The Promise

It started with a hospital room promise.


My dad and I were sitting in his hospital room, a day after a surgeon managed to squeeze a few stents into some very narrow arteries. The nurse was on her way with discharge papers, and I was taking my dad home. He was two months away from turning 66. This was his fifth heart procedure.

To pass the time, we turned on the television. It was the first day of televised baseball during spring training, and the St. Louis Cardinals were playing. My dad started talking about how he looked forward to the season, and he couldn’t wait because he thought the Cardinals had a chance to do something.

“If the Cardinals go to the World Series, I’ll take you to a game.” I blurted it out without thinking. My dad looked at me and said, “OK.”

I opened a savings account later that day, called it “World Series” and set up weekly automatic deposits. Now I just needed the Cardinals to win. Easy, right?

Nothing about the 2011 St. Louis Cardinals was easy. The team would win, and then they would lose. They would sweep tough teams before getting swept themselves by mediocre teams. Sometimes they were difficult to watch, but I didn’t give up.

I attended as many games as I could, sometimes going as often as once a week. I traveled to San Francisco and Chicago to watch them play. Somehow, I felt like they had a chance if I were there.

I checked the standings daily. The Cardinals would claim first place in the National League Central, and then lose it to another team. They fell further and further behind, while the Milwaukee Brewers surged. It seemed no one could beat the Brewers.

I first checked the wild card standings in mid-July. The Cardinals were a few games behind the Atlanta Braves at that time. If I were going to take my dad to the World Series, I suspected the wild card would be the ticket.

But the team couldn’t seem to pull together a decent string of wins. Eventually, they were 10 and a half games out of the wild card. It seemed impossible, but I didn’t give up. That’s because I knew baseball history.

When I was a little girl, my dad would tell me bedtime stories about the 1964 St. Louis Cardinals. That team was 11 games behind the Philadelphia Phillies in August, went on a winning steak while the Phillies collapsed and eventually won the World Series. When skeptical friends announced the 2011 Cardinals were finished, I would remind them of the 1964 version. It can happen, I’d said. As long as the math worked, I had hope.

I was leaving Busch Stadium after a Cardinals game when I learned the Brewers won the National League Central. It was wild card or nothing now.

I started going to even more games, and when I wasn’t there, I was watching or listening. I prayed. One night, in desperation, I made my dog Henry Aaron wear his Cardinals jersey. The team came back and won. Henry continued to wear his jersey.

I rooted for whatever teams played the Braves, even when it required rooting for the Cubs. It was a sacrifice worth making.

Slowly, the Cardinals inched their way toward the wild card while the Braves collapsed. People told me I was crazy. “They’re done,” they would say. I would shake my head and think about my dad’s stories. It can happen.

When they finally clinched the wild card, I called my dad. He never mentioned my promise, and neither did I. But we were close, and I wasn’t giving up, even though the Cardinals drew the Phillies, a team everyone was convinced would win it all, in the National League Division Series. It would be tough, but it could be done.

They did it in dramatic fashion, using all five games and knocking the Phillies off in a 1-0 heart pounding victory. The Cardinals were on the way to the National League Championship Series.

When the team sent me an email the next day announcing I was selected to purchase World Series tickets, it felt like fate.

That Monday, I called my dad and asked the question I’d been waiting to ask for six months: “Would you like to go to the World Series?” I broke down in tears before I could finish the question. When he told me this might be his last chance to go to a World Series game, I cried even harder.

The dreaded Milwaukee Brewers stood in our way as the Cardinals moved to the NLCS. But I had faith and a dog in a Cardinals jersey. The good guys won in six games.

My dad and I walked into Busch Stadium for Game 2 of the 2011 World Series, seven months and one week after my promise. As we sat down, my dad looked around the field and said, “I can’t believe I’m at the World Series.” I didn’t cry this time. He did.