Fair weather fans. Shame on you. The Cardinals are down; they are not out. How many times have they been down this year, just one count away from a knockout? More times than I can count. Today is just one more time. The lady has not sung. Ten has not been called out. The bell has not rung. We have three innings to get three runs, and darn it, we can do it. We CAN do it. We HAVE done it for a month now. Magic does NOT die with a whimper but with a bang! And the Cardinals have been magic all year. Don't count them out yet.
I posted this last night on Facebook after the Cardinals fell behind by two runs -- the first time -- in what is most likely the greatest World Series game in history.
I have been a Cardinal fans since I was a child. My grandfather would sit in his living room, reach into his can of tobacco, grab a cigarette paper, carefully roll up his cigarette, lick both ends so it didn't come apart, get out an old fashioned wooden match, strike it against an iron pot-bellied stove, touch it to his cigarette, pause for a fraction of a second, and then say, "Son, have I ever told you about ..."
He had told me before, but it didn't matter. I could hear stories about the old time baseball players over and over and over again. Grandpa grew up with Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and the gas house gang in St. Louis. My dad, who is almost 80, would likely kill me if I told this story, but his given name before Grandpa died and Dad changed it legally was Pepper Martin. Do a little math here. Dad was born July 2, 1932. Almost exactly nine months earlier, guess which team from St. Louis was in the world series? Guess which player won the MVP?
Now, though I am just as fanatical as both my dad and my grandpa are and was about Cardinal baseball, I didn't name my daughter Roberta (after Bob Gibson) or Louise (after Lou Brock) or Stephanie (after Steve Carlton) or Orlando (after ... uh ... Orlando Cepeda.)
I feel privileged to have grown up in an era when I got to see these players wear a Cardinals' uniform and do get to see Albert Pujols. I don't know if the Cardinals are going to win game seven or not, but let me tell you, I wouldn't bet against them.
I posted this last night on Facebook after the Cardinals fell behind by two runs -- the first time -- in what is most likely the greatest World Series game in history.
I have been a Cardinal fans since I was a child. My grandfather would sit in his living room, reach into his can of tobacco, grab a cigarette paper, carefully roll up his cigarette, lick both ends so it didn't come apart, get out an old fashioned wooden match, strike it against an iron pot-bellied stove, touch it to his cigarette, pause for a fraction of a second, and then say, "Son, have I ever told you about ..."
He had told me before, but it didn't matter. I could hear stories about the old time baseball players over and over and over again. Grandpa grew up with Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and the gas house gang in St. Louis. My dad, who is almost 80, would likely kill me if I told this story, but his given name before Grandpa died and Dad changed it legally was Pepper Martin. Do a little math here. Dad was born July 2, 1932. Almost exactly nine months earlier, guess which team from St. Louis was in the world series? Guess which player won the MVP?
Now, though I am just as fanatical as both my dad and my grandpa are and was about Cardinal baseball, I didn't name my daughter Roberta (after Bob Gibson) or Louise (after Lou Brock) or Stephanie (after Steve Carlton) or Orlando (after ... uh ... Orlando Cepeda.)
I feel privileged to have grown up in an era when I got to see these players wear a Cardinals' uniform and do get to see Albert Pujols. I don't know if the Cardinals are going to win game seven or not, but let me tell you, I wouldn't bet against them.
Many thanks to my father and grandfather for giving me 'the love of the game'
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