It is October in Minnesota, and I can’t help but notice and admire beautiful things. I love the bright flame colored trees, the decorative gourds, the last harvest of tomatoes, the taste of chocolate chip pumpkin bread, a hot cup of tea, and baseball. Yes, baseball is a beautiful thing. It also helps to be a St. Louis native and Cardinal fan this October. I have loved baseball as long as I have been conscious of it. It was a love passed down to me from my family in St. Louis. I am told that my grandmother listened to the games on the radio while preparing dinner, and my dad still talks about the 1968 series loss to the Detroit Tigers. My first October in existence, the Cardinals lost the 1985 World Series to the Kansas City Royals. I was born eight months later. My first memories of the Cardinals are watching them on television in the 1996 National League Championship. The Cardinal favorite Ozzie Smith flipped back flips on my parent’s television screen. I was hooked. I made it to my first game the next year on my birthday with my aunt, and then we never missed a birthday for years after.
What is it that drew me in? In part, it was the way the legendary Jack Buck and Mike Shannon called the games on the radio. They taught me my first lessons in the love of baseball. I used to go to games with my grandmother and she always had us keep score and told me stories of baseball of the past. I researched the history of the Cardinals for a 40-page research paper in high school, and in doing so I went from being a part of the tradition to understanding the tradition. I feel like being raised in the tradition of loving baseball is similar to being raised Catholic, or even coming into the traditions of Catholicism in one’s adult life. The tradition has been passed down from generation to generation.
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