Two days after my 11th birthday*, my dad took me to a baseball game. Maybe to some kids this would not be a memorable event. To me, it was Disneyland and the Super Bowl with cherries on top.
I listened to the St. Louis Cardinal broadcasts pretty regularly. Well, second-hand listened, anyway – stepfather Russel listened on the family radio, and in a small house that meant everybody listened. The Cardinals certainly got in my head and my heart, and I rejoiced when my hero Stan Musial hit a homer. The flip side of the same coin is that I moped when the “Birds” lost.
Sportsman’s Park was a place I’d only heard about. Now I was there! Damn, was I excited.
On the way to our seats, we had to pass under an overhead walkway the players used to get from the clubhouse to the dugout. Some of the players would linger there, signing autographs for the fans. This particular day, a player I didn’t know by sight (there were many of those, it being before TV showed us what the players look like) was signing autographs, so I handed up my scorecard. It came back with the signature of a little-known utility player named Peanuts Lowrey. I wished it could have been Musial. Oh, well.
The game was tied after nine, so the game went to extra innings. In the bottom of the eleventh, Musial led off with a double. With two outs and the bases loaded, a pinch-hitter – Peanuts Lowrey – was called on. Lowrey hit a line drive to the right-center field wall, scoring the winning run. Cardinals win. I’m clutching the autograph of the guy who made the game-winning hit. I’m there with my dad.
I didn’t come down from that high for maybe three years.
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