10/20/2004
Game Seven, Baby, Game Seven
This is not my original work...but it is damn good.
NOT TODAY
Busch Stadium is not our house.
So I will not waste your time this morning talking about the importance of the Cardinals protecting our house in Game 7 of the NLCS.
I will not broach the obscenity of seeing Houston players spilling champagne on our living-room carpet.
Busch Stadium is not our house.
It's much more important than that.
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!!!!!!!
This is where the greatest St. Louis team in Busch Stadium's history performed. That's right, the 2004 Cardinals. They had 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 cannot walk into that stadium without thinking of loved ones who are no longer with us.
Not today.
We don't lose today.
Not against the Houston Astros.
Not even against the myth that is Roger Clemens.
Not against a wild-card team.
Not in Busch Stadium.
No, it's not our house.
It's 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.
NOT TODAY
Busch Stadium is not our house.
So I will not waste your time this morning talking about the importance of the Cardinals protecting our house in Game 7 of the NLCS.
I will not broach the obscenity of seeing Houston players spilling champagne on our living-room carpet.
Busch Stadium is not our house.
It's much more important than that.
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!!!!!!!
This is where the greatest St. Louis team in Busch Stadium's history performed. That's right, the 2004 Cardinals. They had 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 cannot walk into that stadium without thinking of loved ones who are no longer with us.
Not today.
We don't lose today.
Not against the Houston Astros.
Not even against the myth that is Roger Clemens.
Not against a wild-card team.
Not in Busch Stadium.
No, it's not our house.
It's 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.
