As a player, Mike Redmond was baseball comfort food. Consider some of the descriptives that attached themselves to him in the course of his 13 major league seasons: reliable, savvy, genuine, valued, self-effacing, resolute, trusted. A grinder. An earner. A survivor. He could be leashed in the dugout for six games, then get the call for a seventh and perform with no discernible rust. He kept clubhouses loose, pitchers calm and reporters charmed.