An Ode to the Cardinals and Red Sox {Day 22}

The long gravel road is a straight shot to the farm-house. You have to go over the little bridge. The one where Rawhide and Bloody Bones lived. At least according to the stories my Uncle Ray told me and all my cousins. He also is the one who took us snipe hunting.

The white with green trim farmhouse. Where so many of my childhood memories occurred. It no longer stands. But the memories from it stand strong. The place where my grandparents raised thirteen children. The place of playing football in the yard on Sunday afternoons. The place where my grandmother cooked, continuously. Of late night card games. And cousins giggling later than they should be up. Always lots of cousins.

My childhood sat just two miles from the Mississippi River. My cousins and I would ride in the back of pick ups and station wagons, squeals as we would go over the levy.

I think about my farmhouse from time to time.

This years World Series has brought it to the forefront of my mind. The St Louis Cardinals versus the Boston Red Sox.

In the summer and early fall months the house would be filled with sounds of baseball on the radio. Not just any baseball. Cardinal baseball. A backdrop as we played hide and seek under creaking stairs and the mysterious attic. Sounds of my childhood.

When I was little, my dad would drive us up to St Louis hours before the game began. We would hang out by the players entrance. My denim autograph book in my hands. Keith Hernandez. Ted Sizemore. Reggie Smith. Lou Brock. I’ve got them all. I even have Hank Aaron’s from when the Braves were in town.

I grew up knowing that farmers and teachers and encyclopedia salesmen in southeastern Missouri take their baseball seriously. St Louis is a baseball town. I learned to score a baseball card and the nuances of the infield fly rule. I learned the games is about the head as much as the heart.

This is the fabric of my baseball foundation.

And so you would think this year’s world series would be an easy choice. But ahh, disruption comes to the story.

In 1977 my dad was transferred to Massachusetts. We discovered there are no cotton fields, no southern Baptist churches and no Cardinal baseball in our small New England town.

But Red Sox fans? Yes they are there!

You can hold Red Sox nation at bay only for so long. Eventually you have to love them even though you know they will break your heart.

They are a team of lore and of curses. Of hope and redemption. Of pure passion.

They seep under your skin over the course of years. I learned from them the game is about the heart as much as the head.

I can tell you where I was when Bill Buckner made his infamous play during Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. I can tell you the thrill of watching a game at Fenway. I can tell you the wicked loyalty (and sometimes fatalism) of Sox fans.

I like that they altered my baseball fabric. Making it a little more colorful and dramatic.

I like that I have a baseball fabric….even as marriage colors it in with black and gold. (And marriage introduces crazy family traditions like not turning on the furnace until after the World series!)

I’ve smiled through writing most of this post. Smiles that remember grandparents and farmhouses and a dad who taught me baseball. Smiles that bring to mind my beloved extended family who will be wearing Cardinal red, cheering for what is deep in their bones. Smiles that recall high school and college friends Facebook statuses that say Go Sox.

Smiles for simple things like this that make life richer. That ground and connect in their greater parallels.

That make me excited to watch the World Series.

And for the heat to be turned on.

I’m participating with The Nester in 31 Days of Noticing the Moment. This is Day 22.