The first Cardinals game I remember attending in person, I was 3 or 4 years old. I had fallen asleep in middle innings and awoke in the 9th to the home team down; toiling towards its final out. The crowd’s chant, “OZ-ZEE, OZ-ZEE!” had roused me and I rubbed sleep from my eyes in time to see a game ending groundout; feebly struck and ably fielded by the pitcher. My grandpa seemed disappointed, but only mildly. The joy is in seeing the game, enjoying the home team, win or lose. This is one of my earliest memories.

Ozzie Smith didn’t play his entire career with St. Louis, but that doesn’t affect his status as a Cardinal legend. In 1996, as Manager Tony LaRussa (in his first Redbird season) and shortstop Smith (in his last) endured a prickly summer, I recall my 12-year-old self reading a newspaper article stating that our beloved Wizard might be traded. I found myself tearing up at the thought. “Why would Ozzie leave?” He was our hero, our acrobat, our number 1; our love was his. The realization that such things could happen was crushing. This wasn’t the first time I learned the lesson, but it painfully reinforced that life is uncertain and nothing is fixed; everything could be different tomorrow.

I turned 17 in 2001, the summer Albert Pujols came of age.

As one hero (25, McGwire) stepped quickly and quietly (and, later, disgraced) off the field, another hero took his place; a fully-realized genius from his week in the big leagues. In athletics, these athletes come along once in a generation. He was not a lauded amateur star, but somehow happened to be one of the greatest hitters in history, as evidenced by his insanely consistent statistical output, from season 1-present. And he had fallen into our laps, a gift.

But that first season, we didn’t know. He was simply a marvelous rookie; a surprise All-Star third baseman with a beautiful swing. Then he moved to the outfield and continued to hit; then he moved to first base and continued to hit (and walk, and field and steal the occasional base (?!)). He won a batting title, two home run titles, three MVPs. He had, arguably, the greatest beginning-to-a-career ever, with his only competition in the category, Ted Williams or the Great DiMaggio.

To be a lifelong fan, a diehard-win-or-lose follower, is a merciless plight. Much like the relationship with family, one has no control over any aspect of the beloved; the personnel, the decisions, the quality of skill or effort. Some teams go lifetimes without winning, without championships, without greatness. To have the best player in the game, the best in a generation, on your home team, to find him, to watch him blossom and bloom, to execute and thrill again and again; such blessings cannot help but inspire feelings of ownership, of a love beyond fandom. To believe that he might be yours forever, that he might delight and carry us to victory again and always, is a dream, an old sporting dream; the dream of my grandfather with his Musial. The dream of Mantle, of Bill Russell; of loyalty and honor and faith. We will love you if you never leave us; all, always forgiven.

In 2005 Albert demoralized Brad Lidge. Down two runs, and two outs from elimination in the 5th game of the NLCS, he hit the hardest, most defiant home run I’ve ever seen broadcast. It was the retribution we all desire; to say “You will not defeat me, I am stronger, by sheer will.” The shot landed on the train tracks inside Houston’s home park (then dubbed Minute Maid Park), as though purposely mocking the unruly child it had reprimanded. At the time I worked as a janitor at a kidney dialysis clinic. I would clean the enormous dialysis room at night, scrubbing hardended, salty blood stains, listening to grunge CDs, gently stoned and underpaid. That night as I mopped (ground) disinfecting cleanser into tile, I watched the game on an overhead screen, usually reserved for patients engaged in several hours of sitting in recliners, slowly having their bodies siphoned and fluids exchanged.

After the homer I screamed, bouncing and cursing in total validation. At that point, the Cardinals had never been champions in my lifetime. The previous fall, 2004, they had fallen victim to the Boston Red Sox in the World Series, finally at the door, but unable to step through as Boston rewarded its own fans who had gone lifetimes without a championship. 2005 would be no different. The Cardinals would quickly lose game six and the series; sending the Astros to their first World Series (defeat).

I turned 22 in 2006, the year Pujols became a champion.

That fall was the quite easily worst of my life. That year, that October, the night the Cardinals won the World Series, was the only time in my existence I couldn’t have cared less. I cried, of course; Wainright struck out Brandon Inge and Molina and Pujols and even LaRussa ran onto the field and I wept. It was relief; I could die and I’d have seen it with my own eyes. All those hours and innings and games and now somehow, finally, I had been rewarded. But I was at rock bottom, personally; the Series win was a mere footnote in a lost year of bad choices, disgust, self-loathing and loneliness. Still, Pujols had won the ring; I had seen the Cardinals as champions, even if I could not savor it.

I turned 27 in 2011, the summer Pujols somehow did it again.

To find your home team hero alongside Babe Ruth is more than a dream; it’s fiction. It’s legitimate grounds for dismissal vis-à-vis hyperbole/idiocy. But there stands Pujols beside Ruth (and Mr. Candy Bar) in the record book: Most home runs in a World Series game (3). I was on a date when he hit them, and doing my best to listen and charm and ignore the game; the outrageous score made it easier than I’d have predicted. But as I casually interrupted one anecdote with a sharp clap, “Huh, look at that. Three home runs. In a World Series game,” I quickly absorbed the sensations and environment and the way she looked and how fun it felt to be young and alive and living in New York City while my Cardinals won the World Series, to store deep and richly within, for unwrapping in old age, among grandchildren eager to please their grandpa. And Game Six; the brutal, wrenched guts that somehow evaporated with victory—six whole weeks of that same feeling—finally culminating and there, again are Pujols, Molina, LaRussa, running onto the field, ticker tape falling in St. Louis. Finally I could savor our triumph.

And now he’s gone.

Albert’s departure saddens me because of his rare potential; that I might have witnessed the fulfillment of a true legend, my own Musial (in a way that Timberlake will never be Sinatra, nor shall Obama be Kennedy). My own natural star, champion out of the gate, wearing the red and white of the home team, always the home team, as he trots out reliably to his position. Sturdier than politics, or family, or love or peace or institutions; when I flip on the game, I could be sure of number 5 batting third, easing into his stance with coiled menace, unleashing such violent force with gliding grace and skill. My mental monologue running on anxiously, “if we can just get couple of men on, bat around to Pujols again, we’ve got a chance…”

Yes, it’s just a sport; a sport that is ultimately (and always) a business first. Albert Pujols doesn’t owe me anything. I’ve gotten exactly what I paid for these past 11 years; an equivalent emotional return for my monetary and temporal investments. I was given a legend and now I’m upset because he made a personal career decision that is best for himself and his family. As though I can calmly say I’d choose differently with such stakes (I’ve never made six figures in a year!). But there is something disheartening about being wrong about someone; about expecting them to always choose and act and do right and finding that they are, in fact human, with desires and interests and motivations all their own.

Ultimately, he wanted the highest salary possible; not to remain a Cardinal for life. Not to cement a historical legacy that is unheard of in the modern age. Recent, elite, championship-winning athletes that have played their entire Hall-of-Fame careers with one team are far and few between (Tim Duncan, John Elway, Cal Ripken, Ray Lewis). If Pujols had chased 6-700 homers and 3000+ hits entirely with the Cardinals, and added maybe another Series ring or MVP, he’d not only have been bigger than Musial, but even regionally legendary on the level of Bird in Boston or Magic in LA or Walter Payton in Chicago. Not that Albert won’t be remembered fondly, or adored for his years and consistency and greatness and magic while wearing the birds-on-the-bat. But one can’t help but feel a little cheated when thinking of what he could have been, at the end, having spent a whole career with one team; with my team. I’m quite obviously biased regarding the matter, and also can’t believe I’ve spent so many words describing a multi-hundred-millionaire that plays a game for a living. Walking around the city to and from my various responsibilities, I found myself tear up twice at the thought of Pujols leaving, which is both embarrassing and disturbing. The child is still inside, asking “Why would you leave us? Wasn’t our love enough?” It does make me glad I don’t have an actual child; a little Cardinal fan that needs explanation.

Part of my sadness is that it would be unreasonable to expect another shot at this. To have another all-time prodigy come along, drop onto the roster from nowhere, fulfilling every expectation at the highest level, year after year, and all for the home team. For me, for my grandpa, for my family and friends and enemies in the Midwest. For Missouri and Arkansas and Southern Illinois and Indiana and Kentucky and Tenessee. For Schoendienst, Whitey, Ozzie, Gibby, hell, even Drunk Mike Shannon! Most of all for Musial, and all he represents; that which Pujols could have represented and embodied. Sure, great players will come along, but the Legend has come and gone.  It turns out, he is merely a star, like other stars.

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