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.          

I went to Town Lounge in O'Fallon, IL for a coaches meeting last tuesday.  At the bar a players dad, from Chicago, told of how he and his son would be traveling to Soldier Field to see the Bears play the Packers on sunday.   He removed his coat revealing a White Sox sweat shirt.  Not a World Series Champs logo just the falling S-O-X on his chest.  With a tone of congratulations and relief I asked, "Lifetime Sox fan?"

"No, I'm a Cub's fan."