This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, Jan. 20, 2013 - I loved my father. But there was a time when I wished Stan Musial was my dad. Stan actually had a son named Dick. Just like me. So it made my dream all the more palpable.
Besides, dad was terrible at playing at catch. He couldn't pick the ball out of the dirt where I usually threw it. And when it went over his head a couple of times, he'd call it a day. Playing catch with Stan would have been -- to use an expression from my father's generation -- the cats pajamas.
I never shared that secret wish with my father, but he would not have felt betrayed. He cultivated my worship of Stan.
I do not have perfect recall of my first day at the ballpark with my father at the stadium at Grand and Dodier, but I am sure Stan was there. It was probably 1957, and already Stan was the Man with the classic corkscrew stance that every St. Louis child from 6 to 16 would emulate.
Each time Stan would come to the plate, there would not be just polite applause or rally clapping but an ovation. Many would stand. Then my dad would recall for me why Stan was so special. How he hit five home runs and amassed 21 total bases a few years earlier in an Ebbets Field doubleheader, the lifetime average well north of .330; the multiple MVP awards, the All-Star Game appearances, the World Series in 1942 and 1946.
Stan was just one of many legends my father told me about. Dad was eight when the Cardinals won their first World Series in 1926. He kept the scorecards from all the big games and left them to me. Tonight I went into the file drawer and found one from the seventh game of the ’46 series, the one made famous by Enos Slaughter’s mad dash from first to home on a single that won the game and the series. And you can see where my dad penciled in Stan’s contribution.
If I couldn’t be Stan’s son, I could surely follow in his footsteps. I got lousy grades in grade school and scored low when it came to deportment as well. I told both my mom and dad that it didn’t matter much because I was going to be the next Stan Musial.
What could a parent say to that except that Stan certainly would not behave that way. And the great thing is that Stan (though he didn’t attend college and probably wasn’t an A student) certainly did not behave that way on any day of his 92 years as far as anyone in this world ever knew. Here was a hero you could safely bank on. (Is there not some kind of Cardinal karmic significance in Stan stealing the limelight from a certain athlete who confessed his sins to Oprah on cable television this week?)
Many aficionados say that Stan was among the least appreciated superstars. And among the least appreciated feats was his ability to hit triples, one of the most exciting plays in baseball. Stan once said triples gave him more satisfaction than homeruns because it put him in competition with an outfielder who was running down the ball and trying to get off a throw.
So here’s my triple with Stan.
I first met Stan in the dugout on picture night sometime in the late ‘50s or early 60s. Kids would get to take their Brownie cameras and walk into the dugout and shoot any player they wanted. Of course, everyone wanted Stan, and maybe not so much Wilmer “Vinegar Bend” Mizell (my second favorite). I didn’t take a picture of Stan. I just gawked.
The second time I met Stan was in a restaurant. I think it was someplace quite fancy like the Olive Garden. By this time, I was a dad. If memory serves, my daughter was a little too shy to approach him, but I thought nothing of interrupting his dinner and asking for an autograph. Stan always kept postcard-sized glossies of himself just for wags like me. He’d sign and give you one – for free – just for the asking. He did that for me and was happy to exchange pleasantries. (Stan would later get into the memorabilia business but never with the mercenary zeal that some former superstars displayed.)
And the third time was in the ‘90s when I was features editor at the Post-Dispatch and had a grand idea of juxtaposing baby pictures with current photos of St. Louis stars. Stan had me over to his house off Litzsinger Road. He and his wife, Lil, not only came up with the pictures, but also showed me around their home, regaled me with stories about the time he met the pope and hung out with author James A. Michener. This had nothing to do with my story, but everything to do with being a gracious host. As we parted, Stan gave me a harmonica to give to one of my kids, a breach of journalistic ethics for me to accept, but one for which I have managed to forgive myself.
Just about every adult baseball fan in St. Louis has a warm Stan Musial story to share. He was that accessible and that kind.
The harmonica was nice, but the best gift from Stan is that I cannot think about The Man without remembering my father, who introduced me to Stan.