"The Man" And Me - L.

When I was eleven, Stan "The Man" Musial took me to my very first Major League Baseball game.

For the uninitiated, Stan Musial is one of the greatest baseball players of all time, up there with Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Hank Aaron, and Lou Gehrig. He played his entire career (1941-1963) with the St. Louis Cardinals, taking them to three World Series during his career. He still ranks 4th in all-time career hits, behind Pete Rose, Ty Cobb, and Hank Aaron. In his retirement, Stan Musial remained active in St. Louis civic events and charities. And somehow--I was never quite clear exactly how--he was a supporter of St. Joseph's Institute, the school I attended. The April I was in the 6th grade, he took a group of us students to the Cardinals home opening game at Busch Stadium.

In 1981, I remember the sheer awe on my father's face when he heard I was going to the game. "You're going to the home opener with Stan "The Man"? By golly," he said slowly as his gaze drifted off to a faraway place. "That's just amazing." My dad was a big baseball fan, and grew up watching "The Man" work his magic on the game. My mother, hardly the sports fan, lit up like a marquee at the news. I may not have known who Stan was at the time, but my parents' reaction made a huge impression on me. For my even-tempered folks to get excited and dreamy on me, this must be big.

The day of the game, Stan met us at the school. I remember us milling around the school's circular drive, waiting until it was time to head down to the stadium. Affable and charming, Mr. Musial made his way around our group, seeking out every child, asking questions and beaming. I watched this charity stroll warily from the curb, trying to get a feel for this strange legend who set the parents exclaiming and the school's nuns chattering. Anonymity was not to be, however. A sharp fingernail poked me in the back and a Kodak Instamatic fell into my hands. "Go on," said my giddy mother, "Get a picture," and gave me a shove off the curb and into The Man's path. Feeling every awkward angle in my gawky 11-year old bones, I reluctantly looked up. "Mr. Musial, will you take a picture with me?" My eyes came to rest on a warm, smiling face and sparkling eyes. "Of course I'll take a picture with you. I'd be delighted," and he handed the camera to my mother.

At that moment, my unease vanished. I knew, somehow, down to my core, that here in front of me was a rare, real person, unblemished by any reserve, ulterior motive, or subterfuge. Charity appearance be damned. Stan was genuinely happy to be taking us to a game, and it showed.

We had a wonderful time at the opener. For me, a small-town girl, the massive ring of Busch Stadium and the spectacle of Major League Baseball left me open-mouthed. Our seats were at first base, the sunshine was warm, the outfield was green, and I had never tasted hot dogs so good. And throughout it all, there was Stan.

I love Major League games. I love the crowd, the lights, the expanse of the outfield, the peanuts, hotdogs, and the hitch in your breath when you realize a foul ball's coming your way. I love to watch the groundspeople groom the infield dirt. I love squeeze plays, pinch hitters, double plays, and yelling at the umpire. I love the 7th-inning stretch, stolen bases, and knuckleballs.

Wherever you are, Stan. . .Thank you for the Game.