The St. Louis Cardinals is more than just a baseball team. It's a tradition--the kind of tradition that never feels like Thoreau's worn path around Walden Pond. A tradition that is handed down from generation to generation, particularly omnipresent as Joe Buck's tenor transmits his father's passion for the baseball Cardinals beyond the grave while his son remains unbiased for the televised masses. So many of these "tune-in-during-October” fans won’t hear the same announcer that St. Louis fans will hear—but we’re blessed with a collective memory, full of sensational plays and team efforts, that was embodied by what many professionals consider the best in the baseball announcing business. We still hear Jack Buck’s voice in our heads as his catch phrases, like “Go Crazy, Folks. Go Crazy!” and “That’s a Winner!” escape from our mouths as often as when he was still alive.
Please allow me a brief skip down
memory lane. I am lucky enough to know exactly when I realized the importance
of this tradition. I was a toothless second-grader who had been to plenty of
games at Busch Stadium (many more games than my own daughter will have attended
by the time she enters second grade next year). Now, I couldn’t tell you
(without cheating and using the Internet) what date it was or even if it was
before or after the All-Star break. But I do remember that it was a day game,
and my dad managed to score four tickets directly behind the Cardinal’s dugout.
I brought my lucky bat, so the Cardinal’s won. The Cardinal’s played the
Giants, my mom caught a foul ball hit by Darrell Evans, and I had “my usual”--a
soda and cotton candy. I also remember that it was 1982. Yes, THAT year. After
we watched Darrell Porter nearly tackle Bruce Sutter on the mound after the
last strike of game 7 in that World Series, my medium-sized family of four, as if
drawn to the center of the family room by a magnet, began hopping around in
circles--just like what we saw the Cardinals doing on TV. Fireworks were
booming, but we couldn’t hear them over our own revelry. It was the first time
I ever saw my dad cry tears of joy—or tears of any kind, really.
I saw all those players on the
1982 World Series-winning team from a perspective that not many get to
experience. They were human, life-sized—even to a second-grader. They were no
bigger than my own dad. OK, George Hendrick was obviously taller and KeithHernandez with his mustache captured my heart even though I made my dad shave
off his mustache. Nonetheless, when I had the opportunity to sit in the row
directly behind the dugout, and I was given the privilege of watching the
players go about their daily business—the goofing around, the looks on their
faces after the TV cameras had moved on, and the sound of their voices when
they casually talk with each other—I knew that Cardinal baseball would always
be THE central metaphor in my life.
Remember that scene in the movie
City Slickers where one guy talks about baseball as being the best, and for
this character, the only connection he had with his father? I can only guess,
but I suspect that sentiment resonated with many men. It certainly punched me
in the gut. Maybe you missed it, but I’m a woman writing this. Somebody get the
smelling salts. Yes, women can and do love baseball too. My love for the
Cardinals is not necessarily something I inherited from the important women in
my life, but it is something we all typically share. Maybe it’s just women born
or raised in St. Louis. Regardless, I don’t have a lot in common with my dad
anymore. I still love him, probably more now than ever. What we do have…is
memories—mostly good ones—and the St. Louis Cardinals. And that’s something
special.
It's the guy in the white hat. |