Baseball Heaven

I grew up in what is known as “baseball heaven,” and I attended my first St. Louis Cardinals game at the tender age of 11 days old. My father’s rationale was they already had the tickets, so why not? Thus, I (like most St. Louis residents) began my love affair with baseball at an early age.

The first game I remember attending was as a five-year-old in what is now known as “Busch 2” since the Cardinals opened their new stadium in 2006. The entire family went, but I got to sit next to my dad. He taught me to keep score with a scorecard and a grubby pencil. I made it until the seventh inning when the game got too complicated. We were up so high that the players looked like ants. Mom bought me a pennant and scolded me for hitting the bald guy in front of me in the head with it. That pennant still hangs on the wall of my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house. It’s yellow with age but the familiar birds on bat logo is still visible.

My family attended at least one Cardinals game every summer. My mom would load my brothers and me into the family truckster and we would pick my dad up from work before heading over to St. Louis. We always got to the stadium early enough to watch batting practice. We didn’t have much money, so we never got to sit close to the field. When I reached junior high, I earned ticket vouchers for my good grades, so we got to go to two games during those summers. I always sat next to my dad, whom I call Pops, and we always kept score—at least until the seventh inning when I seemed to get confused and would give up. The players still looked like ants, even after I got glasses.

I loved those games with my family, but I wanted to sit closer. I asked Pops why we couldn’t. He was blunt with honesty. We couldn’t afford it. The “nosebleed section,” as he called it, was it. But I wanted more.

I thought about my childhood at Busch 2 when I met Pops outside the stadium this past Sunday. It was the final game of the regular season. I was nervous with excitement. He knew we had “good seats,” but he didn’t know just how good. He was just happy to be at the game for a father-daughter day, but when I handed him his ticket, his eyes grew huge. He looked at me and said, “Wow.”

Then I walked into Busch Stadium, the home of the baseball team he introduced me to all those years ago, and led the man who could never afford anything but the nosebleed section down to the seats right behind the Cardinals dugout. It took all I had not to cry. Pops looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Players signed the new baseball I brought along for him. He took photos while never losing the smile on his face.

We kept score on shiny scorecards with new pencils. And I made it to the end of the game.