It was a late Friday afternoon the week before Thanksgiving 2013, when my sister received some bad news. Well, heck, we all did. But I remember my sister being the most upset because this particular news featured a certain favorite Cardinals third baseman.
Earlier that morning we (my sister and I) had recruited ourselves to drive our grandma to Morton, Illinois, for the day. A recent victim of a hit-and-run, she required a new car and the best fit was a Honda Fit held in reserve for us at a dealership just three hours away.
It was cold, gray, what you'd expect of any Midwest November. Between the dealership, mechanic, and dealership again, I found myself splitting a late lunch appetizer platter of fried cheese, chicken fingers, wings, and spring rolls with my sister at the local Ruby Tuesday's, as recommended by the young Iraq veteran, Sam, who closed the sale. At the time, we were still unaware of another sale just closing back home in good ole St. Louie.
It was on the drive back – we were almost home; I had Grandma in the Fit while my sister drove the other car – that my sister learned the unsavory news. Like a bad telegram came the text from our cousin:
David Freese traded.
STOP
To Angels.
STOP
Gone forever.
STOP
Well, something like that. My sister was so upset, she missed her exit.
So, no, it wasn't a stellar off-season. At least not for my sister and any other admirer of David Freese. But then again, who doesn't love that affable fellow with the brotherly smile and funny laugh who just three years ago managed to save his beloved hometown. You can't forget a kid like that.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Friday, September 19, 2014
Acceptance
2013. Puma was gone now – signed a January contract with Texas, Skip Schumaker traded to the Dodgers. I was expecting Lance to leave. He had been injured most of the year. Wanted to come back to St. Louis, but knew there wasn't room. Ascending fledgling Allen Craig could play First Base and we had another slugger by the name of Carlos Beltran in Right Field, both Lance's former positions. So that wasn't a surprise. Skip wasn't exactly shocking either. The middle infield was crowded, but I was also sad to see him go. I was at least happy that the Cardinals tried to find him a new contending team near his home in California: mission accomplished. We would see him again in the NLCS. Still, two great guys done and gone. Felt like severing cousins from the family.
But, as always, baseball moves on, rarely pausing the progression. And this progression was a big one. Top of the division at the end, tied with bearded Boston for best record in baseball.
NLDS: Pittsburgh. Won. An emotional complete-game-Waino hugging it out with Yadi on home field. They might have been long-lost brothers separated for years by the look on Adam's Georgian-boy face. I thought he might have cried right there. Maybe he did. Waino's an emotional guy anyway, but that certainly iced the cake.
NLCS: LA Dodgers. Won. Better than the LA Angels anyway. I don't care what they say: I never want to see Albert Pujols take on St. Louis. There is a time and a place for competition, and that won't be it. Baseball is baseball, “just a game,” and all that other nonsense. But it's also real life, and real people with emotions and pasts, and ups and downs. And I just don't want to see that. But anyway, except for disappointing Skip and Bic Mac (who had also taken the long road back to sunny California), it was time to eagerly return to World Series Soil.
World Series: Boston. Well … we all know how that one ended. Although I still say – in my “never-picked-up-a-real-bat-in-my-life-until-my-28th-birthday-when-my-grandma-bought-me-my-very-own-Louisville-Slugger” opinion – I'm still convinced that if David Ortiz hadn't played that series, we would have taken that team down in Beantown. Or preferably on home crust. With humility, of course.
Even with that final disappointment halfway across the country, who wouldn't be proud of these guys? They bust their hearts out every day for each other, for the fans, for this city, and that's why we love them.
But, as always, baseball moves on, rarely pausing the progression. And this progression was a big one. Top of the division at the end, tied with bearded Boston for best record in baseball.
NLDS: Pittsburgh. Won. An emotional complete-game-Waino hugging it out with Yadi on home field. They might have been long-lost brothers separated for years by the look on Adam's Georgian-boy face. I thought he might have cried right there. Maybe he did. Waino's an emotional guy anyway, but that certainly iced the cake.
NLCS: LA Dodgers. Won. Better than the LA Angels anyway. I don't care what they say: I never want to see Albert Pujols take on St. Louis. There is a time and a place for competition, and that won't be it. Baseball is baseball, “just a game,” and all that other nonsense. But it's also real life, and real people with emotions and pasts, and ups and downs. And I just don't want to see that. But anyway, except for disappointing Skip and Bic Mac (who had also taken the long road back to sunny California), it was time to eagerly return to World Series Soil.
World Series: Boston. Well … we all know how that one ended. Although I still say – in my “never-picked-up-a-real-bat-in-my-life-until-my-28th-birthday-when-my-grandma-bought-me-my-very-own-Louisville-Slugger” opinion – I'm still convinced that if David Ortiz hadn't played that series, we would have taken that team down in Beantown. Or preferably on home crust. With humility, of course.
Even with that final disappointment halfway across the country, who wouldn't be proud of these guys? They bust their hearts out every day for each other, for the fans, for this city, and that's why we love them.
Friday, September 12, 2014
The Plunge
So there I was. A new year, a new opportunity to scarf down good rock-solid-hard-core baseball. And I did that in a big way. It probably helped that we had cable that year, and that my husband bought a fat ticket pack right off the bat as a just-because gift. So by April, I was ready to go.
Of course, things didn't start off as envisioned. Lance Berkman went down hard about two weeks in and never really made it back all the way with his gimpy knee. Although I did get to see him play First Base just once during a Cubs game in mid-May, which gave me a small thrill.
While he was down and out, though, I found sudden inspiration for my next Cardinals hero. And it was long overdue. While I had always appreciated Yadi, this time when I was present to witness his May 27th grand slam – before being removed from the game due to dehydration – I really took note. Suddenly I had two Cardinals' stats to follow in great detail.
Then there was my husband and his Motte-ish beard. Whether it was on the streets of Clayton or at the Cahokia Mounds Museum across the Mississippi, people were asking – and frequently – “Are you Jason Motte?”
There was also that one unexpected delay on the field one night when they played the Phillies and some drunk college kid streaked across the outfield, buck-naked. I sat back in my seat and waited for the disaster to pass through the applause and laughter of the 40,000+ entertained, like old gladiator games or something. That's one way to make the headlines.
But what really made the season sing – if not sting – was October 3rd, two days before the Cardinals played the very first Wild Card game in MLB history. He didn't have to do it – the Cards had already made the post-season – but Mike Matheny did it anyway. He knew it was almost surely Puma's last at-bat as a Cardinal, if not his last at-bat of his career, and so when he sent Lance to the plate as a pinch hitter in the bottom of the 7th, the man received a prolonged, enthusiastic, and well-respected ovation that would have lasted even longer if the Reds' catcher had walked to the mound out of courtesy. Chills.
Weeks later, one game away from the World Series: all I remember is the dejection on the face of Kyle Lohse walking off the mound for the last time as a Cardinal through the cold rain of San Francisco. In many ways, it felt like the end of one more era. Again.
Of course, things didn't start off as envisioned. Lance Berkman went down hard about two weeks in and never really made it back all the way with his gimpy knee. Although I did get to see him play First Base just once during a Cubs game in mid-May, which gave me a small thrill.
While he was down and out, though, I found sudden inspiration for my next Cardinals hero. And it was long overdue. While I had always appreciated Yadi, this time when I was present to witness his May 27th grand slam – before being removed from the game due to dehydration – I really took note. Suddenly I had two Cardinals' stats to follow in great detail.
Then there was my husband and his Motte-ish beard. Whether it was on the streets of Clayton or at the Cahokia Mounds Museum across the Mississippi, people were asking – and frequently – “Are you Jason Motte?”
There was also that one unexpected delay on the field one night when they played the Phillies and some drunk college kid streaked across the outfield, buck-naked. I sat back in my seat and waited for the disaster to pass through the applause and laughter of the 40,000+ entertained, like old gladiator games or something. That's one way to make the headlines.
But what really made the season sing – if not sting – was October 3rd, two days before the Cardinals played the very first Wild Card game in MLB history. He didn't have to do it – the Cards had already made the post-season – but Mike Matheny did it anyway. He knew it was almost surely Puma's last at-bat as a Cardinal, if not his last at-bat of his career, and so when he sent Lance to the plate as a pinch hitter in the bottom of the 7th, the man received a prolonged, enthusiastic, and well-respected ovation that would have lasted even longer if the Reds' catcher had walked to the mound out of courtesy. Chills.
Weeks later, one game away from the World Series: all I remember is the dejection on the face of Kyle Lohse walking off the mound for the last time as a Cardinal through the cold rain of San Francisco. In many ways, it felt like the end of one more era. Again.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Are You Jason Motte?
My son was only four years old. He didn't know anything about baseball, and maybe he didn't care. I couldn't tell yet. But that didn't stop me from buying us a weekend pass to the Winter Warm Up of 2012. Why wouldn't I? The city was still crazy over its 2011 World Champions, and I wanted my son to have a taste of it, even in a small way. So I also purchased a Lance Berkman autograph ticket.
It was mid-January. Hence the necessary “warm up” in the title. I already had a Lance Berkman shirt, two of them, in fact. But I don't know – there's something about wearing someone's name when you're going to meet that person that somehow reeks of … weirdness. I passed and wore a red sweater instead. So on that cold Sunday afternoon when my husband and preschooler accompanied me to the Hyatt Regency St. Louis at the Arch, my son was the only one of us in Cardinals get-up.
We slipped on our passes at the desk, picked up the autograph ticket, and found our way upstairs into a packed line trailing outside the large ballrooms where baseball royalty waited, Sharpies at the ready, and probably none too happy to sign for two straight hours.
“Hey,” a certain gentleman turned around to my husband as we waited in line. “You look just like Jason Motte.”
A few minutes later, someone else noticed it.
“You'd better be careful. People are going to start asking for your autograph.”
Suddenly, my husband was becoming that hesitant moment where you're pretty sure you've just seen someone famous, but you're not one hundred percent, so you don't do anything about it. There is a strong resemblance, I admit. The build, the beard, the glasses, the beard.
But for the moment, I was distracted from the idea that my husband was a look-alike to the Cardinals' closer. I was more nervous that I thought I would be. I looked around as we entered the doorway. It was Matt Holliday's 32nd birthday. I saw him across the room already signing baseballs, wearing a skullcap despite the warmth of the large room. Maybe it wasn't that warm; maybe it was just my nerves. Almost definitely the nerves.
And then, there he was – Mr. Lance Berkman, the Puma – himself. Sitting high up at a table in a respectable blue-gray shirt, slightly graying, and polite as usual, despite the autograph session only just beginning.
“How ya'll doin'?” he asked, as Gus handed him the baseball.
Four seconds later he gave it back, and I can still see him saying with a nod, “Thanks. Thanks much.”
And that was it. I left feeling like we had just met the King of England. A Texan king anyway. And what do you know, that baseball turned out to become one of my son's prized possessions. Two and a half years later and the signature is already starting to fade a little, even in its special fade-resistant box, kept out of the sun. But I'll always remember the four seconds it took to sign it, and the friendly smile of the Texan/St.-Louis switch hitter who helped me return to baseball.
It was mid-January. Hence the necessary “warm up” in the title. I already had a Lance Berkman shirt, two of them, in fact. But I don't know – there's something about wearing someone's name when you're going to meet that person that somehow reeks of … weirdness. I passed and wore a red sweater instead. So on that cold Sunday afternoon when my husband and preschooler accompanied me to the Hyatt Regency St. Louis at the Arch, my son was the only one of us in Cardinals get-up.
We slipped on our passes at the desk, picked up the autograph ticket, and found our way upstairs into a packed line trailing outside the large ballrooms where baseball royalty waited, Sharpies at the ready, and probably none too happy to sign for two straight hours.
“Hey,” a certain gentleman turned around to my husband as we waited in line. “You look just like Jason Motte.”
A few minutes later, someone else noticed it.
“You'd better be careful. People are going to start asking for your autograph.”
Suddenly, my husband was becoming that hesitant moment where you're pretty sure you've just seen someone famous, but you're not one hundred percent, so you don't do anything about it. There is a strong resemblance, I admit. The build, the beard, the glasses, the beard.
But for the moment, I was distracted from the idea that my husband was a look-alike to the Cardinals' closer. I was more nervous that I thought I would be. I looked around as we entered the doorway. It was Matt Holliday's 32nd birthday. I saw him across the room already signing baseballs, wearing a skullcap despite the warmth of the large room. Maybe it wasn't that warm; maybe it was just my nerves. Almost definitely the nerves.
And then, there he was – Mr. Lance Berkman, the Puma – himself. Sitting high up at a table in a respectable blue-gray shirt, slightly graying, and polite as usual, despite the autograph session only just beginning.
“How ya'll doin'?” he asked, as Gus handed him the baseball.
Four seconds later he gave it back, and I can still see him saying with a nod, “Thanks. Thanks much.”
And that was it. I left feeling like we had just met the King of England. A Texan king anyway. And what do you know, that baseball turned out to become one of my son's prized possessions. Two and a half years later and the signature is already starting to fade a little, even in its special fade-resistant box, kept out of the sun. But I'll always remember the four seconds it took to sign it, and the friendly smile of the Texan/St.-Louis switch hitter who helped me return to baseball.
Friday, August 29, 2014
The Prince
Sometimes St. Louis gets hit by hurricanes. Given our landlocked position in the U.S., these hurricanes arrive only in the form of baseball-related monsters, altering the general mood of a city already prone to change based on the current box score.
This particular hurricane blew in out of nowhere, mostly from a westerly direction and an origination point known as Anaheim, California.
For years, Albert smoothly assured his faithful – his millions of faithful – that he wanted to retire a Cardinal, red jacket included. Who wouldn't? If we're all honest here, in a city that tends to value loyalty more than most other virtues, there haven't been more than a few disgruntled players who haven't wanted to retire a Cardinal. It's just a fact of life. And I really believed, and still do, that Albert Pujols meant what he said.
But then life changes, that proverbial curveball. Some folks blame the 254 million, or the ten years, or maybe even the change of climate. If that's one thing players don't like in St. Louis, it's probably the intense summer boil and/or, for those who take up permanent residence, the equally uncomfortable winter deep freeze. Freeze, not Freese.
When it all went down and the city erupted into one mass chaos of disbelief, anger, and regret, I remember wondering how Albert could leave all these guys who had become his family, his brothers. Probably especially Yadi: big-brother, little-brother. But I tend to think that we'll never really know why Albert left. Not in full. After all, it's in many ways a private decision. I'm sure many people would prefer – maybe especially after living in a floodlight for eleven years – to keep most personal matters close to the chest. And in the end, that's fair.
Although no matter what Albert Pujols accomplishes in his remaining seven, eight years in L.A., it can't match the moments he had, and the family he has, back home. This is nothing against the good fans of Anaheim. But you remember your roots and the people who helped raise you, and in a very real way, St. Louis did that for this big guy, still proud of that homegrown son they call Prince Albert.
This particular hurricane blew in out of nowhere, mostly from a westerly direction and an origination point known as Anaheim, California.
For years, Albert smoothly assured his faithful – his millions of faithful – that he wanted to retire a Cardinal, red jacket included. Who wouldn't? If we're all honest here, in a city that tends to value loyalty more than most other virtues, there haven't been more than a few disgruntled players who haven't wanted to retire a Cardinal. It's just a fact of life. And I really believed, and still do, that Albert Pujols meant what he said.
But then life changes, that proverbial curveball. Some folks blame the 254 million, or the ten years, or maybe even the change of climate. If that's one thing players don't like in St. Louis, it's probably the intense summer boil and/or, for those who take up permanent residence, the equally uncomfortable winter deep freeze. Freeze, not Freese.
When it all went down and the city erupted into one mass chaos of disbelief, anger, and regret, I remember wondering how Albert could leave all these guys who had become his family, his brothers. Probably especially Yadi: big-brother, little-brother. But I tend to think that we'll never really know why Albert left. Not in full. After all, it's in many ways a private decision. I'm sure many people would prefer – maybe especially after living in a floodlight for eleven years – to keep most personal matters close to the chest. And in the end, that's fair.
Although no matter what Albert Pujols accomplishes in his remaining seven, eight years in L.A., it can't match the moments he had, and the family he has, back home. This is nothing against the good fans of Anaheim. But you remember your roots and the people who helped raise you, and in a very real way, St. Louis did that for this big guy, still proud of that homegrown son they call Prince Albert.
Friday, August 22, 2014
A Ring for Puma
Sprawled out on a blanket with my son at the top of a still-green Art Hill, October 25th, 2011. While my four year-old son played, I was reading a cookbook. A cookbook. I never read cookbooks. But I was definitely thinking more about Game 6 of the World Series than about photographs of three-layered Italian rainbow cakes.
Fast forward those easy four and a half years since my son was born, and it was time for championships once again. I had come in late to the race. One of the first images I saw on the television about the play-offs was a woman wearing a stuffed squirrel on her hat, interviewed at a local downtown bar after the Cards clinched the NLDS in Philadelphia.
Enter Lance Berkman. I was oblivious to who this guy was – strangely – even living in St. Louis where everything breathes baseball. My first inspiring thought was, “He doesn't really look like a Lance…” I had tracked him the past couple of weeks leading up to Game 6. Maybe it was because he was so affable, maybe it was because he's a goofy Texan (I hear a lot about Texas from all my in-laws), but I think the real reason he became an instant favorite is because he turned down the idea of a trade to Texas (despite being hard core Lone Star state loyal), because he loved the Cardinals so much.
He deserved a World Series ring.
Game 6 was postponed one day by rain. This delay had helped work me into an ever-escalating bundle of nerves. Who cared if I hadn't tracked pure baseball the past five years? I was back like I had never been gone, and this time, I wanted Big Puma to get that ring.
Looking back, despite all the hype leading up to, during, and after that ridiculous game, I remember only two concrete things: sitting on my bed staring at a very non-HD 20” screen where Lance Berkman was stepping up to the plate for the final time. “Really?” I thought to myself, and the Creator of the Universe. “The one guy I really want to get a ring, and he's going to be the final out? That's a little cruel, don't you think?” Pause for reverence. So when he knocked in that game-tying RBI-single sending Jon Jay and his 'fro bouncing across home plate … I didn't move for a few seconds. It was all over so fast after that, the only thing I remember next is my whole family calling me up over the speakerphone with my three sisters screaming and yelling in the background. Make that the entire city. I doubt there was even one person in St. Louis who wasn't going bonkers at that moment.
Did I sleep after that?
Maybe; probably. But it wouldn't drain out of my head again. No more gaps between baseball. As I stood in the stadium to applaud Lance Berkman and the other Cardinals heroes just three days later during the Championship Ceremony, I already knew it was going to stick this time.
Fast forward those easy four and a half years since my son was born, and it was time for championships once again. I had come in late to the race. One of the first images I saw on the television about the play-offs was a woman wearing a stuffed squirrel on her hat, interviewed at a local downtown bar after the Cards clinched the NLDS in Philadelphia.
Enter Lance Berkman. I was oblivious to who this guy was – strangely – even living in St. Louis where everything breathes baseball. My first inspiring thought was, “He doesn't really look like a Lance…” I had tracked him the past couple of weeks leading up to Game 6. Maybe it was because he was so affable, maybe it was because he's a goofy Texan (I hear a lot about Texas from all my in-laws), but I think the real reason he became an instant favorite is because he turned down the idea of a trade to Texas (despite being hard core Lone Star state loyal), because he loved the Cardinals so much.
He deserved a World Series ring.
Game 6 was postponed one day by rain. This delay had helped work me into an ever-escalating bundle of nerves. Who cared if I hadn't tracked pure baseball the past five years? I was back like I had never been gone, and this time, I wanted Big Puma to get that ring.
Looking back, despite all the hype leading up to, during, and after that ridiculous game, I remember only two concrete things: sitting on my bed staring at a very non-HD 20” screen where Lance Berkman was stepping up to the plate for the final time. “Really?” I thought to myself, and the Creator of the Universe. “The one guy I really want to get a ring, and he's going to be the final out? That's a little cruel, don't you think?” Pause for reverence. So when he knocked in that game-tying RBI-single sending Jon Jay and his 'fro bouncing across home plate … I didn't move for a few seconds. It was all over so fast after that, the only thing I remember next is my whole family calling me up over the speakerphone with my three sisters screaming and yelling in the background. Make that the entire city. I doubt there was even one person in St. Louis who wasn't going bonkers at that moment.
Did I sleep after that?
Maybe; probably. But it wouldn't drain out of my head again. No more gaps between baseball. As I stood in the stadium to applaud Lance Berkman and the other Cardinals heroes just three days later during the Championship Ceremony, I already knew it was going to stick this time.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Distracted from Reeses
It was two years after that unfortunate World Series meeting against Beantown, and I wasn't feeling quite so full of zip as I had at a fresh 19. Three months preggo with our first son, and there I was again – although sizably larger – right back in front of the television, thick in the playoffs between St. Louis and Detroit … and feeling pretty thick myself.
Friday, October 27th. A fog of drowsy second trimester sludge, and I was stretched out half-asleep on my parents' living room couch while my husband was probably out babysitting the church youth group. No way was I shoveling myself out to do the same, while our boys-in-red scorched the Tigers on home turf. And yet I could still hardly keep my eyes open.
But I did see the end, the final pitch – Wainwright to Yadi – and the jumping huddle of grown men, giddy as puppies in a butterfly garden. Melting happiness: the whole city.
What did I do for days after this victory? It was Halloween by then. Normally I play the same angle as my dad, casually lobbying for overlooked Reeses from my siblings. But not this time. I all but ignored those bright orange packages because I was too busy watching every home run Albert Pujols had hit over the last six years. In slow motion. I was fascinated. The sheer power. This was Mark McGwire all over again. Hooked.
This lasted for awhile. But then I hit the third trimester, and the weight of a nine-pound baby on a five-foot-two-and-a-half, hundred pound frame was taking its toll. Distractions abounded for a first-time mom, first-time home owner. And so baseball once again slipped into the background, surfacing momentarily in the form of a twelve-inning loss to the Giants, April 18th, my first night in the hospital with our newborn son. I hadn't really slept in 48 hours, and the last image I remember from the television was a disappointed Albert Pujols jogging off the field.
This had to last me for basically the next four and a half years. Infant, toddler, preschool, pre-K, my life would continue following that line, taking in a game here and there, even a beauty of a seat on the first base line that same warm summer of the year I became a mom. But in retrospect, it was the right thing to do. Four years later, I was more than happy to make the adjustment to full-time mom, full-time fan.
Friday, October 27th. A fog of drowsy second trimester sludge, and I was stretched out half-asleep on my parents' living room couch while my husband was probably out babysitting the church youth group. No way was I shoveling myself out to do the same, while our boys-in-red scorched the Tigers on home turf. And yet I could still hardly keep my eyes open.
But I did see the end, the final pitch – Wainwright to Yadi – and the jumping huddle of grown men, giddy as puppies in a butterfly garden. Melting happiness: the whole city.
What did I do for days after this victory? It was Halloween by then. Normally I play the same angle as my dad, casually lobbying for overlooked Reeses from my siblings. But not this time. I all but ignored those bright orange packages because I was too busy watching every home run Albert Pujols had hit over the last six years. In slow motion. I was fascinated. The sheer power. This was Mark McGwire all over again. Hooked.
This lasted for awhile. But then I hit the third trimester, and the weight of a nine-pound baby on a five-foot-two-and-a-half, hundred pound frame was taking its toll. Distractions abounded for a first-time mom, first-time home owner. And so baseball once again slipped into the background, surfacing momentarily in the form of a twelve-inning loss to the Giants, April 18th, my first night in the hospital with our newborn son. I hadn't really slept in 48 hours, and the last image I remember from the television was a disappointed Albert Pujols jogging off the field.
This had to last me for basically the next four and a half years. Infant, toddler, preschool, pre-K, my life would continue following that line, taking in a game here and there, even a beauty of a seat on the first base line that same warm summer of the year I became a mom. But in retrospect, it was the right thing to do. Four years later, I was more than happy to make the adjustment to full-time mom, full-time fan.
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