The Side Bar was about half full of Cubs fans the last two nights.  Most of them left way before the ninth with their little hopeless stubby bear tails between their legs.  My favorite one wore a blue hat with the white little bear on it .  It had an autograph black sharpied on the bill but I didn't even ask. 

My favorite part was when Kerry Wood came in for relief last night.  Insult to paulsy, no? 

I'd like to say I could sympathize, but your drought is wierd.  It's beyond consolation.  I can place a fathom on the frustration but it's so gross to even peak at that I felt the roots of my hair on my head loosen when I did.  I hope you all appreciate how hard...how Great it is...to win not just the central, but the world series.  Maybe next year? 

Soriano is great.  Big time player.  Swings at good pitches.  Very professional.

Downtown St.Louis still has a huge unsightly hole in the ground just outside it's beautiful new baseball stadium.  The future is supposed to hold a mixed use 'Ball Park Village' with shops and condos and a movie theatre and a Hall of fame, etc.  Rumor has it funding is in a funk and all tied up waiting for more public contribution.

There has also been publicity about a proposal to build a soccer stadium in Collinsville, IL which would play home to an MLS team.  Personally I think this would be doomed to failure in granduer of that joint use airpoirt in O'Fallon, IL.  What professional athlete would want to live in Collinsville?  Who's gonna drive over to Collinsville from west county for a mediocre soccer team? 

I haven't measured but it looks to me like we could fit a soccer stadium in the vacant hole.  Maybe not the grandest stadium in the world but a nest of a stadium; a trial 10 year stadium.  The location alongside Busch would brew undoubtable interest amongst the baseball freaks and subconciously legitimize the relavance and sincerity of a fledgling sport.  The metro area is saturated with soccer fans frustrated and baffled with the America's ultimate snubbing of soccer.   Bring it Downtown.  Grow some green grass and put up a romantic facade in concert with the new Busch architecture.  Just add beer.  For baseball heaven's sake if we could just win right away...what an awesome addition to downtown and the local culture.  Not to mention the world wide publicity we'd recieve after we defeat the Galaxy.

We've got plenty of condos.  Let's get soccer instead.  Who's with me?  

I was stunned on monday morning when I went to MSN home expecting to see pictures and story on our glorious world series celebration on a warm sunny sunday.  Instead the feature article brandished a darker picture of the skyline over an unflattering barge and read,' The Most Dangerous City in America.'  I figure the AP articles source must have had Cubby/Tiger ties.  Who knows? 

I took a new perspective when riding up the elevator back from lunch.  After mentioning the championship to a friend, a female citizen with a gold tooth, she said, "How 'bout the most dangerous rankin'?"  I said, "Yeah, I thought I'd see celebration stuff when looked at the MSN news and sure enough they slander us."  She said, "Yeah!  Just when good stuff happens and everybody believes we can turn this thing around they take us down.  But you know what?  It's true!  You come to our ballpark, we'll whip yo' butt.  Come to our street corner, we'll whip yo' butt!"  We all laughed and high fived; suits with brief cases, secretaries, and plaintiffs.  It was cool. 

The Tigers have managed to throw the Cardinals into pretty good position.  What's it like to have a guy who throws over a 100 but can't hit the third baseman under pressure?  Tough luck.  Seems the angels are in our dugout this year.  Baseball's a funny game.  We stank it up so bad the last two weeks I was pleading for mercy.  We were about like the Cubs.  Now, 10 parties later, we're set to take our 10th title.  We'll be in double digits.  That's pretty cool.   

Ha! HA! Minaya!  Ha! HA!  Pond Scum!!!  The Fabulous Under-Birds win the Pennant!  The Cardinals win the pennant!  The Cardinal’s win the pennant!  The Cardinal’s win the pennant! 

Yadier didn’t get a hit allllllll year long and blamo!  Tell me that’s not an angel on the cover of the Post!!! DOW 12,000!!!!!!!!!!!  Off the bat it looked lazy to me.  You?

Out of nowhere we got a sweeeeeeet pen.  Anybody want to talk about it? 

We surmounted the robbery of Rolen!  Wainwright diced Bletran on three pitches with bases loaded!  The great Beltran; FROZEN!!!!!!!!!!

Yadi!  Yadi! Yadi!!!  Okay Kahn... Here it comes!

It’s gonna be a sweet series.  I’ll bet you we get at least one.

REVENGE FOR '68!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  REVENGE!  rEVENGE! REVENGE!

the natioal league will rise again!!!  May the DH slip into the cellar of despair and righteous real non cheating baseball rule again!!! 

MIKE SHANNON rules the Universe!  BETTER THAN HARRY AND HE'S RIGHT NOW!!!  HE! HE!

As we reach the 1/3 point in the season the redbirds sit one game up in the central.  Clipped by Cincy in the last two and losers of four of the last five they've been injured into ####y precariousness.   The return of Derek Lee and signing of Roger Clemens represent supplemental  variables of concern.

Isringhausen hasn't had consistent control for three years now and really scuffed up the mojo on monday surrending a two run lead by allowing Griffey's ninth inning three run ding ####.  OOOwwwww!  That hurt.  Izzy came out and pretty much said he's lost it.  He's been riding rosaries for three years and his fastballs a meaty 91.  Is  Wainright is too good to replace him?  Lot's of reason to hold off but I vote it's time.  Looper?  ####.

Carpenter returned to the mound last night surrendering three runs in five innings and took a loss but he looked all right.  We just couldn't score any runs.  Marquis has been solid; look at his win total.  Everyone is screaming trade Marquis.  I'm not.  In past posts I predicted he would rebound with a nice season.   Come playoffs I prefer Marquis on the mound to Mulder.  You can yell numbers all you want but thats the card I play.    

Bigbie's out again.  An ambilical chord problem?  He's starting to remind me of J.D. Drew;  Cute, white, and hurt all the time.    

Edmonds put up a sweet performance on sunday sparking the salvage of game three against the cubbies.  I got my fingers crossed he can shore things up while Alberts out and let that sore abdonmen get relative rest while posted at first instead of roaming center.  Lot's of pressure on Jimmy to fit that piece in and he knows it. 

All hail little Davey Eckstein.  Rolen is finally starting to rock and Molina's has to heat up.  He hit his first #### on monday(right before Griffey made us forget).

Prognosis:  Groom Wainright to close.  Let Albert rest.  Tell Spezio to quit smoking seedy schwagg.  All fans must force themself to love Juan Encarcion(I know it's hard but he'll respond to it).   And don't panic.  Cool fans don't boo.

We can all sit and argue numbers and #### our pants about Barry’s steroids or propose Babe wasn’t facing black pitchers.  Whose the best?  Each home run these guys hit stands as a performance.  It’s a piece of art.  You can stack them into numerals and line them up against each other all you want but there is nothing but opinion.  The stage changes each season and the countless variables of varying degrees of effect continue to fluctuate.  Babe had a short porch!  Barry hit a juiced ball!    

I don’t like Barry.  He’s never been an appealing character to me.  That dangling cross especially sucked.  I’ve heckled the man from the left field bleachers of Busch with reprehensible fervor but I’m not freaking out that he’s passing the Babe.  It’s time to stand against steroid use but it’s also time to accept a past era.  It happened.  And many authorities knew it was happening.  Barry’s not the only guy who benefited.  Let it go.  If you want to list Babe better than Barry in your head, do it.  But let’s let Barry finish up his show.  Go on and give Barry Bonds a thumb down but enough about artificially penalizing his numbers or banishing him before passing Babe.  Baseball had a steroid problem and Barry was in baseball.  Take a deep breath and let it be.  

So I'd given up on Opening Day tickets at new Busch.  My best friend Josh had not.  During his struggle to order via phone and internet it occurred Josh that the Brewers would be our opponent and that Ned Yost is the Brewers manager.  Our college buddy, Britt, is from Atlanta where Ned used to coach and his parents have some form of a friendship with the Yost's.  When the Brave's would come to town we'd sit about six rows off the Brave's on deck circle and Ned would come talk to Britt.  So, Josh called Britt and now Britt is flying up from Atlanta for the game and guess who is going to be sitting next to Ned Yost's wife during the first game at new Busch.  Me. 

I've already recieved the 1979 mint condition Ned Yost RC I picked up on ebay and intend to fasten it as a thank you card on the dozen cardinal red roses we're going to present her. 

Have you seen the opening day tickets?  They got real gold around the edges.  I walk past the stadium everyday.  I've given up on all practical religion and dumped everything into some blind St.Louis community Cardinal voodoo.  Take the Cardinal's out of this towns history and...well it's too dark to ponder.  It could be brown but fortunately the Brown's moved to Baltimore and absorbed Sidney Ponsons early youth so he could come home to St.Louis and flourish with the Redbirds.

Last year I got loaded on memorial day and purchased a mint condition 1948 Stan Musial rookie.  I quit cards cold turkey after that for a couple months but then pitched a bid I believed was hopeless for a crisp 52 Bowman Musial.  It was more that I could afford but a hell of a deal and  low and behold I won it.  It's been a real bender since and I'm suffering this strangling notion to open up 'The Altar' somehere near the stadium which offers Scotch, a variety of tobacco, and expensive blessed baseball cards.  This notion has fueld outrageous acquistion of inventory and I will probably be selling cards out of my pockets between Paddy O's and Al's.  Speaking of tobacco Ned's chomping on a fat load in his rookie prospect card. 

Anyway, I'm pumped.  Prior and Wood starting the season the DL eat your Wrigley hearts you Cubby sons of ####es!  1982 topps ozzie smith update is the most important card, EVER! 

Ah, the soap opera that now swamps all sport.  It's so gross and pathetic cycling around  consumer hunger for finger pointing.  We all #### the the wheel.  We're an embarrasing lot, us american sports fans.  We'll proclaim it shouldn't be but IT IS.  Many a holy liar pretends not to register the subtext but it's there.  When T.O. ripped Garcia, proposing McNabb was better, i registered racism.  Few questioned it publicly.  When T.O. ripped McNabb proposing Farve would be better, I registered, piece of BLEEP.  How could he do this to McNabb?  His own teammate.  A black teammate who'd suffered the Limbaugh opinion.  Real smart T.O.  Real cool thing to do.  I read blogs all the  time crying, "I wish racism would go away".  But it's not going to go away.  T.O. was racially insensitive when he ripped Garcia.  He's a selfish fool for ripping McNabb.  There has been race all around this from the beginning. 

So, McNabb reopens a can of worms with a bad racial analogy.  Selfish?  To each his own.  Let's turn off the trainwreck.  Yeah, Right!  

Things I thought to say last night alone at the bar, Flannery’s.

-         We need to make Blogside t-shirts

-         UCLA’s point guard is really good

-         Did you see the behind the back pass through traffic by USC’s point guard?  Sweet.

-         Oregons yellow jerseys forced me to wear my sunglasses at night in public.

-         VT basketball player, Washington, kicks Dukie in face.  What in the hell?

-         Should I continue to increase television consumption to muster blog fuel?

-         JJ Reddick is really good.

-           Sweetback is detpak?  Yes.

-         I WILL NOT get into video games so I can blog about them.

-         If I post a book, chapter by chapter, how much will Socal charge to promote each chapter?

-         I hope Pittsburgh wins. I like Cowher.  Roethlesberger and Polamalu are cool and I've placed a curse on Grant Wistrom. 

-         Blogging now tops my personal vice rankings.  It’s not a habit, IT’S COOL, I feel AAAlive, if you don't have it your on the otherside.

-         Even though I’m hoping Pittsburgh to win, I believe Bill Gates should help the Hawks keep Sean Alexander.  He’s legit.

 The Los Angeles Lambs moved to St. Louis in 1994.  They won their first five games as the St.Louis Lambs then collapsed, missed the playoffs, and sustained ineptitude for four years. We lost a lot and it made news when our quarterback, Tony Banks, missed practice because his Doberman pincher pup, Felony, was hit by a truck.  You began to see lot’s of PSL’s listed for sale in the paper pretty cheap.

In the off-season of ‘99 legitimate hope was granted with the signing of All-pro talents Trent Green and Marshall Faulk. The faithful showed up buzzing at preseason game #1 like kids eying unopened presents.  Things were looking much improved.  I was biting my bottom lip, actually shivering with excitement before a blitzing defensive back drove a shoulder pad into back of the back of Green’s knee and snapped it(looked very similar to the Carson Palmer accident).  Silence, then a groan of agony, the buzz of hope evaporated and a distraught grumble ensued.  By the thousands, PSL holders slouched back into their seats and gulped beer.  Many had to ask, “Who’s our second stringer?”  Kurt Warner.   They carted Green off.  It was gross disappointment.  Many left to the bars to drink a lot.  On Monday I comforted my dad, “the Warner guy looked pretty good though.”

The Rams stomped out to a 3-0 start whipping Baltimore, Atlanta, and Cincinnati a combined 100-27.  Nobody was counting chickens yet because the 49ers were coming to town holding our leash for 17 games in a row.  The Rams dominated with flare 42-17 highlighted by 4 touchdown catches by Isaac Bruuuuuuce. I got chills during #### Vermeil’s post game interview when Bill Walsh came by, placed his hand on ####’s shoulder and said, “You’re goin’ all the way buddy.”  Vermeil sputtered, “Aw, Jesus!  Don’t say that.”  It was a warm October 10^th and the sun shined for hours after we got out of the stadium.  Sun Decker’s on Laclede’s Landing overflowed and rocked until near midnight that Sunday for there was upswing on our big investment.  Things had changed.  The Ram’s went on to finish 13-3 and secured home field advantage for the playoffs. 

That year delivered a ton of moments but the most memorable football moment for me was with 4:44 left in the NFC championship.  Ricky Proehl hauls in a leaping one armed catch in the corner of the end zone.  Ram’s held on and beat Warren Sapp and the Bucs,  11-6!  I wasn’t at the game, I was in Sun Decker’s watching on T.V.  When Proehl made that catch Sun Decker’s shook for minutes.  It’s an old bar with a stone foundation, wood floors and a tin ceiling.  When the pandemonium calmed the blades had been ripped off all the ceiling fans and two drunken dudes who were very near fisticuffs were hugging.  In tune of the rap hit Tootsie Roll everyone chanted for a long times, “Touchdown catch by Ricky Proehl, LET ME SEE THAT SUPER BOWL!”

Bruce’s touchdown catch in the Super Bowl is right behind it.  We bobbed and weaved on the cobblestone streets after Mike Jones made, ‘the tackle.”  Then on Monday it was parade day.  After work my good time friends gathered in Kiener Plaza where the parade would end and the players would say some stuff.  It was freezing and people packed in so tight you couldn’t sit down.  The parade was late and irritability was rising among the crowd.  A battle with influenza was eminent and I wished I wasn’t there.  The politicians took their publicity.   We were about 35 yards from stage; relatively very close.  People lined the tops of near by parking garages and buildings.  When, then Senator, John Ashcroft spoke, I yelled, “WARNER FOR SENATE,” as loud as I could.  It made my friends very uncomfortable.  Then a whiney moan came from behind my friends and I and we were bumped into.  Vollmer and I turned to see a short mustached man in a tie wearing trench coat.  We asked, “What’s your deal man?” 

“I’m sorry.  I need to get to the front but I’m just too small!  People won’t let me through!”

“Well everybody wants to be closer, why should they let you in front?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you!”  Holding a camera he moaned and spun expressing serious distress.  His antics were amusing however they were sincere.  I’ll color it like this:  I’ll bet my life this guy saw Brokeback Mountain in the theatre. 

“So, tell me.  Why do YOU need to get to the front?”

“You won’t believe me!  Nobody will!”

“Tell me why and maybe I’ll help you.”

He took a deep breath and began, “I’m a limo driver and this is Kurt Warner’s camera.  He and his wife left it in the limo and they asked me to try to bring it to them.  If you help me get it to them, it may be worth a handshake.”  Just standing in the crowd was miserable let alone climbing through with a fairy on my back.  Vollmer refused the task.  I thought about it a few minutes and accepted considering the potential meeting of Kurt Warner.  Maybe he’d take his picture with me.  The limo driver followed me as I put on dramatics of my own.  I squeezed through the crowd announcing, “Excuse me!  Emergency, Emergency!”  I wasn’t sure if it was wrong or what but we cut steadily through the crowd behind these words.  I made him swear he was telling the truth and he swore.  After about 10 minutes of gross struggle, I stopped about three rows from off the barricades and told everyone to let this man through.  He thanked me greatly and moved up front.  He was holding a camera and it looked like he was lying to get up front to take shots.  I explained to a radius of bitter bystanders, “He claims that’s Kurt Warner’s camera.  He’s the limo driver and they left it in the limo at the airport and don’t worry if he’s lying I’m going to beat his ####.”  They all smiled at the story.  The limo driver didn’t seem to appreciate the public proclamation.  It wasn’t long till Warners truck pulled up.  He and Brenda stood near 20 yards away.  The limo driver flailed, but so did everyone.  He pleaded with a police officer to walk it over.  The woman refused.  They never saw him.  How could they?  He was too small.  I have no doubts he was telling the truth.  He dialed them on the phone, but no answer.  Finally the limo driver crawled back into the crowd defeated.  To this day I feel bad for saying I was going to’ kick his #### if he was lying but I don’t think he realized the crowd had some questions about our emergency.  

I had crafted a fat fun blog with sweet pics but I CAN"T GET THE PICS IN!

Angrilly from the hip...

Congrats to all the Seattle fans in the community.  With each score I could only envision Sleepless’s celebrations and I greatly envy your wagon.  It appears Hasselbeck can be trusted.  Below are my notes on the game; decipher, critique and get them to Holmgren.

PIC MISSING

Then I became drunk and got sentimental before game two and ruined the Patriots by placing $100 on them.  That bet caused the wind that disrupted Brady’s inaccuracy.  The Snake won it.  Slick pass on that last touchdown.  I could have just as easily wagered on the birth of the Snakes head on the QB playoff  totem pole but I had to root for three in a row; four out of five, but that’s a lot of juice and the Pat’s couldn’t squeeze it.  During the game it was demanded several times, “Jeb Putzier, put that in your blog!” 

Then sunday.  Everyone’s talking about the end but Pittsburgh’s 14-0 early foundation is the story.  They came out blasting with success and Roethlisberger carved respect.  As much as I frowned on Porter’s trash talk and sympathized with Manning’s chance to right his history of big game failure I say the best team won an awesome game.  Criticism of Cowher for the Bettis fumble is pooey hindsight.  I hope a big mirror falls on Terry Bradshaw and hurts him.  If you want to go there you’re a crabby arm chair opportunist.  What a big tackle by Roethlisberger!    Vanderjagt: Poetic justice.  The Colt's got beat.

The Bears lost.  They new what was coming but they kept falling down.  Their defense simply shattered and embarrassed by Delhome and Smith.  I advise Bears fans demand a new QB.  The physical appearance of Grossman and Orton is simply weak.  Get them to a tanning bed or maybe some Mike Tyson style tattoos on their faces, hm?   

Somebody tell me how to put picks in please.  My whole day, RUINED!

It  was at Harry’s downtown where I came face to face with Mark McGwire.  Harry’s features a pink stucco exterior rimmed at the top with a neon strip.  It boasts a pricey dinner menu, lots of sweet cars getting valet, and huge deck out back with hands down the best beer garden view of our city(backdrop: Gateway Arch).  Some high octane cover band, usually named with an adjective followed by a plural flower(shrinking violets, frozen roses, big daisys) delivers seventies and eighties pop rock to grease the broads for the divorced male drivers of the sweet cars who wear dark tans, gaudy watches, and own no soul.

Mid-May or early june 2000 gorgeous Saturday night and I’d met up with a gang of good time friends.  Drinks, smokes, and laughs.  We staked a table early at the north end of the huge patio near a door and good times never seemed so good.  The Cardinal’s had won earlier in the day and the pleased crowd packed in near discomfort.  Not long after a crew of waitresses came down and repossessed the two tables between the good times and the door, a buzz traveled, “McGwire’s here, McGwire’s here.”  

He came in with a crew of average middle aged dudes and they assumed seats at the two tables.  McGwire sat between the tables, back against a brick wall, facing the mob.  Bud lights were delivered.  There he was.  The baseball player whose image I’d postered onto my wall as a kid.  I spent considerable time, hope, and money in pursuit of his picture on small pieces of card board and there he was with a bud light.  I prayed to my God this man would be a Cardinal someday and it was answered.  A little later than I’d wished but it happened.  I’m a sports fan; Cardinal fan.  Need I color more than, MOVE OVER BABE RUTH?

So, an hour or so passed and we recovered our own party from his arrival.  I stood face to face speaking with ‘hot girl from high school’, Laura H.(NOT Cindy Crawford, but commonly compared attributes).  We stood in the tight crowd laughing about old times when to my left someone said, “excuse me.”   It was McGwire.  I was in shock.  Laura and I parted he slid between us facing me.  It was so crowded he couldn’t go anywhere.  We were almost chest to chest so I asked, “Can I get a hand shake?”  He brought his hand up and looked at me down to my feet.  We shook awkwardly as we were so close, he squinted funny and says, “You need to wear a bigger shirt.”

He ripped me.  I was stunned but somehow I coolly responded by tugging at the swoosh on the sleeve of his big girly night-size aqua blue t-shirt and said, “Oh, yeah, well I think you need to wear a smaller shirt.”  He was trapped by the crowd, only to turn and smile. I said, “Hey, I didn’t hit seventy home runs last year,  I got a show my #### off to the ladies.”  He grinned again and as he stepped away I said, “You know, I’m gonna burn this shirt since you said that.”  “Your gonna burn it?” I nodded; he laughed and broke away.  I was freaked.  My friends thought it was real funny.

But I didn’t burn it.  I went home and pulled out my baseball card collection and turned to his page.  Only one page.  I dumped most of his stock for a loss during his injury years. The ’87 Donruss Highlights across the top, various rookies around the outside.  In the middle, the ’88 score with the purple border; when this card came out I suffered the notion it would be like the ’84 Mattingly Donruss.  For it, I traded a package that included a 1970 Reggie Jackson and ‘83 Topps Boggs rookie.  It was the worst trade I ever made. 

So I tacked this sheet upside down to my voodoo board, lit candles, and everyday I rolled bones wishing he would pay.  It wasn’t but a couple weeks later that tendonitis flared up.  It never went away and McGwire stank every day after that.  Albert came up with a bigger pair of shoes.  My #### are still real and McGwire was last seen wearing a bra in Washington.  It’s Friday night and I’m gonna wear that shirt.
 

10- cute little teddy bears. 

9 - all those grandparents who die and don't see a world series

8 - all those confused chicago cub sox fans

7- wrigley

6 - that goat

5 - the woodpriorclement dud, BOO

4 - Bartman.  For real, what a nightmare.

3 - Corks

2 - Haileys Comet

1 - that sympathy card they all carry to identify one another

Two outs, top of nine.  One more out and Busch Stadium is closed forever.   The Venice Café Skippers softball team stared up together at the giant window into Minute Maid Park.  Everyone shuffled around preparing.  Nesbit and I locked arms around one another as the weight sank upon us.  Eckstein singled.  We drank, for Davey didn’t end it.  “#### Renteria,” I yelled.  Lidge gives a pass to Edmonds and golly we got game.  Cigarettes light and hats turn 180 degrees because they brought Pujols to the plate.  Fast ball, one cut; EUPHORIA.  We hugged, we leaped, we cried, we leaped while we hugged.  I suffered  disbelief upon impact.  ‘Too high,’ I thought, but it beamed into the glass.  We all fielded joyful calls from family and friends and didn’t go home until we had to because our faces hurt from smiling so much because we’d have at least one more home game.  Busch lives and I’m wasted on Monday night.

Dickinson was supposed to have my tickets for six and seven.  I’d been spouting pessimism due to my complicated superstitions.  See, if I told everyone they wouldn’t make it back to town, then they would because I predicted they wouldn’t and I’d be wrong and dumb and they could tell me so which is fine with me.  Dickinson mentioned the tickets a couple times and I rolled my eyes.  So probably as retaliation for my false dramatic indifference the morning after the resurrection two tickets morphed into, “I got a standing room ticket for you.”  Then game day morning 7 a.m.it deteriorates to he’s got good news and bad news: he has me a ticket for seven but no six because the wife wants to go.  So of course I curse him projecting, “Oswalts ending it.  You screwed me out of a holy resurrected Busch funeral for your wife, thanks.  “Gerd you can pick up a ticket,” he says. 

Granted, ’04 playoffs I scored sweet luck.  Two left field loge just over face for game six.  Then I caught game seven bleacher seats.  “Fourth row between Walker and Edmonds”, went the scalpers pitch.  He was a little old guy; strolled up while I was being frenzied upon by hustlers.  This year things were different; three hundred bucks for nose bleeds,  near $200 for standing room.  Big bucks on Craig’s list and ebay as well.  I hunted at lunch dishing generously to bums hoping to karmicly generate the little old man again.  Around 3 p.m. I withdrew $250 from the ATM and strolled the block only to hear big numbers on tickets that didn’t exist yet.  At quiting time I was panicking down the elevator wondering how I was going to get into the party.  The door opened and my cell rang.  It was Dickinson.  “Gerd, I got you a ticket.  Floyd wants to go tomorrow night instead.  Standing room but it’s a ticket.”  (Floyd’s from Florida, see Marlins)  What happened was Dickinson had over-promised tickets.

I rushed home: Put on my McGee t-shirt and giant red hulk fist coolly, snatched the fifteen Willie McGee mint condition rookie cards I bought of an ebay auction from, go figure, some dude in florida.   Last season playoff tradition birthed to meet up at Carmines Steakhouse with Uncle Joe, Aunt Diane, and cousins Joe and Maro.  On my way there I gave a McGee rookie to a young kid who’s dad was pointing out the Stan the Man statue to him.  Upon arrival at Carmines a Jack and Coke waited for me at their table outside.  It was a beautiful night.   I dished out the rest of the Willie McGee rookies to the family and a group of uncle Joe’s clients who he was treating and the gesture went over well.

Uncle Joe asked where I was sitting.  I told them I wasn’t.  But it hadn’t registered that Uncle Joe is handicapped.  He was crippled by polio as a kid and has season tickets directly behind home plate in standing room.  Aunt Diane sat in a chair next to Joe and they sat me last row of the loge directly behind home plate in a seat.  The cousins and I started on the big beers.  It was apparent early that Oswalt was on.  Card’s couldn’t get anything going.  The Astros put up plenty and things were appropriately dire.  Top of the eighth inning I stepped out to smoke and asked real depressed looking guy for a light.  He produced it and said, “Man, it sucks to be us.”  I laughed and since I was a lot bigger than him I placed my hand on his shoulder and said laughing, “You spoiled little ####.  It could be a lot worse, you could be a cubs fan.”   

So the game ended and the Cardinal’s lost.  The fans stood and applauded.  I read a letter in the Post by a Houstonian about how gracious we were but those applause were for the end of Busch.  Most stayed as they ran a video history on the board and being so loaded tears came down my face.  Behind us a guy sat crying next to his completely paralyzed wife and I made Joe give him his Willie McGee rookie.  My phone rang and it was Tommy Ahle, the manager and soul of our River Dog softball team.  He’s the guy who showed me how to throw a curve ball when we were kids and I traded him Mattingly and Boggs rookies for Lou Brocks in the condition of tissue paper.  I hadn’t heard from him in weeks.  “Gerd, get down to Paddy O’s” he said sadly.  So I said hugged the family good bye and marched alone but with the crowd.  I was still crying lpatheticly and sentimentally decided to pick up a final souvenier.  “Red hat, 17 ½.”   The vendor almost started crying and croaked, “$35.00.”  The tears stopped and I shocked, “35, JESUS…I ain’t cryin’ anymore.”  So I made it down to Paddy’s and found Tommy who was with his younger brother who ordered jager shots.  Busch’s funeral was not time to say no.  I got back on the jack.  So, after singing classic rock and dancing in the street until nearly 3 a.m. I finally gave away my red hulk fist coolly and jogged home in complete horror of the retarded shadow that circled me.  I made it home toasted wheat bread, heated up tomato soup, and melted cheddar cheese in it.  So you see, the night busch stadium died, my puke ranneth orange.