The night of October 27, 2006 I sat on my friend’s couch in Isla Vista, California watching the final few outs of the World Series, completely ignorant of the famed Halloween festivities going on outside. The Cardinals were about to win it, finally. It had been a long time coming.

In 2000 we seemed to be in great shape. Sure, Big Mac was hurt, but Edmonds was awesome and Will Clark had come over and torn things up for us down the stretch. We even had a stud rookie pitcher, with the whole world in his pocket at just age 20. He was left-handed and had struck out 194 batters that year. He seemed destined to become the Next Great Lefty. But then something funny happened to the team. Garret Stephenson got tendinitis, and our great young lefty died and became Dick Ankiel, never to be seen again. So suddenly, our chances were extinguished.

In 2001 the Cardinals had won more games than any other team in the NL (though tied with the Astros). In the first round they faced the Diamondbacks, and, despite a valiant effort, were ultimately crushed by Curt and The Big Unit. The duo would lead their team onward to smite the Yankees in one of the most dramatic and well-remembered World Series in some time.

In 2002 the team was set to make another run. Tragically it lost one of its best pitchers part way into the season. But the team didn’t quit. With the additions of Scott Rolen and Chuck Finley, as well as a revived Andy Benes, they pushed through to the playoffs. Yet, they were struck down again. In a terrifying collision of greatness with irrelevancy, Alex Cintron dislocated the mighty Rolen’s shoulder, and, though the Cardinals managed to defeat the Diamondbacks, they were unable to defeat the Giants without the star third baseman and thus could not avenge the soul of Darryl Kile.

In 2003, the Cardinals once heralded pitching depth was finally exposed for its great weakness, and fans were forced to endure 121 combined innings from Esteban Yan and Jeff Fassero. (Admittedly, this one isn’t so tragic, but bear with me.)

In 2004 all was forgiven. The combined greatness of Rolen, Edmonds, and Albert Pujols gave the team a seemingly unstoppable trio to fuel the offense. Further fortunate, the team also acquired Larry Walker, and was blessed with a great year from Tony Womack. A Carpenter even rose from the dead to become the savior of the pitching staff and atone for its previous sins. All was set. The MV3 would all win their first rings, and Walker, who had quickly endeared himself to fans, would get his as well and retire in peace. Sadly, something unprecedented happened. Something nobody had seen coming. Something that had the power to re-write the ending of Jimmy Fallon movies, as well as the fate of St. Louis’s Team of Destiny. The Red Sox had toppled the Yankees, coming back from a three game deficit to win the best-of-seven series. As the World Series started, it became incredibly clear that they were now the Team of Destiny. Curt had come back to destroy us, once again.

In 2005 we had a second chance. Walker would be with us for a full season this time (sort of), and Carpenter, whose health had failed him at the end of last season, would be the Cy Young winner. Pujols was FINALLY acknowledged as the NL MVP. Once again, it was time for the Cardinals to win the World Series they had deserved so much. No other team had won as many games over the last two years. It was fine that we were passed over to baptize the Diamondbacks with their first World Series.  And it was fine that the Angels should get their first title too, and the Marlins get what was just their second. It was fine that the Red Sox were rewarded for their patience with a set of rings. But now it was time for us to get ours. We were even given false hope, with a titanic smash in the NLCS, that no matter the odds, this was our year. It, again, was not to be so. It was, ever so clearly, the White Sox’s year. We were just an instrument used to destroy the barrier of Brad Lidge so that the White Sox could reach their title more quickly.

And that’s why, on that late October night in 2006, much to my friends’ surprise, as Inge swung through Wainwright’s pitch, and it hit Yadi’s glove, I did not whoop. I did not holler. I simply raised my fist™ in the air, and breathed a sigh of relief.

That victory was not a fluke. It was not luck.

It was justice. It was atonement for so much of what we had previously suffered. An apology.

But it is not enough. Over the years you blinded Don Denkinger, twisted Coleman’s ankle, robbed Ankiel of his control and future, took Kile’s life far too soon, twice mangled Rolen’s shoulder, swindled us into trading He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named for Mark Mulder, denied Larry Walker his championship ring, and even tried to rip the tendons out of Pujols’ elbow. You put nearly all other teams before us, while we had played and succeeded by the commandments you gave us.

This is why I am asking you, though I am grateful for what was given to us in 2006, for one more. Just one more favor. I’m not hoping to be given the World Series on a platter like before, but just two games. Give us a Game 5 with Carpenter or Wainwright on regular rest, and I’ll ask for nothing more. Please don’t send me to that Tartarean wasteland that is the offseason of MLB just yet.

Hopefully,

            Cardinals645