There are no stats in this fanpost.

It's not going to be particularly witty or moving, because I waited till the gloom of "dawn" to take the edge off, so you're better off reading Fritz's existential creed. It's horribly tl;dr, and it was likely shorter by a thousand words and a lot better at 2 am. Whole thing is 2500+ words. Jump down to the ‡ header if you want (350 words).

But I'm going to post it anyway, because years from now I'm going to misremember the faces, the names, the feeling of the whole thing, and I'll have to do a search on SBN from the dashboard of my flying car, and find they converted it all to texting-speak.

What I want to recall is this: I bought this ticket in late July, and this is the ride they promised.

Of all the general anxieties and anger and guarded optimism of finding out that 1) Hardcore Legend is not his real name, 2) Mozeliak's balls dropped, the one I was most worried about was how the new guys would fit into the team. They had not gone through spring training with the Cardinals. They were inserted into a mix of guys who'd come up through the system or been mentored by the system – a club where a flamethrowing reliever could tell a new callup that Prince Fielder charges the plate like a dump truck because that reliever used to be a catcher in the minors. Where old friends can switch gloves because they both have Gold ones.  Where the average outfielder has paid his dues and might, at any time of day or night, be stuck in the infield and forced to like it.

The new guys had enough time to be put through their paces on the field. La Russa put the team through the Spring Training basics before they boarded the charter to L.A. There would be shakiness all the way around, but there was no doubt that this was one team, together, punching their ticket to October baseball.

Long live the Man Stew.

The chemistry part was a freakishly good fit. Matthew, Mark, Lugo, and John. Mark DeRosa was an instant hit. He made Colby smile, for heaven's sake (may he be Stoic in the Outfield for many years to come). Infamous malcontent Julio Lugo was instantly befriended by Albert Pujols, and boom, his Death Glare was on our side. John Smoltz was who I was worried about the most. Yet in the last week, even he stopped mentioning the "storyline" every time he spontaneously denied being worried about the storyline. Smotzl seemed genuinely happy to be playing, anywhere, not taking for granted the chance to blow bubbles with his Number One Official Fan Club, aka the Cardinals dugout.

They were doing the work on the field. They were hungry to get with the program. (Yes, that was Julio Lugo getting rid of a baseball in time to beat a runner. You didn't imagine that.)

I thought Matt Holliday would be the same. Every chest-bump with Boog, every mouthful of sunflower seeds, every laugh with Albert. I even saw glimmers of improved outfield defense in the last few games, a priority given the open mineshaft that was third base. I dismissed the "fitting in" worry as inconsequential.

My other worry, the constant nagging worry, was whether this team would know how to bounce back from adversity. DeRosa escaping Cleveland, Lugo and Smoltz shown the door in Boston – these guys had struggled, and recently. But not enough teams were walking Albert to really worry about Holliday's flashes of annoyance when pitchers went up the ladder or strikes were called below his lego knees. It was, I thought, a non-worry. Troy Glaus: still more entertaining than Holliday jawing at the ump.

The thing is, today... we are angry. Today it hasn't worked out. We've been reminded that Holliday didn't come in the way the others did.

Today follows the first forty-eight hours of the 2009 NLDS.

during Game 1 via stltoday.mycapture.com

Nothing about those two losses unnerved me more than Matt Holliday's performance. And I think it was not so much the performance on the field, as the context, the sheer sweeping backdrop of this beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime summer of baseball.

We *knew* it wasn't magic pixie dust.

We knew the starters were only as good as the infield defense – yes, even Chris Carpenter. We knew it would depend on runners getting on base ahead of Albert, and Holliday and Ludwick coming through if they walked him. We knew who was rusty (Brendan Ryan) and who wasn't (Skip Schumaker) and who was playing hurt (Yadier Molina). When the regular season ended, we knew that Ryan Franklin got his saves out of first-pitch strikes and failing that, the sheer combined guile of Yadi and Dave Duncan. We had everything timed, down to the first-inning tune-ups of Wainwright and Carpenter, the slightly longer settling-down periods for Kyle Lohse and Joel Pineiro.

The 2009 Cardinals won because they stuck to their game plans. They minimized their weaknesses and maximized their strengths. No single screw-up was going to cost them the whole thing, as long as they didn't repeat mistakes. They were playing that... what is the term... oh yes. Winning baseball.

When they boarded the plane to L.A., they were... who we thought they were.

We should've known that Joe Torre would know that, too. For all the blame raining down on all and sundry, they had a game plan for us too. Tip your cap to the other team for figuring out that hitting it to Brendan Ryan = Bad. That maybe, maybe, neutralizing the Game's Greatest Right-Handed Hitter Who Doesn't Think He Is, Really, would be a good idea. This is what happens when teams clinch early and the managers have weeks to plan for each other.

The Cardinals' game plan was the same, and it was *working*. Minimize weaknesses. Maximize strengths. All hands on deck.

Matt Holliday even said it himself: they're going to take Albert out of the game in the postseason. We have to step it up.

So, why? What happened between that even-keeled quote and that photo above? Losing his cool? Making mental mistakes? It was inexplicable. Every other snafu was expected and to some extent, mitigated. What the bleep was this? Then when he scurried to field a ball in the corner then noodle-armed the throw to the cut-off man, I thought: I've seen this before.

And that's when I realized it. That reminded me of Manny Ramirez.

Here's my story and I'm sticking to it. (Or: the only part you need to read. ‡)

I'm not saying Matt = Manny. No, no. That bit of free association is just my brain shorting out. Please don't take this to mean, in any way, that Matt will snap on those new lego dreds and ask for his own section over left field.

Here's what I think happened.

Matt Holliday stepped off that plane and into the waiting ride of Scott Boras. One traffic jam later, they sat in Scott's sweet pad overlooking the Pacific Ocean, had Matt's beverage of choice with some ice cubes cut from a melting Peruvian glacier, and with one eye on his kids playing in the next room, started to talk. Just a word, here or there. How's everything going. Really nice weather for baseball. About how, if Matt contributed to a big playoff run, he would be a lock for a big pay day.

What else could it have been?

And I am not, 6ly, seriously, I'm not saying that greedy Matt Holliday took the money and ran just like Ryan Franklin. Absolutely not. They're both Oklahoma boys. Close to their family. Loyal... to a fault. Guys who just want to help the team and work hard.

Telling either of them that they're worth a king's ransom is not going to get them sitting pretty. It's going to put more pressure on them. They want to live up to that dollar amount. That part I'm not making up; read the quotes and watch the interviews. That sincerity is unfeigned.

Nor am I making up Scott Boras muttering about a no-trade clause back in Denver, either. Pretty much the same time Holliday's first hometown booed him relentlessly, while the new hometown, in red and ready to rock, cheered.

So Torre put together a game plan that would call on Matt Holliday to come through, and the leg we'd been standing on... buckled.

Of course we're angry today.

When they traded those players for Matt Holliday, I swore I would enjoy the next two months of baseball. There was no other way to stay sane. After the dust settled, the consensus was that the trade would be a success if it was two months plus a World Series, or a long-term deal that wouldn't blow up the franchise.

And to everyone's credit, it was an incredible two months. Every single player gave us moments to remember. So what if they slumped and the umpires were squeezing everyone? Our weaknesses were a known quantity. If everyone executed and stuck to the game plan, those weaknesses could be overcome.

Except for that little detail of whether Matt Holliday could deal with adversity.

He'd been on a losing team, yes, but until this past month, he'd never been on the ropes while wearing the Birds on the Bat. His arrival was a whirlwind. Everyone else was just an appetizer, or perhaps a refreshing apéritif. He blew into town as the long-awaited Protection for Albert Pujols. The first few days, he got himself a car because Albert Knew a Guy. Despite the number, his jersey sales skyrocketed. His son, who knew Albert was way cooler than Shaq before anybody else, was really pumped about the move.

Matt punched his ticket for the same ride we did.

And everything worked according to plan. A little... too well. Holliday's quotes were frequently about finally playing on a winning club, like he was one of the chosen few who could board this train. Contrast that with DeRosa's matter-of-fact focus on Baseball Now, Other Stuff Later. Holliday's coy and guarded comments about staying in St. Louis were like Smoltz's it's-a-drinking-game slips about "storyline": sure, he's not thinking about flirting, he's just mentioning it all the time. Matt was getting comfortable. For most of that time, Holliday's played in left field and hit fourth in the lineup. If he has any inkling that the entire Cardinals squad are in fact utility players (Albert included), he's never shown it.

None of which really should be a problem. He's doing the work. He's been a tremendous upgrade, and there's nothing diva in his behavior at all. I can't really think of a team where he'd be more comfortable, money aside.

The playoffs are not about comfort. They're about two teams trying to pick apart each other's weaknesses. The same old breakdowns are frustrating, but there is also that added element of the other team having the whole season and a few intensive weeks to scout you out and pinpoint the weakest spot.

That's why I'm not angry about Franklin. Frustrated, yes. But clawing out from a month-long slump (with not enough work, thanks Tony) is not easy, and especially not in the closer's role. The Dodgers had a game plan for him; he and Yadi had a counter. A counter that, might I add, frequently worked in the majority of his saves. Why lose your shit over deliberately walking guys when the pitch count gets too high? Or relying on Yadi's pick-off, which was a bobbled ball away from working? Why go nuts over not having a shut-down closer when the entire game plan and this winning season is built around *not* having a shut-down closer?

(Every pitcher on this team is as good as the defense. When a fly-out is part of the plan, that out is the doing of three players, not just the pitcher.)

The Cardinals cut it close all season long. There were just as many chances for our game plan ... so long as everyone executed. Every player out there did make mistakes, but they recovered. They stayed cool. There was no failure of nerve, no glitch in the matrix. They weren't just who we thought they were; they were better than that. Except, well:

Holliday, in key moments, in both games, did not execute.

No one is entitled to a title.

So yeah, I feel angry. But in the sense that I gambled... we *all* gambled, and we're on the verge of paying up in tRAviolis. To be honest I'm writing this because I don't understand how anyone missed that this was a gamble in the first place. I thought, in my silly Hallmark movie way, that everyone knew we had an absolute gift of a season, and that everything on top of that was a bonus. I figured everyone would scoff at the sportswriters all picking the Cardinals to win and win easy.

Instead I restrained myself, barely, from shaking every last person who dared type "best Halloween ever" and typing in all-caps: THAT'S WHAT THE CUBS FANS SAID LAST YEAR.

Whew.

But that's what it is, isn't it? We took a Cubsian gamble. We took our eye off the game-ball and when it comes right down to it, we're angry because we came out 3.3 million strong, signed Matt Holliday's lease, and we deserve another ring for Albert's fingers. Yeah, I'll go there. I did it too. I updated all my fanshots. I called plays that never came to pass. I thought, this is our last chance, it has to be right now. I feel bad about all that.

It's not about jinxing. It's about taking it for granted. Taking baseball for granted. WWL doesn't know a thing about the Cardinals beyond "Wainwright and Carpenter". Why believe them over your own eyes? We all watched that season, right? We should've known better, even if Matt Holliday didn't.

No one is entitled to a title. A team still has to go out with a good plan and get it done. Will Holliday recover his focus and get his mind back in the game? Will the team draw him back into the Man Stew, and will it work? I don't know. I sure hope so.  To some extent, I don't think it matters. Cheer him on; he's a good guy and it can't be easy putting on that hat.

It doesn't matter because it comes down to the team. They have presented us with bonus baseball, and after two long years, that's quite a gift. It comes down to every last guy: the rebuilt arm with the sailor's mouth, the bulldog with the sick curve, the kicksave champion, the old legend, the big lefty, the bearded lefty, the fireman, the firecracker, the goatee, *the* stache, the stoic sickly kid, the dour journeyman, the seed-spitting leg-kicker, the gritty outfielder at second, the ex-cub, the shirtlicker, the glare, the gun, the nicest transcendent player ever.

So, while I think everyone who's actually read this whole thing knew all that, this is just a little reminder. Don't get mad. Every now and then, baseball will hit you in the nuts. It'll also give you the most entertaining team in recent memory. No matter what, this season is a success. And the best part? More to come. More to come.