You know it’s crazy? I’ll tell you it’s crazy™
Busch Memorial Stadium in St. Louis.
There are baseball cities and then there are baseball cities.
Atlanta fancies itself a baseball city with its toma-hawk-chop. Los Angeles likes to think it’s a baseball city too; when fans aren’t arriving late and leaving early.
But compared to the Big Apple and Bean Town these baseball cities are wall flowers left at the prom.
And then there’s St. Louis.
The city bleeds Cardinal red. The team is a perennial winner, always in the hunt, playing for pennants and world championships.
And one of the great baseball cities deserves one of the great venues to play in.
That venue is Busch Stadium.
The retro ball park opened April 10, 2006. The Cardinals became the first team in almost 100 years to win a World Series Championship in the inaugural season of a new ballpark.
That’s not how things work in Kansas City – Ever.
Busch Stadium is nestled against the interstate, tucked into a cute neighborhood. The ball park rises out of the ground like the holy Grail of the American pastime.
The building is clean and nostalgic. When you walk into the stadium it feels like what the founding fathers wanted America to feel like.
Thousands of people, boys and girls, men and women, families of all sizes and colors, join us Saturday afternoon.
We all converge on 700 Clark Avenue. We dream of home runs and big beers and singles stretched into doubles and the low spark of high heeled boys.
There is a pronounced smile shared by thousands as we march among the crowd all wearing Cardinal red and white.
The first thing you see is the statue of Stan the Man Musial. Bat back, poised to strike, eyes forward searching for the pitch. This statue reminds you that you are entering into an athletic church of greatness and this is not going to be a regular baseball experience.
We walk inside Busch Stadium and it just feels specials. I expect a coronation. Instead I hear “Welcome to the ball park, have a nice game.”
If you’re under 15, the ushers hand you a throwback jersey that says St. Louis across the front.
The scent of Busch fills your nostrils. It smells like passion, it smells like history, it smells like nostalgia.
“Get your programs here!” A vendor screams from the concourse.
The aroma of ball park fixins is thick like fog. It’s more than just hot dogs and relish. Busch is a new stadium catering to a new American appetite. We pass a Mexican Cantina, a barbecue joint, and a station selling beers of the world and hard alcohol.
If I didn’t hear baseball sounds wafting in through the concourse, I’d think I was in a Whole Foods or a food court outside Macy’s at the mall.
And then there’s that magic moment. It’s that moment that brings you back to childhood. It’s that moment that puts tingles on your spine. It’s that moment that makes your pupils go all cartoon like and bug out of your head.
It’s the moment you start down the ramp toward the field and the brilliance of the blue sky flows over your like warm bath water. It’s the moment that a field so green so perfect tickles the part of your brain that makes smiles.
I walk to the metallic fence and stop. The usher is trying to assist me, but I blow him off and inhale the moment.
I take in the breath-taking splendor of this time and the memories that it kindles. I see the foul pole rising down the left field line. I see the grass mowed in two directions that make it look like a chess board maintained by turf builder. I see ads for coke and the Budweiser scoreboard and the cardinal clock rising majestically above the center field wall.
The stadium is nestled into a corner of downtown. I see buildings of shimmering glass rise high into the St. Louis sky. If you cock your head to the left, you can see the 200-year-old state capitol. Cock your head to the right, you can see the St Louis arch, the gateway to the West, a glimmering architectural wonder that is a surreal back drop to this picture perfect post card.
I’ll never forget the first time I walked into Shea Stadium as a boy. It was the early 70’s in Flushing, New York. The Mets were the best team of bumblers ever to win a world series.
This moment is like that moment. I remember it. I remember the darkness giving way to the light, walking into the encompassing kaleidoscope of baseball possibilities. I remember Mr. Met and the stadium with all its signage rising into the sky. Even the non stop assault of airplanes flying over Shea stadium was part of the legend.
Busch is the same, but much different. It is a hallowed field of dreams where baseball immortals are celebrated by numbers on the outfield wall. Lou Brock and Bob Gibson and Rogers Hornsby and Ozzie Smith, he of the flip onto the infield grass.
It is often argued that St. Louis is one of the three best baseball towns in America. I see no reason to doubt it.
The crowd is friendly, the park clean, the air electrified.
There are a lot of great things about baseball, but to me, this is the very first and very best thing you see.
We take our seats down the 1st base line. I look at the greenfield, the blue sky, the stands twitching like a kaleidoscope of ants. The base paths are getting a fresh line of chalk so white, so thick, so fluffy, somewhere drug king pin Pablo Escobar is hyperventilating.
I’m sitting down the first base side. I’m just under the bleachers providing a nice shady vista that has great sightlines and protects us from the approaching storm.
With a right-handed batter you can see right into the strikes zone. You can see the ball whistle across the plate between the letters and the knees. From this vantage point, you can see the umpire’s faces as he turns to face us and punches the batter out; strike three!
The game between the Cardinals and the Giants starts off fast. Line out. Fly out. Fly out. 3 up. 3 down. Then the cards take the bat in their hands, only to do the same. Fly ball. fly ball. Line out.
Wow. That was quick. A pitcher’s duel. If you like baseball, and short games, this is for you.
2nd inning. I watch as th heart of the order, grinds their spikes into the churt in the batters box. They stare down the pitcher and then the man on the mound uncorks something stinky and mows them down enticing them to swing and look foolish.
1-2-3. You’re out.
Before we know it, it’s the third inning. We are a beer and a big pretzel into the game.
Suddenly the skies open and the winds whip through the arch directing the ominous storm approaching from center field.
Somewhere lightning crackles, and there is a momentary flash so white, it looks like a gigantic camera flash taken an inch from your face. You can see the explosion of electricity reflect in the downtown buildings.
Then a moment passes and BOOM.
The thunder-clap is massive, like being inside a drum set at an Anthrax concert.
The percussive moment is made even louder by our seats which are under concrete and surrounded by concrete. It’s like a gigantic pin ball machine of sound blowing up our ear drums inside a pressure cooker set to maximum.
People jump out of their seats, their heads twitch, they look around nervously.
What just happened? is the look on their frightened faces.
It’s no longer about baseball. It’s now about safety, about protecting your loved ones, if not your tall cool beer.
The umpire rushes onto the field throwing up his arms around his head. He signals something to someone. Suddenly the grounds crew runs onto the field. Two ATV’s race to the tarp on a massive roll by the 1st base wall. They tie on and then roll it onto the outfield grass beyond the 1st base side of the infield.
Men in red shirts and short pants grab the massive tarp and in unison pull it one way, then unfold it pulling it across the entire diamond.
It’s like a condom for a field of dreams.
Thousands of people pop umbrellas and run for the safety of the concourse.
People seem alarmed, as if the rain is acidic, or poisonous or contains questions from the S.A.T.
Even full-grown stud baseball players run from the outfield, scurrying into the dug out.
Is this a human condition?
Fight or Flight?
Thunder, rain, run for your life whether you are a big fat guy in the stands or a million dollar athlete.
The rain delay will last about 30 minutes. The grounds crew will eventually do what they did in reverse and the crowd will give them a standing ovation.
The game will commence and the pitchers duel continue. But in the end, another storm front will blow in and the game will stop.
We decide enough is enough and we leave.
to be continued…