More than Moneyball

Mike Matheny managed the St. Louis Cardinals to a win in Game 2 of the 2013 World Series because he believes in his players. Maybe, just maybe, baseball is more than a "stats-driven" game. Don't get me wrong, I loved the movie Moneyball--but, here in St. Louis, we fans know that there is more to America's pastime than numbers, money, and talent. Something that cannot be seen. Something that only a serious player and ardent lover of the game knows--something that is felt. In composition studies, Sondra Perl calls this feeling, "the felt sense." Bernie Miklasz calls it confidence in the players and the reciprocated loyalty of a manager's players. No matter what IT is called, Cardinal fans FEEL it. It's more than the electricity of red October(s), civic responsibility shown by iconic sports heroes who never shy away from being called-on to lead by example, or the legendary names that have "skippered" and coached this team.

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.