—on the nightstand. She’d loved the Reds as a kid. Johnny Bench had been a name she knew only from old highlight reels. Now, his photo hung above the bed with a message: “Every inning is a chance to turn the game around.”
That night, Johnny walked through the halls. The sounds of laughter and music filled the air. He stopped in the kitchen, where a group of teens were trying to figure out how to boil eggs. He chuckled and offered a tip.
“You know,” one teen said, “you could be home watching baseball.”
Johnny leaned against the counter and smiled. “This is baseball,” he said. “We’re building a team. We’re playing for keeps.”
A mural in the main hallway bore the image of a young person swinging a bat beneath a night sky filled with stars. Above it were the words:
“You are not forgotten. You are not alone. Welcome home.”
Johnny Bench never stopped being a catcher. Only now, he wasn’t catching pitches—he was catching kids before they fell through the cracks.