Buy me some peanuts and craaaacker jacks

Long overdue - the WORLD SERIES POSTAROONI!
Nick had been buttering up his colleague at work ever since he learned that this guy's wife worked in ticketing for Nike. Once the Cardinals advanced on Thursday, Nick and I were scrutinizing flights and frequent flier miles. By Friday night late we had tickets to Game 3 of the WS, the first game played in St. Louis. (Games 1 and 2 were in Detroit.) By Saturday morning, we had plane tickets to St. Louis.

So on Tuesday morning, we jetted off to St. Louis, arriving at 4:30 among hordes of red-clad men pumping fists and ballgloves in the air. Wake picked us up (while bumpin' to Biggie - total bonus points), took us home, fed us a beer, and packed us onto the train to Busch Stadium.

We were not prepared for the wattage and advertising that awaited us.

As I elbowed small children out of the way, we entered the turnstyles - complimentary Taco Bell ticket necklaces, thanks! - and waddled toward the beer and hot dog stand. Since we spent $zero to get to the Series, we felt completely at ease blowing money on the beer selection, which consisted of: Bud, Bud Light, and Bud Select (whatever that is). I treasured the plastic cup with the Cards emblem on the side.

We climbed and climbed to our top deck seats. I even called my dad to say, "can you see that Bud Light sign embedded in the upper deck? we are 20 feet diagonally up and left from there!" Later I realized that the upper deck is not visible from the television perspective at all. Not even the flyover shots. But - unbeatable view of the arch and later, the F-16s that buzzed the stadium to commence the game. No kidding - we could see the underbelly of the war jets far too clearly, as the afterburner roar rung in our cantilevered deckroof and blotted out the national anthem for a minute or two.

To the game: as many of you know, the Cards CRUSHED. Tigers barely got off a hit or two, Cards had dramatic plays while Tigers flubbed basics. My favorite, catcher Yadier Molina, slammed a few into outerspace. No homers, but some sweet line drives.

But as to what it was like to experience that game?: cold. happy with beer. confused about the uber-patriotism that has enveloped baseball rituals. God Bless America for the seventh inning stretch? American flags, colors, country singers, huge trucks, commercialization of everything with a flat face, John Cougar Mellencamp's new classic that seems to whitewash the dark side of his other famous song about the U.S.A., Pink Houses? (PS. If you ever need to be reminded of the awesomeness of a freezeframe John Cougar punching at the camera in Jack and Diane video, click here.)

At least guys still walked up the stadium steps and sold us roasted peanuts and cracker jacks with toys inside. And some maniac organ player from the local church pounded away at the keys between the innings, during a talk at the mound, whenever = just as a little flutter to fill space and keep our spirits up. We even had the pleasure of sitting in front of some hilarious, drunk guys. We snuck a photo, here on the right. He was making this high-pitched squealing noise as the photo was taken.

As you can see, our seats were far from the action, but with the bright lights we could see the ball well enough to grumble about an ump call at the plate.

And as this guy's high pitched "eeeee" was meant to mean: CARDS ARE #1 BABY!