oldandslow
10-18-2005, 07:52 AM
First posted on Oct 21, 2004 - UPDATED FOR 2005
NOT THIS YEAR
Busch Stadium is our house.
So I will not waste your time this morning talking about the importance of the Cardinals protecting our house in Game 6 of the NLCS. I will not broach the obscentity of seeing Houston players spilling champagne on our living-room carpet.
Busch Stadium is our house.
It's where many of us watched our first game, caught our first foul ball, begged for our first autograph.
It's where Gibby ruled the mound, where Brock ran like the wind, and where Ozzie made all the folks go crazy.
It's where the El Birdos dominated, where Sutter struck out the last batter of 1982, where Mike Shannon has worked since the joint opened in 1966.
The Ol' Redhead managed there. Stan the Man played his harmonica there. The White Rat led us back to glory there.
This is where Gussie drove the Clydesdales, where Willie McGee tracked down fly balls, where Joaquin Andujar summed up his philosophy of life in one simple word: Youneverknow.
This is where Big Mac smacked No. 70, where Tommy Lawless flipped his bat, where GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY...BRUMMER'S STEALING HOME!!!!!!!
Here is where Prince Albert rules.
This is where the St. Louis baseball team in performs. They have the best home-record, the best record in baseball. Right on that field.
Ted Simmons played there. Kenny Boyer managed there. And a beloved old man in a bright red jacket told a mournful nation why it was good and right to play baseball after Sept. 11.
My friends, Jack Buck's coffin rested on that field. Daryl Kile pitched his last game there. And many of us cannot walk into that stadium without thinking of loved ones who are no longer with us.
Not this series.
We don't lose here.
Not against the Houston Astros. Not against a pitcher named Roy Oswalt. Not against a wild-card team.
Not in Busch Stadium.
It is our house.
This is simply the place where our memories congregate, where our baseball dreams are stored, where the voices of millions of fans and the ghosts of seasons past await their call to arms.
Folks, it's time to wake 'em up.
This is the year.
NOT THIS YEAR
Busch Stadium is our house.
So I will not waste your time this morning talking about the importance of the Cardinals protecting our house in Game 6 of the NLCS. I will not broach the obscentity of seeing Houston players spilling champagne on our living-room carpet.
Busch Stadium is our house.
It's where many of us watched our first game, caught our first foul ball, begged for our first autograph.
It's where Gibby ruled the mound, where Brock ran like the wind, and where Ozzie made all the folks go crazy.
It's where the El Birdos dominated, where Sutter struck out the last batter of 1982, where Mike Shannon has worked since the joint opened in 1966.
The Ol' Redhead managed there. Stan the Man played his harmonica there. The White Rat led us back to glory there.
This is where Gussie drove the Clydesdales, where Willie McGee tracked down fly balls, where Joaquin Andujar summed up his philosophy of life in one simple word: Youneverknow.
This is where Big Mac smacked No. 70, where Tommy Lawless flipped his bat, where GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY...BRUMMER'S STEALING HOME!!!!!!!
Here is where Prince Albert rules.
This is where the St. Louis baseball team in performs. They have the best home-record, the best record in baseball. Right on that field.
Ted Simmons played there. Kenny Boyer managed there. And a beloved old man in a bright red jacket told a mournful nation why it was good and right to play baseball after Sept. 11.
My friends, Jack Buck's coffin rested on that field. Daryl Kile pitched his last game there. And many of us cannot walk into that stadium without thinking of loved ones who are no longer with us.
Not this series.
We don't lose here.
Not against the Houston Astros. Not against a pitcher named Roy Oswalt. Not against a wild-card team.
Not in Busch Stadium.
It is our house.
This is simply the place where our memories congregate, where our baseball dreams are stored, where the voices of millions of fans and the ghosts of seasons past await their call to arms.
Folks, it's time to wake 'em up.
This is the year.