Task for Tilo

and anyone else in this particular symposium. This Sunday, a week after one of the greatest professional sports days in Wisconsin history (thanks, Grandpa Dick), the NL Central champion Milwaukee Brewers will host their division rival St Louis Cardinals for the NL pennant and a trip to the World Series. All good thoughts to the Phillies, whom we saw this summer at Wrigley Field 'schooling' the Cubs, and perhaps the same to the Diamondbacks (just don't know these lesser-tradition teams), but this series is what the world wants to see. I'll borrow from Hamlet when he says,

"Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memories hold a seat
In this distracted globe" (I, v, 103-4).

The 'globe' is, of course, the south London theatre, the world (precursor to 'World Series') and--get ready!--the globe upon his, and everybody's, shoulders. His head! Sort of like Emily Dickinson's poem "The Brain is Wider than the Sky"...

My point is: this is big, bigger than labels like 'Battle of the Beers' or 'Suds Series'--in fact, I think in this post-industrial world we've come to understand cities as more than what they make. In 1982 Joe Vold was in- and out-of-character, pumping his fist in the Bejou co-op for the team he had only known in the radio abstract, imagining Musial and Brock before coming to Chicago to see Brock (at least) play at the friendly confines. Perhaps one influence to my career in literature was the aesthetic that Jose Cardinal--erstwhile St Louis outfielder--was traded to the Cubs and played hard against his launch-mates.... A cardinal becomes a cub.... And now Ryan Theriot will have a post-season life as a former cub cardinal.

Back to--where were we?--Joe Vold. If 1982 passed in pride and grace, the '87 series was tougher: somebody insidiously gave him a cap with a lopsided stuffed cardinal on its visor and dared him to wear it in north Twinkieland (no longer Bejou, now Boy River). He did, and perhaps felt accursed; the Cardinals won every game in the abstract Busch stadium, but nary a one in the fabled Metrodome. There was nothing artificial in the wins, if artificial turf had too much influence in both sides of 'home field': the Twins were the better team, as the speedsters of St Louis were going 'gently into that good night'...

So, Tilo (and Joey, who has an email invite to this site, and anyone else who wants to weigh in), be our scribe this series. We loved the legacy of Yount and Molitor, Stormin' Gorman and Cecil Cooper, Ben Oglive and Jim Ganter. We watched them hit into the Golden Gloves of Keith Hernandez and Ozzie Smith, and field the prowess of Porter, McGee and Lonnie Smith. We saw aces in Augustine, Vukovich, Andujar and Forsch. Games were saved by Sutter and Haas. Wisdom exuded from Fingers and Kaat. Kuenn and Herzog were firm at the helm.

Now what shall we do with our Morgans and Hart, our Braun and Prince Fielder, our Gallardo and Axford? How shall we write about Pujols and Molina, Berkman and Furcal, Carpenter and Salas? Is LaRussa the skipper that Roenicke is? Are wallbangers, base-stealers running this game?

I set you, dear Tilo, on top of this task. Burrow through Uncle Jon's Thirty Birds and you'll find more of the mythos...

And--Dad will forgive me--I'm pulling for the Brew Crew. Their time has come, and it won't be at the expense of the Redbirds, but rather to complement this most wonderful of American (National) traditions.

Uncle Dan