Hey guys,

To celebrate the fact that we actually made it to the playoffs this year, I thought I'd post this. I wrote it last year about half an hour after the Pujols blast off Lidge in Houston. I was quite drunk, but the moment was the greatest sports-related day of my life so far, so I sat down to record my feelings, incoherent as they were.

I thought this would be a good place to share stories about that night, or other nights when the Cardinals beat the odds. Hope you enjoy. GO CARDS!

I was elated. 2-1. Saint Louis was ahead 2-1 in the 7th inning.  I was drinking beer and playing poker to celebrate the resilient spirit of the Saint Louis Cardinals. Sure, they were down three games to one in the series, but they were due. The calls, the nearly-home-runs-but-barely-foul-ball, the ejections; they'd all gone against my Cardinals in this series. Slowly but surely the plays had added up to try to take down my team. The team I listened to when I delivered pizza everyday. The team I'd race home to watch when work was over at 5 p.m. The team I'd followed online-every pitch-sitting at my computer at work. Watching, listening or following 90% of the games this season. This was the 170th game of the season, and I'd been there for at least 150 of them.

Crack.

Lance Berkman. 3-run home run to the shallowest left field in baseball. Bastard.

In an instant, my 150 games washed down the drain. My hopes, aspirations, faith in Cardinal-nation washed sadly down the drain. Soon, my playoffs beard down the drain. Houston leads 4-2. My dreams losing 4-2.

My poker chip stack went from dominant to meager. By the bottom of the 9th inning, it was gone. My fantasy football team? Losing. My Cardinals? Down 4-2.

Top of the 9th.

Strike One.
Strike Two.
You're out.

Strike One.
Strike Two.
You're Out.

Strike One.
Strike Two.
Base hit?

No. It's too late. The razor was on, and it was time to say goodbye to the playoff beard.

Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

It sounded like the sound they played in Houston when one of the "Killer Bs" came up to bat. My razor was losing charge, but I didn't care. I wanted my playoff beard gone. I wanted it off my face. The longer I tried to shave, the worse it hurt. As the batteries lost their charge, the hairs tugged and pulled even harder from my chin.

Bzzzzzzzz
Bzzzz
Bzz
Bz

Ball four. First and second. Two outs. Razor Dead. Only half my beard gone.

Number 5. No Balls. One Strike.

CRACK.

gone.

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(Running around the house.  Screaming.)

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(Jumping on the hood of my roommate's broken down car.)

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