My first recollection of Major League Baseball as a kid growing up on the East Side of The Mississippi River was 1944; It was noteworthy that year considering it was the one and only time St. Louis saw its two Major League Clubs, the 'Browns' and 'Cardinals' square off in a World Series, which saw the Cardinals' capture the Championship in a Facility shared but both teams: Sportsman's Park. I must admit, my memory of the series is vague at best but then, I was only 5-years old. Two years later, I recall a bit more detail when my Redbirds beat the Boston Red Sox for the World Series Title. Throughout the remainder of the 1940's and the '50's decade, I would be that avid baseball kid living thirty minutes from the Sportsman's Park and later Busch Stadium. I found my way to games frequently at the drop of the hat. I would ride buses and streetcars and use my Knothole Membership Card to gain admission for mere cents. Bleacher seats in the 1950's were about .75 cents, second tier seats around $1.25 and box seats somewhere between $5 and $10. I attended most games with my dad who insisted we'd get to the stadium hours before game time to watch and study idiosyncrasies of players taking batting and infield practices.
I noticed mostly men wearing white shirts and often neckties while sporting Fedora's and straw hats. Younger groups of teen were hawking autographs before and after games; players were mostly accommodating in those days. I do recall the frequent 'push' by ownership to court the female fan with its 'Ladies Day' promotions. It seemed those yesterday fans came to the park to watch baseball as opposed to eating and drinking. Cracker Jacks cost around .15 cents a box. I note today endless numbers of vendors selling a bottle of water for $6 and a bottle of beer for $9.
These days, I don't hurry to the ball park because I can't watch batting practice. I can watch a bunch of strangers being introduced in conjunction with some promotional. My parking cost around $20, the box seat runs about $100, and should I eat a hot dog and drink a beer, I'm looking at about $15 bucks.
Speaking of 'money,' in 1951, I watched Cardinals' outfielder, Enos Slaughter sprint hard to and from his right field position between innings; Slaughter was earning $25,000.00 a year. In 2018, I'll watch the $3 million-a-year player jog to his position. I won't see the likes of Bob Gibson or Don Drysdale going the pitching distance of nine innings in a 2-hour 25-minute game but instead, I will sit through a 3-hour and 15-minute game and watch a parade of some seven pitching changes.
The fans around me will go nuts when the fireworks go off after a home run but won't understand the stupidity and selfishness of a player not moving a runner over, swinging for the fence at the first pitch in the ninth inning when trailing by three runs or a batter failing to get a sacrifice bunt down.
All th said, I wait eagerly for opening day. I'll watch as many games as possible, glued to my television or at the stadium. Why? Because once more I'm a kid again playing the game I loved with my buddies. I'm that kid again sitting next to my Dad on a hot-muggy St. Louis night recalling his mentoring comments. I'm that kid again; that kid that never left my mind. PLAY BALL!
(Touch)
I'm Talkin' Baseball...Baseball in St. Lou
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