3. That's a winner!-- Jack Buck
By 2004, I was entrenched in Cardinal Nation. It was probably unavoidable. I mean, I grew up on the Mississippi river bluffs a mere twenty minutes away from the world's most baseball-crazed city. It was inevitable. I realized that it was my birthright, seeing as Dad grew up a Cardinals fan.
Now that I was a fan, and my sisters showed interest in the game (though Kaylee only watched so she could check out the Cardinals' second baseman, Mark Gruzielanek), Dad told us his childhood Cardinal memories.
"When I was younger, Daddy had bought us all radios, so I always used to listen to the game in my bed at night," he told us while we sat around watching the Cards win yet another series.
It was July and they were already 20 games over .500, and 10 games ahead of everyone else in the division.
My sisters and I laughed. We tried to picture Dad as a three year-old with the radio tuned to the game. I could imagine him listening to the game as a three year-old-- Dad probably came out of the womb knowing where to place the radio dial-- but I ran into problems every time I tried to turn him into a little boy. I kept picturing his grown man's head on a little boy's body. It didn't work too well.
"I wish I had memories of the Cardinals from when I was younger," I sighed, wishing that I hadn't raged such a hard war against the radio.
"Well, I took you and Kaylee to several ball games when you were younger." Dad's brown eyes stared into mine, "but you all always complained about the sun, so we never stayed too long." As if it were our fault that St. Louis summers are only a shade cooler than Hell.
"Oh, well," I said in attempt to be offhanded, but I was pretty angry at the stupidity of my younger self and wished I had seized the opportunity to watch Ozzie Smith play short or hear the late Cardinals announcer Jack Buck proclaim, "That's a winner!" after a Cardinals victory.
I may have missed out on some of the great players of the past, but I was enjoying some amazing baseball. In 2004, the Cardinals had a fearsome triumvirate in the middle of the lineup dubbed the "MV3," that is, the Most Valuable Three. Albert Pujols, Jim Edmonds, and Scott Rolen led the Cardinals to a World Series against the Boston Redsox. The Cardinals were the favorite to win-- they had won 105 games in the regular season-- but the Red Sox swept the Cardinals, breaking the Curse of the Bambino. I was devastated. I had ridden this rollercoaster for six months, going through the highs and lows (granted, it was mostly highs), only to see my team flatline.
I spent that winter trying to forget that baseball existed, but that proved impossible once the fresh, carefree breeze of spring arrived and carried away the autumn-chill of the loss. I found myself again mesmerized by the solid ring of bat striking ball, the dull thud of ball striking mitt, and the rush of watching Jim Edmonds make highlight-reel plays in center field.
That summer was the last season the Cardinals played in the old Busch Stadium. Dad and I went to a game to say farewell to the stadium that hosted six World Series and a brilliant cast of hall-of-famers. I followed Dad closely as we walked through the press of the crowd. The stadium was a maze to me. The ramps and stairs seemed to head nowhere and everywhere at once. Red-clad fans were walking these ramps and stairs with the single-minded purpose of finding their seats before the first pitch. Dad led me to one ramp, and we walked steadily upward for what felt like a mile. Thankfully, we made it to our seats in time to hear a clanging bell and see the ballplayers-- they looked like ants from this height-- run out the dugout and take their fielding positions.
I quickly discovered that the action on the baseball diamond is complementary to the interaction with family members and surrounding fans. Cardinals hall-of-famer Lou Brock once said that "baseball is the background music to America." He is right. Everyone knew exactly what was happening in the game, but there's also ample time to converse and develop a friendship with the stranger sitting next to you. Life happens in the midst of the game's thrills.
Dad and I laughed at the drunks in the stands, and rose with the crowd to watch a home run disappear into a lucky fan's glove. We handled other fans' money and drinks-- we passed the money down the row to the beer vender ("Git yer ice cold Budweiser here-ah") the fan had flagged, and sent back the cool, sweaty drinks.
During the seventh inning, the speakers played Keith Urban's "Days Go By" as the number signifying the days remaining until the Cardinals moved into the skeletal ball park next door was torn from the right field wall. At the seventh inning stretch, I stood with the crowd and sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Dad, the crowd, and I smelled the sweet scent of victory on the horizon and shouted, "Root, root, root for the CARDINALS" at the top of our lungs.
The next year, 2006, was a bumpy ride. I was accustomed to my team winning all the time-- the 205 victories in two years had spoiled me-- and had forgotten that there are teams out there like the Royals and Pirates that consistently finish 20 or more games under .500. That October, the Cardinals limped into postseason play with a sad tally of 83 victories, and by some miracle of God managed to reach the World Series to compete against the Detroit Tigers. The Cardinals were such underdogs that the snarky pundits claimed that they would lose it in three games, which isn't even possible with a best of seven series. I had faith the Cardinals could upset the Tigers; however, I didn't want to get caught up and experience the disappointment of 2004, either, so I went to a costume party to put my mind at ease. I wound up hanging around the television with friends watching the Cards beat the Tigers soundly.
I watched the fifth game of the World Series at home with Dad and my sisters. The Cardinals led the series three games to one. They only had to win one more game to capture their National League leading tenth championship. We followed every pitch attentively for the whole nine innings. When Adam Wainwright's curveball landed in Yadier Molina's glove for a called strike three, my sisters and I began screaming and jumping. I attacked my father at the same time the Cardinals piled upon each other as Fox announcer Joe Buck channel his father and proclaimed, "For the first time since 1982, the Cardinals have a World Series winner."
Dad wandered outdoors for some reason and quickly came back. "Hey, girls, come out and hear this!"
My sisters and I stood barefooted alongside Dad in the chilly October air and basked in the surrounding madness. Car horns-- from the nearby interstate, I guessed-- blared continuously and loudly. I heard the jubilant yells of neighbors. My breath curled like smoke into the night air as I laughed at the rest of Cardinal Nation being just as Redbird-crazy as I. When a particularly loud whoop reached my ears, I unleashed an answering one of my own.
Once again, the Cardinals had taught me another life lesson: don't give up when the odds are against you. The most important thing is to have faith in your abilities.
