Today marks the start of the World Series, for our St. Louis Cardinals--and as most of you know, ours isn’t *necessarily* a sports-watching household, except for the post season of any hometown team AND any runs Butler University makes for the college basketball championship. However. It’s impossible to live in this city and NOT be fired up about this
World Series; this terribly unlikely, who-died-and-made-them-national-league-champions, World Series.
In the 13 years that I have lived in St. Louis, I have: watched Mark McGwire break the homerun record, seen the BEGINNING of Albert Pujols major league career, been present when the President threw out the first pitch on opening day 2004, watched the 2004 World Series from my Lazy-Boy (bedrest with the twins), attended the last game at the old Busch Stadium (pregnant with Little J), cried when I had to give away my ticket to the first game in the new Busch Stadium (bedrest with Little J), and suffered through mastitis and a 101 degree fever to BE. THERE. when they won the championship in 2006. And I’m not even close to being considered a superfan, but I like being part of the fuss, I guess.
I do, however, love the history of the Cardinals, the way they’ve existed as a form of family-friendly entertainment through the ages, long before Britney Spears was simultaneously appealing to pre-teens and flashing her hoo-ha in public. While it’s true that there is a demographic of partial nudity at the ball park, it generally stands as the home of old traditions--and children are easily distracted from debauchery with its offerings of cotton candy, Fred Bird and the Clydesdales. It’s near impossible to do what the Cardinals have managed in the past three? four? weeks; and even harder to believe an entire team of men has managed to escape marriage with a proverbial-Kardashian type in the age of reality television. I won’t say it’s perfect, or the sport without it’s vices--but a World Series is like Amish entertainment compared to performers whose song lyrics include the term “Menage-a-trois”, and sport underwear made of whip cream and cherries (I’m talking to you, Katy Perry).
But ours is also a big, small town; we go to church with a retired Cardinals pitcher, and I see Joe Buck at 7-11 sometimes. We share mutual friends with Albert Pujols--but everyone here, particularly in the St. Louis Christian community, does. One time, we passed him in a hospital lobby, and I watched him turn to face us and say “Hey--” with a look of *almost* recognition, while I froze, in what I can only be considered an extremely awkward blessing--because getting my arm caught in the closing elevator door that seperated us, only to stop time and explain to Albert Pujols that he does not actually know us would have been much, MUCH worse. If I love the fuss of a championship, it seems that I am paralyzed when face to face with it in a tight waffle tee.
Tonight we are a city sharing the intimacy of facebook and Twitter, cheering for that guy we saw that one time in a hospital lobby, a restaurant, a grocery story. I’m actually nervous about something I was oblivious to a month ago and excited about something beyond me, even if it’s considered to be generally uncool to come late to the party. We are slow to jump on bandwagons, to be loud, to cheer because it’s fun--and not because we memorize statistics.
Unless you accidentally find yourselves in the World Series, and then you can jump and scream and wear clothing adorned with the “rally squirrel” (???), because it’s all just a part of the fuss.
Go Cards!
World Series; this terribly unlikely, who-died-and-made-them-national-league-champions, World Series.
In the 13 years that I have lived in St. Louis, I have: watched Mark McGwire break the homerun record, seen the BEGINNING of Albert Pujols major league career, been present when the President threw out the first pitch on opening day 2004, watched the 2004 World Series from my Lazy-Boy (bedrest with the twins), attended the last game at the old Busch Stadium (pregnant with Little J), cried when I had to give away my ticket to the first game in the new Busch Stadium (bedrest with Little J), and suffered through mastitis and a 101 degree fever to BE. THERE. when they won the championship in 2006. And I’m not even close to being considered a superfan, but I like being part of the fuss, I guess.
I do, however, love the history of the Cardinals, the way they’ve existed as a form of family-friendly entertainment through the ages, long before Britney Spears was simultaneously appealing to pre-teens and flashing her hoo-ha in public. While it’s true that there is a demographic of partial nudity at the ball park, it generally stands as the home of old traditions--and children are easily distracted from debauchery with its offerings of cotton candy, Fred Bird and the Clydesdales. It’s near impossible to do what the Cardinals have managed in the past three? four? weeks; and even harder to believe an entire team of men has managed to escape marriage with a proverbial-Kardashian type in the age of reality television. I won’t say it’s perfect, or the sport without it’s vices--but a World Series is like Amish entertainment compared to performers whose song lyrics include the term “Menage-a-trois”, and sport underwear made of whip cream and cherries (I’m talking to you, Katy Perry).
But ours is also a big, small town; we go to church with a retired Cardinals pitcher, and I see Joe Buck at 7-11 sometimes. We share mutual friends with Albert Pujols--but everyone here, particularly in the St. Louis Christian community, does. One time, we passed him in a hospital lobby, and I watched him turn to face us and say “Hey--” with a look of *almost* recognition, while I froze, in what I can only be considered an extremely awkward blessing--because getting my arm caught in the closing elevator door that seperated us, only to stop time and explain to Albert Pujols that he does not actually know us would have been much, MUCH worse. If I love the fuss of a championship, it seems that I am paralyzed when face to face with it in a tight waffle tee.Tonight we are a city sharing the intimacy of facebook and Twitter, cheering for that guy we saw that one time in a hospital lobby, a restaurant, a grocery story. I’m actually nervous about something I was oblivious to a month ago and excited about something beyond me, even if it’s considered to be generally uncool to come late to the party. We are slow to jump on bandwagons, to be loud, to cheer because it’s fun--and not because we memorize statistics.
Unless you accidentally find yourselves in the World Series, and then you can jump and scream and wear clothing adorned with the “rally squirrel” (???), because it’s all just a part of the fuss.
Go Cards!
2 comments:
Go Cards...I love it too!!!
U did not just post a wierd science photo. And that is why we are friends!
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