Once upon a time in this country, most red-blooded boys aspired to grow up and be one, and only one, thing — a Major League Baseball player. And for those in Texas and the Midwest, one team’s uniform stood out: the red and white of the St. Louis Cardinals, whose games were beamed over more airwaves than any other ball club’s.
For some of us, that childhood dream refused to fade, though our playing days ended in adolescence. Yes, ultimate career paths veered off the diamond, but our hearts never left the green field in the sun.
American ingenuity understands supply and demand. If legions of grown businessmen still fantasize about seeing themselves wearing a St. Louis uniform, playing on a manicured ball field, and yukking it up in the locker room with guys whose Cardinal heroics once filled the sports pages then, by golly, for the right price, there ought to be an opportunity for making those dreams come true.
For some of us, that childhood dream refused to fade, though our playing days ended in adolescence. Yes, ultimate career paths veered off the diamond, but our hearts never left the green field in the sun.
American ingenuity understands supply and demand. If legions of grown businessmen still fantasize about seeing themselves wearing a St. Louis uniform, playing on a manicured ball field, and yukking it up in the locker room with guys whose Cardinal heroics once filled the sports pages then, by golly, for the right price, there ought to be an opportunity for making those dreams come true.
As a poster child for the person described above, last week I attended the St. Louis Cardinals Legends Camp in Jupiter, Fla. The time spent there shall henceforth be known as “Days of Bliss.”
Upon arrival at the Cardinals’ spring training complex, each camper was directed to his locker where he found his St. Louis uniforms for home and away games, bearing his name on the back along with his chosen number. Since Roger Maris ended his career in St. Louis, yours truly selected “9” in hopes that clothes would make the man.
After suiting up beside former Cards standouts Joe Magrane and Lee Smith, then receiving a pep talk from retired ace reliever Al “The Mad Hungarian” Hrabosky, we entered the great outdoors, where trainers led us through stretching exercises in hopes of minimizing injuries to this overachieving band of 120 grown-up kids, each itching for his first at bat.
Then the games began, with 10 teams assembled, each coached by two former Cardinals. Thankfully, Legends Camp rules allow games to flow — four outfielders, no stealing, short leadoffs, no pickoff throws, maximum seven runs per inning, and a two-hour-per-game time limit.
A radiology entrepreneur, a business consultant, a toy designer, a plumbing company owner, a saloonkeeper, a marketing executive, a retired chemical company executive, three lawyers, and two guys whose day jobs remained a mystery made up my team. They live everywhere from Seattle to Palm Beach, Fla.
Danny Cox, a 12-year veteran pitcher who at 6 feet, 4 inches and 250 pounds is literally a mountain of a man, and Tito Landrum, the consummate outfielder who played his best under postseason pressure, coached our band of brothers.
In a period of three days, each team played five games against other campers and a final three-inning game facing the Cardinal “Legends.” As each game progressed, bending over got harder, shoulders tightened, and “running” on tired legs slowed to a trot. Yet none of the physical decline dimmed the Field of Dreams, allowing us to play through pain over the course of each hotly contested game.
At night, we listened to stories from Hall of Famers Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, and Orlando Cepeda, as well as longtime Cards’ skipper Whitey Herzog. ESPN commentator Tim Kurkjian once said, “Baseball is a hard game played by hard men.” The stories confirmed that.
Baseball people have total recall memories laced with laser-beam sarcasm and a recurring tendency to retaliate in the spirit of righting perceived wrongs. Every man who steps onto a major league diamond knows that this attitude of rough justice goes with the territory.
By last Sunday afternoon, even the most die-hard campers had had their fill of the national pastime. We made plays, committed errors, lined hits, and struck out. But in the Days of Bliss, we wore our Cardinals uniform with the same pride as Stan Musial once did. Color this boyhood dream fulfilled.
Upon arrival at the Cardinals’ spring training complex, each camper was directed to his locker where he found his St. Louis uniforms for home and away games, bearing his name on the back along with his chosen number. Since Roger Maris ended his career in St. Louis, yours truly selected “9” in hopes that clothes would make the man.
After suiting up beside former Cards standouts Joe Magrane and Lee Smith, then receiving a pep talk from retired ace reliever Al “The Mad Hungarian” Hrabosky, we entered the great outdoors, where trainers led us through stretching exercises in hopes of minimizing injuries to this overachieving band of 120 grown-up kids, each itching for his first at bat.
Then the games began, with 10 teams assembled, each coached by two former Cardinals. Thankfully, Legends Camp rules allow games to flow — four outfielders, no stealing, short leadoffs, no pickoff throws, maximum seven runs per inning, and a two-hour-per-game time limit.
A radiology entrepreneur, a business consultant, a toy designer, a plumbing company owner, a saloonkeeper, a marketing executive, a retired chemical company executive, three lawyers, and two guys whose day jobs remained a mystery made up my team. They live everywhere from Seattle to Palm Beach, Fla.
Danny Cox, a 12-year veteran pitcher who at 6 feet, 4 inches and 250 pounds is literally a mountain of a man, and Tito Landrum, the consummate outfielder who played his best under postseason pressure, coached our band of brothers.
In a period of three days, each team played five games against other campers and a final three-inning game facing the Cardinal “Legends.” As each game progressed, bending over got harder, shoulders tightened, and “running” on tired legs slowed to a trot. Yet none of the physical decline dimmed the Field of Dreams, allowing us to play through pain over the course of each hotly contested game.
At night, we listened to stories from Hall of Famers Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, and Orlando Cepeda, as well as longtime Cards’ skipper Whitey Herzog. ESPN commentator Tim Kurkjian once said, “Baseball is a hard game played by hard men.” The stories confirmed that.
Baseball people have total recall memories laced with laser-beam sarcasm and a recurring tendency to retaliate in the spirit of righting perceived wrongs. Every man who steps onto a major league diamond knows that this attitude of rough justice goes with the territory.
By last Sunday afternoon, even the most die-hard campers had had their fill of the national pastime. We made plays, committed errors, lined hits, and struck out. But in the Days of Bliss, we wore our Cardinals uniform with the same pride as Stan Musial once did. Color this boyhood dream fulfilled.
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