This is a red state.
Woah, wait, hold on.
That’s not what I mean.
Strip away all the political, ideological and literal connotations of that phrase, and it’ll be obvious Missouri is red, at least when it comes to sports with bats and balls and peanuts and Cracker Jacks.
Cardinal fans are a proud bunch, and they should be. St. Louis has played host to many of baseball’s great moments and has housed dozens of its legends. From sure things like Stan the Man and the king whose name we now dare not speak of, to diamonds in the rough like Lou Brock, the word “Cardinals” — at least, when excluding those pesky footballers in the great Southwest — has been synonymous with good fortune.
Eleven world championships. Thirty-nine Hall of Famers. Even when they’re two runs down and a strike away against 97 mph and a hook in late October, things seem to work out. You guys don’t know just how good you have it.
I’ve written in this space before about my adoration of the New York Mets. It’s been a rocky road for us, especially during these last few years of bankruptcy and utter futility.
I began sneaking around on my team, smelling the roses, when I found myself on South Capitol Street in Washington in June 2010. There was an electricity to the city and to the stadium, one that seemed to be radiating from the rookie pitcher standing on the mound who was striking out Pittsburgh Pirates left and right. Stephen Strasburg fanned 14 that night in a performance that spawned a new holiday, sweeping the baseball world off its feet and taking me with it.
They were a much harder team to love then, those Nationals. They were still mired in the rebuilding process, committed to the likes of Christian Guzman, Nyger Morgan and a skeletal Pudge Rodriguez. But there were flashes of what we saw from Washington this year, when the Nationals and their 98 wins were the best in baseball. Ian Desmond at shortstop, Ryan Zimmerman at third, Strasburg and Jordan Zimmerman on the mound. They were upstarts. They were on the rise.
Then general manager Mike Rizzo went to work. He drafted Bryce Harper, a teenage phenomenon who hit more home runs than his age in his rookie year. He signed Jayson Werth and Adam LaRoche, called up Danny Espinosa and Drew Storen and acquired Michael Morse for a bag of sunflower seeds from Seattle. They are a lot easier to love now.
And love them I do, which is why I rooted for the Cardinals to win at Cincinnati on the season’s final day, and for them to beat Atlanta in the wild-card game. That was the only way a St. Louis-Washington matchup would occur, and the only way I could witness my mistress in the playoffs in person.
There’s something exhilarating about being behind enemy lines, even in a place as placid as St. Louis. Busch Stadium isn’t AT&T Park in San Francisco, where Giant zealots have monstrously beaten Dodger fans, or Yankee Stadium, where I’ve personally witnessed security remove people just for wearing the opposing team’s jersey. But there’s still a lot of red around.
Want to feel like a rabbit in a foxhole? Wear a Nationals jersey and sit six rows behind the home dugout at Busch during day one of the postseason.
As fate would have it, our seats on Sunday wound up being right behind those of St. Louis Mayor Francis Slay, who welcomed me to his city despite the word “Nationals” stamped in white across my shirt. Kind and unassuming, I wouldn’t have even known he was there had his burly, long-haired accomplice not been bothered by my presence.
“Hey! Do you know where you are?” the man turned to ask through beady eyes as I booed the Redbirds taking the field.
“Yeah. But I’m a Nats fan,” I replied.
“Do you know who _that_ is?” the man said. “That’s the mayor of St. Louis. You’re booing in the mayor’s ear.”
The mayor turned around, smiled and shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mayor,” I said. “But I’m here to see your guys go down.”
Loyalty is essential in the foxhole.
It wound up being a tough game for fans of either shade of red to watch. After Kurt Suzuki put Washington up 1-0 with a single in the second, the Cardinals scrapped back in the bottom of the frame, scoring two runs without a hit thanks to the wildness of Nationals starter Gio Gonzalez.
That’s where the score stood for the next five innings, as Gonzalez walked his way to the bench, as women in Cardinals gear screamed at me, as both teams went toe-to-toe to see which could strand the most runners on base.
Most of the stadium howled when Nationals right fielder Jayson Werth grounded to shortstop with the bases loaded to end the second, then struck out in the identical situation in the sixth. When Werth went over the wall and took back a Daniel Descalso home run a half-inning later, three other people and I beat our chests to pins dropping. It was like 46,000 people had just witnessed a beheading, and we were the only crazies cheering.
The cold set in early. By the eighth, it had colored the noses of even the most diehard Nationals fans in attendance that color that is everywhere. St. Louis shortstop Pete Kozma’s glove had hardened a tad, for it couldn’t squeeze down completely on Michael Morse’s leadoff grounder, and the big outfielder reached and moved to third on Ian Desmond’s knock to right.
After a bunt and a strikeout, the stage was set. Two on, two out, up by one. Game on the line. Even the mayor looked nervous.
Nationals manager Davey Johnson called on 25-year-old rookie Tyler Moore to pinch hit against lefty Marc Rzepczynski. Rally towels waved and four pitches flew by before the Mississippi native stuck his bat out and glided a looper into short right field to score the game’s tying and winning runs.
As far as the eye could see, jaws dropped, towels stopped and hope died. The mayor shook his head. His friend rolled his eyes. I stood and cheered to looks these people wouldn’t even give Albert Pujols.
Three outs later, I suddenly heard cheers other than mine. Puzzled, I turned to see Rizzo and his family hugging in their lofty executive suite. They’d been waiting for this day for a while — it’s the first playoff win for a Washington baseball team since 1933. It’s all come to fruition: Werth and Harper and Desmond and the whole thing, the winning.
The mood in the stadium was so depressing, so quiet, that I called to Rizzo with my arm extended. At first he didn’t hear, but a young boy up there did. He gave me the arm right back, then went and got Rizzo.
“We did it!” I yelled across countless Cardinal fans moping to the exit. “We did it!”
He looked back, smiled and raised his arm.
For the first time all day, I didn’t feel like the only person rooting against red. And at least for a day, at least until tomorrow, I was one of the few who wasn’t blue.
