Their cries of “Albert!” Albert! Albert! ” Because I had the privilege of witnessing something special. That ball, hit by Pujols, was driven on the go-ahead run in the Cardinals’ comeback victory. More importantly, it was his 697th home run, the fourth most in Major League Baseball history.
And where was I during this unforgettable moment that those fans will tell their children and grandchildren until the day they die? illness I talk about a September afternoon when I missed what should have been arguably the biggest highlight of my life as a baseball fan.
Oh I was in that game. I specifically chose that weekend and that city with the intention of seeing Albert one last time. This summer, I scrolled through many vacation photos of my friends on Instagram.Some of them went to Capri, Italy. Marrakech, Morocco. and Porto, Portugal.
It should have been my dream vacation. Everything lined up perfectly. Pujols tied Alex Rodriguez with 696 home runs on Sunday. Instead of missing the final game of the road trip, he was in the lineup — playing first base like he used to. he was hitting the cleanup. Anything can happen and I was there in person to see it for myself.
At 10, I would have been so proud to think I was the coolest adult ever. But by the seventh inning, the 42-year-old kept wondering what the traffic would be like on her four-and-a-half-hour drive back to Washington.
It’s so hard being both a mature adult and a sports fan.The two roles just don’t work together.
Who has the stamina to stay up until 2:50 a.m. and watch one of the greatest US Open games ever? Sorry Carlos Alcalaz and Janik Sinner, thrilling 5 sets 5 Could you finish your time smackdown already? We have work in the morning.
And who among us can truly shame the Miami Heat fans who left Game 6 early? Sure, it was the 2013 NBA Finals, and Ray Allen was that unforgettable legend. I was trying to hit a three-pointer of you Ever navigated through downtown Miami traffic? You would have left after the national anthem.
That’s why, looking back, I’m on the side of my buddy Wesley’s dad. Wes Buchek and I have been friends for nearly 30 years while sharing our love of St. Louis sports. But Bucheks was a little more stubborn, and he was at Busch Stadium in more games than I was. Of course, it is up to 6 or 7 times.
When the Buchek boys were little, their dad got tickets to a lot of games on weekday nights, but always had to leave early. Their dad needed rest. He does a respectable and honest job, and he shouted so loudly that early in the morning I had to strike his watch. And he Wes was a poor buddy, but he remembers when he was in the sad car on the way home and he was listening to the KMOX radio. That’s when Bernard Gilkey scored his seventh straight win for the Montreal Expos by hitting his single with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning.
Even today, it continues to hinder Wes from capturing the Cardinals’ magical moments. He and his wife, Amanda Verbeck, hadn’t had a vacation in a while, so they headed out to Boondock for the weekend. But while Wes was a responsible husband, I was going to be a big kid cheering on the oldest kid at the park.
Pujols ignores what the “end” should be. He wrote a Hall of Fame career in his first 11 years in St. Louis. He was a once-in-a-lifetime talent, but he went to obscurity with the Los Angeles Angels. (Sigh, I wish the city would stop poaching our greatest treasure.)
But thankfully, this season, Albert is back in baseball heaven and wearing a bird with a bat once again. It’s not just the old baseball player smiling and waving at the gift of an opposing team or the polite applause of a rival fan. Instead, he’s still pursuing his 700th home run with a powerful swing that makes him one of the most feared in baseball.
At the Home Run Derby, Albert pulled off an unlikely upset of Kyle Schwarber’s hard hitter in the opening round. Last month, he hit his two home runs in Phoenix to pass Stan his Musial for second all-time on all-time bases. And recently, in his final at-bat against the Chicago Cubs, he won the game with a pinch-hitter two-run bomb in the eighth inning.
And he’s doing this while looking like someone Tio That belly sticks out over his belt and the hairline fades away. That’s what makes his 22nd and final season so special: He’s one of us — a real-life adult.
Albert and I are the same age. So now I know why his 6-pack of abs is nothing more than a barrel of lard. Still, he grew to love baseball as much as I did when I was a kid, and I update his Twitter every night. This is equivalent to his score in the box the next morning in modern times. Tio Alberto I did it again.
That’s why I drove to Pittsburgh, lounged on the upper deck, and waited for history. started tapping me on the shoulder.
The Cardinals lost 1-0 and treated the bottom-placed Pirates as if they needed to read this game. Albert he was 0-3. After he struck out, Lars his Nootbar caught a stolen base and Tyler his O’Neal finished in his seventh.
I felt even more justified when I walked across the Seventh Street Bridge and heard the Pirates’ solo home run fireworks. Stop! Albert still has one more at-bat.
I was less than an hour into the trip, and I was still trying to shake off my nagging feelings when I saw my final score. Cardinals, 4-3. Pujols HR. I wanted to bang my head on the steering wheel.
I called Wes for comfort. It felt as if he laughed straight up for a minute. He put me on speakerphone and when I told him what might have been the worst decision of my sports life, he said Amanda buried his head in her pillow.
I went to Pittsburgh to see my favorite baseball player, my bro, make history. His final season has been a lesson in unexpected endings. On Sunday he gave me one final reminder.
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