Happy Birthday, Stan the Man

Happy 89th birthday to a St. Louis treasure

by Bernie Miklasz

Eighty-nine years ago today, Stanislaw Francizek Musial was born in Donora, a small mining town in western Pennsylvania. His father Lukasz, a Polish immigrant, almost immediately began to call the boy "Stashu."

Later, after the young Musial had grown up to become one of the greatest baseball hitters who ever lived, he'd be known by another nickname in every ballpark in America: "The Man."

When he retired in 1963, Musial owned 17 major-league records, 29 National League records, nine All-Star Game records. If you grew up in St. Louis, by now you know the math, which is so familiar that it must have been taught in the public and private schools: seven-time batting champion, a three-time MVP, and a 24-time All-Star, .331 batting average, 3,630 hits, 475 homers.

In St. Louis, Musuial is an icon and a treasure and our most beloved citizen. And given all of the impromptu harmonica concerts he's given through the decades, Musial probably ranks second on the list (to Chuck Berry) of our most famous musicians.

Musial represents a sweeter time in America and a softer, gentler side of our sporting culture. He never turned down an autograph and was always a gentleman to his fans. He didn't draw his hitting prowess from a syringe. Baseball wasn't a job; it was a reason to smile.

The Man isn't as nimble as he used to be, and he's cut down on travel. Every now and then a rumor goes around that Musial is enduring a serious illness, and is in trouble. But it turns out to be a false alarm, and Stan bounces back again, just as he did in 1962, when he batted .330 after a lot of folks thought he was done.

Musial is doing amazingly well. He still goes to the office of Stan the Man Inc. every weekday to be with his friend and business manager, Dick Zitzmann. Musial stays for an hour or two, signing autographs and opening mail that's arrived from around the world. And then Zitzmann and Musial usually head to lunch.

Three or four times a week, Stan and Lil — his extraordinary bride of 69 years — go out to dinner. Sure, The Man has his share of bad days, but he's rarely scratched from the lineup. The brightness of his eyes hasn't dimmed, and the laughter hasn't stopped.

"I'm often asked what keeps Stan going," Zitzmann said. "The answer is, 'People.' He just enjoys being around people. He lights up. Stan loves his fans as much as they love him."

So today Stan and Lil will celebrate his 89th birthday with family members and close friends. There will be terrific food, and a beautiful birthday cake, and lots of memories.

And Musial, as always, will be surrounded by love.

Which means it will be a perfect birthday.

Has any athlete — ever — felt as much love, and given as much love, as Stan Musial? There will never be another like him.

Every new day with Stan Musial is a blessing. Happy birthday, Stan

Visiting

I may be a tourist, but at least I am a tourist who walks fast, stays out of the way, and knows how to use public transportation.

I'm just sayin'.

But then again, given that a fair number of establishments here can also be found at Disney World, maybe it's too much to expect visitors to act any different. Just an observation.

Not that I don't love the Chicago part of Chicago, as my resident friend once described it. Except for the sports teams, it's got so much goin' for it if I'd ended up here as part of that twenty-something Midwest tour, I don't think I'd ever have gotten home.

Another life, perhaps.

Meanwhile, it's time to head back to where the pizza is cracker-thin and the public transportation is non-existent. I'm looking forward to being there, too.

An ass-centric (or is that ass-oteric) list of What Mary Learned in St. Louis

As a variation on my sporadic travelogue Top Tens, a list compiled from an old friend's return home from The Big City:

1. Corn husks are not for eatin'.

2. Sometimes you have to touch the bellybutton to get what you want.

3. Ass crack is back.

4. American League? Vote for the Canadians.

5. The International Space Station is, believe it or not, in Space.

6. Two shower heads are not, after all, better than one.

7. The bartender at The Tin Can does everything half-assed. Literally.

8. "I'm a brother, as you can see."

9. Cinco de Mayo is Spanish for, "the cab is never gonna come."

10. Something funnier, but I forget.

Packers 2009

There was once a day when I reserved a Green Bay hotel room for every home game once the schedule came out. I just wanted to ensure lodging for the one game I would eventually attend.

Perhaps it's a sign of the post-Favre times that I barely took notice when the schedule came out today. Or, more likely, it's a sign of my enthusiasm that my son will reach the top of the season ticket waiting list in his late 50s, which will be the new 30s by then. That I'll require a handicapped seat is actually a plus!

More immediately, I'm sure tempted by the Bishop's Charity Game on Aug. 22 when Freddy Jackson and the Buffalo Bills visit Lambeau Field. Though, damn, I've seen enough real games that preseason football doesn't much appeal to me, Freddy is likely to see a lot of action as he looks to be the Bills' starter at running back for (at least) the first three real games.

Then again, I saw the Coe College product excel in a real game last season in Kansas City. Buffalo returns to Kansas City in mid-December, but it's the same day the Packers play in Chicago. Granted, I wasn't in Kansas City, but I didn't have any luck the last time I tried following the Packers in Missouri.

As for the Pack, they open at home against the Bears. Jay Cutler cuts his NFC Norris teeth at Lambeau Field. It's a nationally televised Sunday night game, which I'll be content to view from my couch in high-def.

Then it's Bengals (no), Lions (NO!), Vikings (hmm), Cowboys (HMM!, but nationally televised, so, no), 49ers (ho-hum), Ravens (Monday Night Football!), and Seattle (no more). Maybe I'll reconsider my pre-season opposition.

The road schedule offers two national telecasts. A Monday nighter at the (former) Dome of Doom in Minnesota and Thanksgiving in Detroit. (Guess I should host this year.)

Road games within reach include St. Louis in late September and Chicago in mid-December.

But, wait. The "regular" season ends Jan. 3 at Arizona. Bet it's a lot warmer there then it will be here.

Finally, Progress at Ballpark Village

I suppose those footprints could be CGI too, just as I expect a computer-generated cityscape to be broadcast this summer when Busch hosts the All-Star game. I mean surely we won't show the nation a ditch full of stagnant water where we were promised shops and restaurants would be. I guess time will tell. But in the meantime, snow sure makes everything look better, doesn't it?

And so it begins

Happy Holidays from InBev.

Insult to injury

Having previously documented my possibly irrational feelings regarding the end of A-B as we know it, I won't revisit why the close of this merger is a sad day in these parts. It's just a St. Louis thing, same as toasted ravs and a gaping hole where a stadium once stood. But anyone with eyes can surely share my offense at what they have done to the logo!

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Wow.

We stood on the sidewalk and watched. And the people just kept coming. And coming. And coming. "This line does have an end, right?" said some guy as he headed past. We would have smiled at him, but we already were. We knew we were part of something amazing. (And we were glad to be at least a little ahead.)

Retirees with beauty-shop hair stood with tough-looking workers who stood with college kids who stood with polo-and-khakis-yuppies who stood with old guys in ball caps who stood with couples of all combinations who stood with thousands and thousands of families in a line that stretched for at least a mile's worth of blocks until we all poured through the abandoned security gates to the sloping lawn under the arch. My, "Wow," was not a solo, and I can't be alone in saying it was like nothing I've ever experienced. Oh, I've been in that crowd in that spot, for a concert or a fireworks view, but the attitude was entirely different. It was peaceful anticipation and by God, it was hope. It was seeing the phenomenon for ourselves. Feeling the possibility. It was a great day, a great memory for a girl and her mom. Now here's hoping all those folks go VOTE.

How sweet it is!

My fantasy football team is 4-0 and on a serious scoring binge with no signs of stopping. My Dodgers have all-but crushed the souls of Cubs fans and are poised to win their first playoff series since magical 1988. And someone I know, who is only the best against-all-odds story in the NFL, scored his first NFL touchdown Sunday for the Buffalo Bills as they rolled over the hapless St. Louis Hams. I wish someone would post his 22-yard run to paydirt on YouTube. For now, this will have to do.

The bitter end

While my blogmate was dancing in the dark at a Bruce Springsteen concert, I was drafting a fantasy football juggernaut. Meanwhile, my former college professor was decomposing in an Iowa City park. She wins this Saturday night, but I'll gladly take the silver.

Type rest of the post here

The Boss

So that's how it got started, with a song that hadn't been played in concert--according to those who know such things, and believe me, there are plenty who know--since August 23, 1975: how's that for symmetry? And then 3 hours and 15 minutes later--29 songs, including a nine song encore--including three after the song that's always last, except when it's not--it was over. Except for the three hours we subsequently spent with a couple of his traveling fans. Amazing's not even the word. And now I've got a ticketbastard page open for tonight's show in KC. I mean, I could almost make it home in time to get up for work.

In other pointless football news

Oh, sure, the Olympics are on TV, but so, finally, is football. At least football of a sort-- in my neck of the woods, the Hams are at the Titans tonight, or at least most of them are. Steven Jackson, freak of nature running back for the St. Louis franchise, is holding out. Despite being under contract, he hasn't attended one day of training camp, and now has missed the first pre-season game. I don't care either and won't belabor the details, but, hold on, here's the good part: at the same time he's a no-show, Jackson's appearing in a public service announcement for the beleaguered city schools--encouraging kids to attend. "In order to get in the game, you have to be there," Jackson urges. He is not, for the record, a college graduate.

home brew

The brainwashing has been very effective. That's just about all I can come up with. Perhaps, I posit, this is the same kind of primal thinking that kept the serfs from killing their lords. Because it's not about flag-waving, it's not about money, it's not even about the beer. But to a person, every local I talk to has the same, dead-serious, gut-level reaction to the notion of our brewery being sold.

It's just wrong.

We realize, of course, that, technically, Anheuser-Busch is a multi-billion dollar corporation owned by countless shareholders, the vast majority of whom have never set foot in St. Louis, Missouri. We fail to grasp the relevance.

We understand that the Clydesdales and Grant's Farm and even the brewery tour (which some of us haven't even taken) are just marketing gimmicks. We don't care.

We know that the Gussie is dead, and baseball team has been owned by a different bunch of rich guys for a while now, and the stadium will be called something else whenever a higher bid comes in. We choose not to think about it.

It's all just part of the place we call home. I could attempt to explain it more fully, if you're ever in the neighborhood. I've got Fat Tire, and Landshark, and Shlafly's Pale Ale (a real local beer), and something called Trinity that I haven't even tried yet, and thus supplied I'm sure we could come up with an excellent explanation of the psychology behind these imaginary ties that bind.

Media whores

I've been out of the news business a dozen years now, but I still have friends at the locally owned daily newspaper. I have a great appreciation for their plight, though I'm not often kind about their product.

One of these friends blogged about last night's gotcha debate on ABC. This is admirable when you consider that the newspaper company also owns a television station, in fact they occupy the same downtown block. KCRG is an ABC affiliate.

It does my liberal media bias good to see journalists still willing to fight the good fight.

flying

"You can't get there from here," was literally true last week, at least if one were relying on silver jets stamped with red and blues As. Given that is nearly the only choice from our nearly monopolized airport, I sighed with retroactive relief that my need to fly came a little sooner, that I wasn't stranded or abandoned and actually enjoyed my time in the air. A first class surprise in the back of the plane.

On the way East I scored an aisle to myself and an old fashioned pilot who told us which earthen crisscrosses were which cities as viewed from thirty thousand feet. Two hours of nothing; a beautiful break. I smiled as the Indian couple across the aisle lit up with excitement upon our descent, but you know I only saw them because I was comparing that window to mine. A skyline, a statue, even the sporting highlights of Queens--Flushing Meadows, the old and new homes of the baseball pond scum--and the globe from the 1964 World's Fair. A tourist before I even stepped off of the plane.

The journey west offered neither view nor solitude, but in the end it was my favorite, maybe of any trip on any aircraft. My neighbor was going to sleep or write some music, and I was going to watch some trashy Showtime on the pretty iPod, but since we never stopped talking, none of that happened. I don't recall how we started.

I do admit that somewhere in there the classic St. Louis question, “Where did you go to high school?” did get asked. That verbal tic, that habit, that regional compulsion is supposed to be an easy way to peg who someone is, what they’re about. And to me it does seem natural, though obviously it’s imperfect and backwards, meaningless except when it’s not. I am not, after all, a Wood River girl, except that, somewhere in there, I am. It informs how I think of things, what I appreciate, what I know is out there. Despite the fact that I do not now, have not ever, and will not in the future perm my hair, drink Busch beer, or go to the tractor pull. I know the flaws in the system.

But what other possible follow-up is there to a mention of graduating both from an exclusive college and in the bottom half of his high school class? When he sheepishly answered with an expensive acronym, he expected me to know it, and I did. "That explains it," I said, both a conclusion and a tease. When he insisted I give up my high school alma mater in exchange, I was slow to answer because I knew he wouldn't know it, and he didn't, specifically, though he congratulated me for having all my teeth. The other side of the river, after all, remains just a set of assumptions for the privileged and otherwise well-traveled in my part of the world. And yet somehow we had ended up on the same wavelength and the disparity in where we came from and are didn't seem to matter much at all. Interesting.

Or maybe not so interesting, in the scheme of things, that a 24 year-old kid and someone nearly old enough to have been his teen mother had a conversation both compelling and fun from take-off to landing. The Venn diagram of politics and social attitudes we created would have nothing larger to say than a hot shot software architect and a suburban teacher had more in common than the demographers would presume. Smart people become liberal and interested in the world. Some boys are ahead of the curve. Underestimating my age by eight years is charming. Save all the details I'll randomly remember, that's probably the sum of it, though by any calculation a far a better answer than a silent flip through the Sky Mall and a half-hearted gaze at some TV on a tiny little screen.

Opening Day '08

When the parking scalper hands you back money, take it as a sign. Or better yet, advice. And find somewhere else to put your car, regardless of the hour or the scarcity of spaces. Because otherwise you may find yourself saying, "I wouldn't mind sticking around to see if they play, but I'm afraid my car, assuming I can find it again, may be starting to sink." Take it from the girl in the plastic bag poncho.

No harm, no foul, not even a game, officially. But it was Opening Day, and I saw what I came for, even if I had to learn never to park quite that far under the highway again--especially in a rainout. What is it with this downtown and its near total lack of solid pavement? My friend and I had a fine time, once we were soaked to the skin, concocting the Cardinals' next slogan--Catch the Fever! Yellow Fever!--as we sloshed through the concrete gullies that surround the stadium and pictured the coming mosquitos, but perhaps it seemed more contagious to us in the same way that an $8.5o margarita seems like a better deal than a $9 beer.

But that was later. After the Clydesdales. After the ushers greeting, "Welcome back to Busch." After the motorcade, after the crowd cheered for "Louuuuuuuuuuuuu." After Red Schoendienst bumped knuckles with players too young to be his grandkids, after Mr. Stan Musial, God love him, appeared and took swings. A crowd roused and contented by local traditions, common marvels. Bob Gibson, 40 years past 1.12, looking like a human dare to those anonymous pitchers. A local boy taking his first steps onto a major league field as a pro and as a Cardinal, family and friends and 50,000 well-wishers in the stands. A first pitch thrown out with a Missouri FOOTBALL (if only it had sailed over the plate).

What more could we ask for? Oh yes, the baseball. And for three innings we had some. Line drives. A sweet catch. A walk on four balls, naturally. A Pujols home run. Technically, none of it counts, and they'll try it again tomorrow, and then 161 more times. I won't return for the do-over, though my ticket is good. I'm going out of town, and I've too much to do. But that's okay; I'll give it away and won't feel I missed much. This was Opening Day, and I saw everything I wanted to see: I got everything I came for.

all ballpark no village

"They paved paradise and put up a parking lot,"or so the lyrics go. If only! Maybe next year, for the All-Star game. Won't that be a sight. On the verge of three seasons later, there's but a tax-abated ditch where once the real Busch stood. Standing water. Broken concrete. And yet another intended tenant made yesterday's headlines by backing out of the seemingly imaginary Ballpark Village. "Why can't we have anything nice around here?" is one oh, so St. Louis question--we kinda love to have a complex, even more than a downtown "plan"--but mostly I wonder how those hotels in the foreground get away with charging extra for the view.

Rites of Spring

Maybe I should start a dead pool. Odds are I could collect, given that the Cardinals seem to be picking up right where they left off:

IRVINE, Calif. (AP) - Utilityman Scott Spiezio was cut by the St. Louis Cardinals on Wednesday, released after being charged in a six-count complaint involving drunken driving and assault in a December car crash.

I mean, I had no idea that it were possible to be charged with a circumstantial DUI six weeks later, but if there's bad judgment to be accountable for he should by rights remain a Cardinal, given that this is a team willfully entering a season with no pitching and a formerly power hitting first baseman whose right arm cannot fully be extended. Football, anyone?

hypemobile

Chicken Little went to work today, or perhaps he didn't. So the falling of the sky shall be postponed until tomorrow, or perhaps even Monday. At least that's what they're hoping. But it has to fall. It MUST fall. If it doesn't, what will they talk about? Is anything else going on in the world?

Here in my universe, a five mile stretch of a major East-West highway has been shut down for a year. A pain in the ass to be sure, though less of a personal aggravation that's next year's project, which will close a different five-mile stretch that I use quite a bit more often. In the meantime, though, the local media have been working up to a frenzy and and hinting of Armageddon. When they're not playing local PR machine and claiming that all will be fine. As long as one sells one's house or telecommutes or takes the fairly crappy public transit (don't eat or spit, they helpfully instructed us) or plots a daily commute by computerized trip planner that--this is my favorite--may, so sorry, still send one down the not-currently extant Highway 40. HA.

Today was Day One, and apparently there was no traffic to speak of. I'm sure the reporters nearly shed a tear, especially those sent out to ride empty West County buses at the crack of dawn. But, you know, vacation day. Eventually there will be traffic! Dammit! And we will hear all about it! Over and over and over. Or at least those who watch the news will. I've even given up on the traffic-and-weather-together reports during my own commute; in my car, it's all loud music, all the time. If I'm stuck in a jam, I don't need a guy in a helicopter to taunt me.

Besides, next week those unnecessary and obvious reports would just interrupt my flashbacks to Pope Day, back in '99, maybe, when the predictions of masses of pilgrims--as if this were South America and not Middle--and the accompanying traffic so backfired that no one came to see John Paul II, almost literally. I know this tv and newspaper freakout won't get me the surprise day off with pay that that one did, but a girl can dream.