FanPost

Just A Sport

Just a Sport

On July 17th, 2002 my grandparents took my dad and me to my first Cardinals game. As the players took the field and the crowd took to their feet I took in the sights in awe. At 9 years old the biggest field I’d seen was a muddy t-ball field. As I stared out onto the field, which seemed almost too big to be real, the Cardinals’ second baseman tossed a ball my way. I stuck up my hand with my grandpa’s comically oversized glove and squeezed. I pulled the glove down afraid to look inside, afraid that I’d missed. In the glove was a signed baseball. As I caught that ball I caught my love for the Cardinals. I walked back to my seat grasping my new trophy as hard as I could, worried that if I let it go, the love that I felt for the game would disappear.

It wouldn’t. My grandpa and I would continue to watch Cardinals games together for 8 more years. As the years went by and my grandpa’s memory began to fade, his love for the Cardinals never did. He’d look at his family and not recognize them but as soon as you got him talking about the Cardinals he’d brighten up like a kid on opening day. He could tell you Stan Musial’s batting average in 1946, .338, and tell you how many home runs Albert Pujols hit in 2006, 49. Even when he’d forgotten everything else, he remembered the team that had been there his entire life. He remembered the Cardinals.

In 2010 my grandpa passed away. In 2011 the Cardinals found themselves down by 2 runs and down to their last strike in the World Series. Their last hope stood at the plate in the form of David Freese, the rookie from St. Louis. The pitcher delivered the 3-2 pitch and Freese sent the ball deep to right field. The crowd went deathly quiet as the right fielder slowly drifted back towards the wall and reached up for the ball, and then erupted as the ball bounced away from the fielder tying the game. Sitting in my college dorm room in Villanova, PA I was completely calm and collected like a mature adult jumping up and down and screaming like a little kid.

After the Cardinals went down 2 and then tied it up again in the 10th, David Freese came up to bat in the 11th. Everyone watching that game knew that he couldn’t possibly be the hero again. He dug in again. The pitcher got set and delivered again. Freese swung again, and sent the ball to deep center again. This time, all the outfielder could do was look up as the ball sailed over the fence. The crowd erupted as the Cardinals players spilled off of the bench and onto the field to mug David Freese at home. There was pandemonium in Saint Louis. I lay on the floor of my dorm, speechless, in tears.

In that moment David Freese, the rookie, the underdog, the comeback kid was more than just a person. He was Baseball. He was me at 9 years old swinging a branch at a make believe ball in my backyard with bubble gum in my lower lip because I wanted to look like the pros. He was my grandpa, who gave everything he had just for a chance to play in the minor leagues. He was every fan who ever found themselves on their knees praying for that last out, that last hit, that last save, the last buzzer beating three. He was every person who’s ever had their back against a wall but refused to give in.

Since that game, I’ve watched that swing countless times, and every time it brings back a different memory. It reminds me of playing T-ball and throwing with my dad. It reminds me of meeting my best friend in Brussels for the first time when I was 8 playing little league. It reminds me of the phone call to my dad after the Cardinals won the World Series, and both of us screaming into the phone, neither of us knowing what the other was saying.

It also reminds me of watching games with my grandpa. It reminds me of falling off my tricycle at his house, because apparently falling off a tricycle is possible. It reminds me of all the times that my grandpa would tickle me until I was in tears, and my dad smiling in the corner because he’d been there too. It reminds me of my grandpa’s funeral and seeing my dad cry for the first time.

Every time I watch baseball, every time I talk about baseball I’m reminded of these moments. I’m reminded of one of the saddest moments of my life. But I’m also reminded of so many more amazing moments with all the people I love.

But hey, baseball’s just a sport. Right?