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I fell hard for the St. Louis Cardinals in 1964. Facefirst hard.
It was a balmy October day, and my dad and I went to see our birds wallop those not-so-grand Yankees in the seventh game of the World Series. Mme. Bierman had freed me from a French test so I could go. (Merci, merci, merci.) I wore a khaki skirt; flowered Peter Pan–collared blouse with pink sweater to match, jauntily tied around my shoulders; and Weejuns (loafers), no socks. I sat next to a nun who had crossed her fingers—and then taped them that way—in hopes of bringing the team luck. (“Wasn’t she supposed to appeal to a higher, less painful power?” I pondered.)
When the last out was made and the crowd erupted in cheers, my dad hugged me so hard that I had to catch my breath. I spent the next few minutes helping Sister untangle her (now arthritic) fingers before heading down the steps to the street. Immediately I knew: I was a goner. If a game can make so many people this euphoric, you could— actually, you should—love that game with all your heart.
As they do for every fan (faithful or fickle), experiences ensued. When I was in Paris in 1985, a friend called my hotel daily to report a single number—the team’s latest ranking as it pursued the pennant. Then there was the time in New York when my friend Niles and the boyfriend-of-the-month decided to prank me by calmly informing me the Cardinals had been sold and were moving to another city. I was stunned. Almost speechless. And instantly tearful. As soon as I could, I charged down W. 76th Street to my apartment and called my father to confirm the terrible news. It was around midnight. His sleepy (and annoyed) response? “Find new friends.”
I bring all of this up because as you read this, it’s September—the season is winding down, the race for the World Series heating up. Even if the Cardinals aren’t contenders, it’s a great time. And I wax on about it because last night I went to the All-Star Game.
The city never sparkled brighter. Every seat was filled—and nearly everyone seemed to be dressed in red. (Did they send out a dress code: If you want to come to the town with the best baseball fans, you’d best dress like one?) While I was naturally awestruck by the fact that I stood only a pitcher’s throw away from President Obama, my heart skipped a beat when I saw Stan the Man and Lou Brock, my first two most-favored players. Riding the MetroLink home, I sat next to Hall of Famer Rollie Fingers. (No, I did not gush. Actually, my only thought was that it was time for the man’s waxed handlebar mustache to go—ignoring the obvious, that it’s his trademark.)
But it was a great night, in a great city, in a sea of great fans.
All the best,
Christy Marshall
