I present the following story for what it’s worth.
Following the Cardinals 1968 World Series appearance against the Tigers, there were a few sparse years but the team stayed competitive. We fans certainly didn’t anticipate a post season drought of fourteen years. Suffice it to say, the seventies were a kidney stone of a decade for Cardinal Nation.
One exception, however was the 1971 season. Throughout the season, the Birds fought Willie Stargell’s Pirates neck and neck for the National League East title. And it came down to the last series of the regular season. The Pirates were in town with the Cards two games behind. We needed a sweep to get to the post season.
For the second game, Bob Gibson was to pitch. I desperately wanted to go to the game. My father had tickets from his work, but was taking business acquaintances. My pleas to him to find a way to take us fell on deaf ears. It was a school night. Mom, my brother and I were to stay at home and listen to Jack Buck on the radio.
As my father was getting ready to go to the game, I went into my bedroom and hit my knees. I remember I prayed to God that my Dad would change his mind and take us to the game. Later on, he told me he had seen me there and felt bad that it was not meant to be.
Suffice it to say, I was disappointed when he left the house without me in the car. I resigned myself to enjoying the game on the radio and figured I could sneak my own transistor hand held implement into bed with me along with the ear piece and listen after “lights out” if the game went long. (I doubted it would. Gibson was known for pitching fast games. I once saw him pitch a game in an hour and forty-five minutes. Woe to any batter who called “time” more than once during a game.)
Anyway, about 6:30 that night our phone rang. Mom picked up the receiver and listened. Then she started laughing. I heard her say, “We’ll be there in half an hour.”
It seems, Dad had picked up the business associates and took them to the game. When he got out of the car, however, he had locked and closed the doors.
With the keys still in the ignition.
With the motor running.
He sent the associates into the ball park, found a scalper with three tickets, then called my Mom who brought us to the game.
I wish I could say, we won, but at least I was there.
And that’s how I know God loves baseball.
Cheers.
R. Sherman
Following the Cardinals 1968 World Series appearance against the Tigers, there were a few sparse years but the team stayed competitive. We fans certainly didn’t anticipate a post season drought of fourteen years. Suffice it to say, the seventies were a kidney stone of a decade for Cardinal Nation.
One exception, however was the 1971 season. Throughout the season, the Birds fought Willie Stargell’s Pirates neck and neck for the National League East title. And it came down to the last series of the regular season. The Pirates were in town with the Cards two games behind. We needed a sweep to get to the post season.
For the second game, Bob Gibson was to pitch. I desperately wanted to go to the game. My father had tickets from his work, but was taking business acquaintances. My pleas to him to find a way to take us fell on deaf ears. It was a school night. Mom, my brother and I were to stay at home and listen to Jack Buck on the radio.
As my father was getting ready to go to the game, I went into my bedroom and hit my knees. I remember I prayed to God that my Dad would change his mind and take us to the game. Later on, he told me he had seen me there and felt bad that it was not meant to be.
Suffice it to say, I was disappointed when he left the house without me in the car. I resigned myself to enjoying the game on the radio and figured I could sneak my own transistor hand held implement into bed with me along with the ear piece and listen after “lights out” if the game went long. (I doubted it would. Gibson was known for pitching fast games. I once saw him pitch a game in an hour and forty-five minutes. Woe to any batter who called “time” more than once during a game.)
Anyway, about 6:30 that night our phone rang. Mom picked up the receiver and listened. Then she started laughing. I heard her say, “We’ll be there in half an hour.”
It seems, Dad had picked up the business associates and took them to the game. When he got out of the car, however, he had locked and closed the doors.
With the keys still in the ignition.
With the motor running.
He sent the associates into the ball park, found a scalper with three tickets, then called my Mom who brought us to the game.
I wish I could say, we won, but at least I was there.
And that’s how I know God loves baseball.
Cheers.
R. Sherman
1 comment:
Great story. I am sure we all have similar stories such as Randall's. Here's a challenge to all of us...let's share more of these kinds of stories as well - although I am certain I don't have any "keys in the ignition" baseball stories.
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