Finding perspective amidst another Cardinals loss

On Sunday afternoon, the St. Louis Cardinals were swept by the Arizona Diamondbacks after their third straight non-competitive game. Miles Mikolas gave up four runs before most fans had found their seats, and the Cardinals ran their record in July (at that point) to 4-10. The game seemed to cement for most fans the end of the dream of any playoff run and a dose of reality that the team needed to sell at the trade deadline.

And yet, unbelievably, I couldn’t have cared less, at least for that one Sunday.

Why?

Because last Sunday was my youngest son’s first baseball game and the first time that both my sons had a chance to run the bases, a classic ballpark tradition.

I know, I know. The timing of this kind of piece isn’t ideal, what with Mikolas’ Sunday blunder and another inevitable Erick Fedde blowup on Tuesday night. But every now and then, it’s nice to be reminded of why we all fell in love with this game in the first place. And nothing does that quite like seeing the game through toddlers’ eyes.

Things like my three-year-old thinking every fly ball was a home run. Or asking if a pitch from Ryan Helsley went “a million thousand.” (No measure of distance or speed attached to that, just did it go a “million thousand.”) I’m also not sure I’ve ever been prouder than when he asked me why Fredbird wasn’t at the stadium.

It was his fourth game, having now seen two in Arizona, where we live, and two in St. Louis, where we fly back every year for the home opener. These games, however frustrating for the rest of us, are magical for him.

And for my one-year-old, watching him take in the sights and sounds of his first game was such an incredible moment. And he made it through the whole thing! (The same can’t be said for his pacifier, which fell down three rows and will forever be lost to Chase Field. RIP.)

When the game ended, the scoreboard flashed with an alert that any child at the game could run the bases, something we weren’t expecting. We bolted to where we were told to line up, only to realize the wait would be an hour. I will forever remember the first time I had a chance to run the bases at Busch, so I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that my wife and I were ready to throw in the towel.

Thankfully, our son was not. My children are far too young to remember their dash around the infield when they get older, but I will certainly never forget watching my three-year-old sprint around the bases with no hesitation, while his younger brother had nearly the entire field staff cheering him on as he powered his little legs. It probably took him a solid few minutes to make it to home, but he sure seemed like Victor Scott to me.

Standing on the field, cheering them on, it was clear as day why this game has hooked so many of us, and why it so often is passed down from generation to generation. We hear so much talk about how baseball needs to appear to the younger generation, but this is how you do it — provide a fun atmosphere, a playground on the concourse, and a chance to actually step on the field after the game. The kids won’t remember Sunday, but the baseball hook, if it wasn’t already, was firmly planted.

The next day, my three-year-old was still reminiscing about the game and couldn’t wait to tell his camp counselors and friends. (The one-year-old was probably still catching his breath.) And when he went to sleep at night? He picked out a baseball book for his mom to read to him.

I’m not saying anyone should feel warm and fuzzy about this season. It’s maddening to see Michael McGreevy kept out of the rotation or to wonder why Jordan Walker still hasn’t put it all together. Nobody should feel great about Cardinals baseball right now.

But in a roller coaster season of up and downs, and after a few years of Cardinals baseball that has left a sour taste in the mouth, it was nice to be reminded of the majesty of the game, of the wide-eyed wonder it can still produce.

And maybe, just maybe, as the Cardinals potentially stumble to the end of the season or start stripping parts at the trade deadline, we can all try to channel our inner child just a bit more and remember when we first developed our love for America’s pastime.

Or, at the very least, we can always remember what it was like to wonder where Fredbird was.