The Cardinal one sees while talking to strangers in a Busch Stadium parking lot before Game 7.

Of course I stuck around St. Louis for Game 7.

I didn’t have a ticket.

I figured I wouldn’t be much happier inside the stadium if they won the World Series.

(Yes, I would be.)

But not that much.

I wandered toward the Hilton and cut back through a parking lot.

I stepped around Texans tossing footballs, and someone singing along with James Brown.

(At least the Texans have a backup, I thought.)

As I was walking back toward the stadium, a man approached me.

“You have such a great smile! I just noticed it right away!” he said.

(Hi.)

“Ah, thank you,” I told him.

He blinked twice, but his eyes stayed glassy.

He introduced himself and his girlfriend.

I shook their hands but forgot their names.

I told them I was at Game 6.

His girlfriend said they watched it at home. She fell asleep, until he woke her with a yell.

“Oh, my gosh!” she explained.

I smiled.

(It must’ve been 4 before I finally fell asleep.)

And then I saw a tall man walk by with an assistant.

“Hey,” I said, “Isn’t that Jack Clark?”

(But I knew that it was.)

“That’s Jack Clark!” I told the tailgater.

“Oh my god!” he said, and ran toward Clark to shake his hand.

(I couldn’t quite move. Plus, well.)

The tailgater returned.

“We’re just here in the parking lot and Jack Clark walked by. Now, that’s cool,” he said happily.

(And it was.)

“Have a beer with us!” he told me.

Why not?

He grabbed a can from a cooler and handed it to me.

Budweiser, of course, and mercifully cold.

A photographer in a green shirt asked the couple to pose on their truck for a photo.

The photographer stood on the hood and captured a kiss, with the stadium lights glowing in the background.

Then she asked the three of us to pose together.

“This is as close as I’m gonna get,” he told me, like he had to remind himself.

The couple told me to come back if I got bored, and he handed me a beer to pack into my shoulder bag.

Then they hugged me.

And I wandered away.

11th inning, Game 6: what just happened?

The Rangers didn’t score in the 11th.

They didn’t score!

I just hoped David Freese would nurse a walk to start the inning.

“That was a ball! That was a ball!” I cried at a called strike.

“But remember, Albert, hit a … the count was 1-1 instead of 2-0 … I don’t even know what I’m saying!” I told Harold the fan.

(He grinned.)

And Freese swung on a 3-2 pitch, and that’s no way to get a walk.

But the ball kept flying until it landed in the grass between the bleachers.

And Freese jogged around those bases instead.

I threw my arms around the ushers and fans.

And yelled.

I don’t even know what.

A few minutes later, I hopped down the steps, and I paced in front of empty seats as I called my brother in Oregon.

He said the announcers called it the most exciting World Series game ever.

I said I could never attend a better baseball game.

(Besides the 5 errors, of course.)

If St. Louis would’ve won the World Series tonight, I would’ve passed out.

Instead I walked around in a daze, taking pictures of any fans who asked.

(Cardinal fans this time.)

“Get the scoreboard in the background!” they said.

I looked around the outfield grass, to the groundskeepers combing the infield, and the MLB Network crew near the Cardinals’ dugout.

I wish I had words, but all I heard were Jack Buck’s rattling in my ears.

“I don’t believe what I just saw.”

10th inning, Game 6.

I jumped when Kinsler flew out.

“That’s a big out!” I told fans around me.

(As if they didn’t know.)

Andrus ripped a single up the middle.

I looked around the stadium to forget the runner at 1st.

Hamilton launched a ball into the seats.

I grabbed the back of my head.

Texas fans grabbed the air above them.

I glanced at the lineup for the bottom of the 10th.

Descalso, Jay, pitcher’s spot.

But Darren Oliver?

Beltre couldn’t reach a foul ball, and Descalso ripped a single on the next pitch.

“Drop! Drop! Drop!” I yelled at a Jon Jay pop up.

It did! It did!

“Jackson can’t bunt!” I yelled at La Russa.

He agreed. Lohse tried instead, and nearly beat the throw to first.

(But I don’t like runners at first these days.)

Theriot grounded out to make it 9-8.

“I wouldn’t pitch to Albert either,” I told a fan next to me.

(Though he’s been reaching for low and away pitches since the end of September.)

Berkman rocked a mullet, and a single to center.

I watched a Texas fan choke back tears.

The Cards left two on to end the inning.

To the 11th!

Bottom of the 9th. Game 6. Down 2.

A man wearing a Hamilton jersey pumped his fist, and a 20-something wearing Ranger blue cheered.

“It’s okay, Mary, we’re gonna do it right here,” a fan told me.

Theriot needed to reach for Albert to tie it with a home run.

But he struck out instead.

“If he hits a grounder he better run it out!” I told another fan near me.

Pujols hit a grounder to the wall and stopped running at second base.

Feliz was wild, and I yelled as he fell behind Berkman.

Two on base! Allen Craig! Our hero!

“Torty! Do it for Torty!” we shrieked.

“That was outside!” I yelled, when the count reached 2-1.

He ripped a ball foul.

And struck out.

No more batters to look forward to.

Texas fans hollered, and held up phones and cameras.

“Come ON!” I screamed.

“FREEEEEESE!!” the crowd roared.

The ball sailed into the air, and dropped near Nelson Cruz as he ran to the wall.

But he missed it! He missed it!

I stared at the scoreboard, waiting for “2″ to show up.

I stared at Freese.

He stood at third.

I stared at the scoreboard again.

He’s at the third! He’s at third! It’s tied!

“YADI! YADI! YADI!” we yelled.

He connected -

But Cruz caught it this time.

Molina stopped running and slammed his helmet into the grass.

To the 10th!

No! No! No! (The first 8 innings of Game 6.)

The Rangers started hitting in the first.

I held my breath and hoped I wouldn’t turn blue.

(And kindly suggested Jaime read The Mental ABCs of Pitching this off-season.)

Blessedly, he got out of the inning only down a run.

And Schumaker singled, and Berkman hit it out!

I high-fived strangers wearing squirrels on their heads.

Texas tied it at 2, and Beltre hit with a runner on.

“That’s my da-ddy!” a child chanted as the hitter waited.

He connected.

I felt the season dissolve.

Double play.

Still tied.

Colby Lewis tried to bunt with a runner on. He tried a second time.

Salas threw the ball into centerfield, and NA-PO-LI hurt his ankle sliding into second.

But he stayed in.

“He’s faking!” I shrieked.

The women nearby agreed.

But the Rangers were soon up 1.

Then they weren’t.

Then they were.

Then they weren’t.

I stood against the wall, running to the railing before every pitch to peer around fans standing in front of me.

7th.

Gone. And gone.

And their pitcher scored.

7-4.

What’s happening?

My phone lit up with 4-letter texts.

The crowd above me roared:

How did I wind up so close to Ranger relatives?

They can’t be real people!

Craig knocked one out.

(A ball, that is.)

7-5!

“Yadi!” we screamed as he hit with the bases loaded in the 8th.

NO!

“The stars at night! Are big and bright! Deep in the heart of Texas!” Ranger fans shouted.

I wanted to punch them all at once.

But I also started counting outs.

Just like them.

Ozzie’s here.

Once inside Busch Stadium, I stood next to the two women I’d met by the gate, and a man named Harold I’d met at Game 5 of the NLCS.

They told me they would hold my spot, and my bag.

I was a little restless.

I scanned the crowd of broadcasters, men gathered behind home plate, the dugouts and everywhere between.

Where were the women?

(Seriously.)

I wandered between the seats, gazing at the field.

The World Series.

Peter Gammons looked at me!

There’s Joe Torre!

(He managed the Cardinals when I first became a fan. He also played in St. Louis at one point.)

Chris Berman looks friendly!

I walked past Michael Young jerseys while the original hit batting practice.

More fans shrieked “Josh!” by the visitor’s dugout, as Hamilton waved.

It’s a ballpark, not a Ballpark.

I cut back through the seats behind home plate, pausing to take photos of Ranger fans.

“You have Game 7 tickets?” I said.

They told me they wouldn’t need them, but they were kidding.

“St. Louis fans are so friendly!” one woman told me.

“I can’t say ‘good luck,’ but I hope you enjoy your time here,” I said.

(It’s got to help karma.)

And then I stood by the home dugout, watching Al Leiter sign baseballs and point out electrical cords on the steps below me.

I think my life should be an MLB Network.

(It sort of always has been.)

Bob Costas chatted with Gammons.

And then Ozzie Smith walked by.

He wore a red sweater and sport coat, and red cap with an StL that sparkled like his play at short.

The last time I saw him he threw out the first pitch, two weeks ago.

The time before that I watched him tip his cap after hitting a weak fly out in the 6th inning of Game 7 of 1996 NLCS, with St. Louis losing badly to Atlanta.

They lost 15-0, blowing a 3-1 series lead.

I cried then.

I cried now.

12 hours at Busch begins …

I went back the next day.

Back to Gate 2.

I carried a book by Mark Twain.

Of course I did.

“You were here yesterday!” a media guy told me.

“Yes I was!” I told him.

(He had nice hair. But they all do.)

I was pleased to make an impression.

(Besides the hobo variety.)

It was cloudy, but not everywhere. But no one else waited with me for the perfect standing room spot.

It was 12:30.

The gates opened at 5:05.

Yes.

So I wandered. Naturally.

Team store.

(Blast! Out of striped socks!)

Westin.

(Bathroom sinks!).

Baseball Tonight makeshift set.

(Obvious.)

The Hilton.

(So I would have a place to go after lingering by the set.)

Team store.

(Have you seen the Fredbird statues? Don’t.)

I studied engraved bricks.

And Chris Rose from Fox Sports.

A man jogged by me, touched the Musial statue on the foot, and turned around.

People draped in Texas flags and fleeces took photos of each other,
and hollered.

Enough of that!

I stood by Gate 2 and read.

Orel Hershiser and Bobby Valentine walked past, looking pleasant.

At 3:45, someone joined me in line.

Her friend came by at 5.

(Who does that?)

At 5:04, the angels began to fiddle with ticket scanners and boxes of rally towels.

I started to hear beeps.

And bleeps.

Not everyone is chosen – at first.

I watched fans file into the ballpark.

“Open the gate!” we pleaded. “They’re already in!”

Finally!

I grabbed a towel and sprinted.

But the others had already taken the best section in standing room!

Damnation!

I settled for the next best.

In this case, just above the first section of seats on the first base line.

It isn’t raining! It isn’t raining!

I wandered around by Gate 2.

(Now I’m giving away my secrets.)

It was 2 p.m. or so.

Who can tell at times like these?

I saw a woman selling Pujols T’shirts and stuffed squirrels.

“When do people usually show up?” I asked her.

“3 or 4 hours before, when it’s nice out,” she said.

I looked up at the rumbling sky:

wait, that’s the overpass.

(I wanted to call people I hadn’t seen for a while.)

Instead, I watched people walk past me.

I saw a coat and tie. I squinted.

A second man, wearing an old Cardinal jacket with dates of championships stitched into it, asked the first man for a photo.

Hmm.

Coat and Tie looked a lot like Buster Olney.

(I could be mistaken.)

At some point, everyone looks like someone I’d like to meet.

Coat and Tie paused while the fan asked a friend to take the photo.

It took a couple of minutes.

I watched their backs, waiting for the more famous one to tense his shoulders or step away, holding up his hands:

“I’ve got to work!”

But he never did.

I sat down by my gate, and smiled.

Tim Kurkjian walked by, frowning at an iPhone in his hands.

(It’s easy to recognize people within 5 feet, studies show.)

Twenty minutes later, I heard rumblings.

“Someone just handed me a sheet when I walked in the door,” I overheard.

(I bet the game’s been called, I thought.)

30 seconds later, Kurkjian walked by again.

Grinning.

It must have felt like a snow day.

Game 5 recap in 100 words. Or three letters.

Carpenter starting.

Rest assured, bullpen.

Wilson? No!

In playoffs?

Yes!

Molina and Schumaker come through.

2 runs should do it.

But Moreland? Really?

(Beltre. Eh.)

Cards batting:

2 errors and a hit batsman.

(In front of Pujols, no less.)

7 hits.

9 walks.

9 walks!!

Bases loaded.

Inning over. No runs.

Bases loaded.

Inning over. No runs.

Craig out at 2nd -

Craig out at 2nd again??

Punto drops the ball.

Napoli hits it off the wall.

Motte? Where was Motte?

Too loud, coaches said, too loud for bullpen phones. Wrong guy.

Motte doesn’t sound anything like Rzepczynski!

The next loss will be 4-2.

hey, the Cardinals are in the World Series

It isn’t easy to watch the World Series when your favorite team is playing.

It isn’t easy to watch when anyone else is playing.

5 years ago, I decided I would just enjoy the whole experience, pundits included.

(Of course, St. Louis won in 5.)

I have a hard time writing a complete sentence about this season.

(EEEEEEEK.)

I wish I’d kept a diary from September on.

But I recall sitting on a bench at a certain camp, two days before labor day, discussing
the Cardinals with a fellow fan and aunt.

She decided to enjoy every game remaining.

(The season couldn’t go on much longer, after all.)

I missed Adam Wainwright, still.

The Central was lost, and dignity with it.

But they picked up a game in the wild card that week, and had a 3-game stint with Atlanta to come.

And they swept the Braves to pull within 4 1/2.

They won, and lost, and it was fun for a while.

But they kept getting closer.

Then the precious bullpen blew a lead to New York on a Thursday afternoon in September.

Those walks.

I had some wine that night, with friends.

I think it helped.

I went to St. Louis to see what I could do.

Need I remind you?

And then came Carpenter’s Game 5 in Philly.

(Sigh.)

And of course they could beat the Brewers.

Was anyone surprised?

Oh, but enough with the past.

(That goes for pundits, I’d say.)