Thanksgiving: Cardinals Manager Mike Shildt

This is another Thanksgiving post. It’s just me, sharing gratitude with the universe, or, at least, the Internet. Who are we thanking today?

Thank You, Cardinals Manager Mike Shildt

Dear Mike Shildt,

I rarely write fan letters to anyone. No, scratch that, I’ve never written a fan letter at all. But this is different. This time, it’s different.

I feel genuine heartache that the organization fired you, especially after that amazing winning streak at the end of the season. I have to admit I don’t know much more than what I read in various media, but I do know what it’s like to be let go of. The awful shock. And I know what it’s like to have a boss whose decisions and direction I disagree with. I also know what it’s like to have a boss who has your back, as well as what it’s like to have a boss who stabs you in the back. I know what it’s like to be in the middle, between the big boss and the people I manage.

I usually only listen to the ballgames over the radio (I much prefer it to TV), and I always make a point of listening to the postgame, and in your comments you always struck me as the kind of boss I’d like to have. No apologies, no blame, just a constant analysis and movement to the future, toward progress, improvement, growth.

You, and the players, did the best you could with the hand you’d been dealt (by fate and by the front office), and I’m sure your confidence in your players meant everything to the team.

When the pitchers were blitzed by injuries and the team was struggling to win games, a lot of people seemed to think your optimistic postgame comments were out of place, but longtime fans—and you, obviously—know that one of the secrets to winning is to rely on your strengths, and not to flail about, second-guess, and change things all the time. We knew you were waiting for reinforcements.

When certain players were not playing up to their historical levels, you didn’t (you probably couldn’t) send them away to the minor leagues. What could you do? I suspect your hands were tied. You didn’t have a limitless array of players.

It seems that when a team is losing, the coaches and managers get blamed, but when the team is winning, all credit goes to the players. And people are fond of pointing out a single misplay (on the field or as a managerial call) and use it to condemn someone who has otherwise done very well. That’s not fair. And if there’s one thing you seem to stand for, it’s fairness.

Even as the storms of injuries tossed the ship, you kept the ship’s wheel steady. When galley boys had to be brought up on deck to do the job of boatswain, your confidence enabled the youngsters to perform admirably (given the circumstances). That’s what a skipper’s supposed to do, and you did it well. No wonder the players like you.

I always enjoyed hearing your interviews. I enjoyed the games I heard; the team clearly improved with you as the manager. Of course, I really enjoyed that run at the end of the season. Amazing what happens when all the pieces are in place, and when reinforcements finally arrive.

During these pandemic years, listening to baseball has been a real godsend. We don’t go out like we used to, but having the game in our home summer evenings helped our minds and spirits to travel everywhere the Cardinals did.

In future seasons, I’ll keep thinking of your impact on the Cardinals, as players you scouted and coached continue to have long, fruitful careers. Development is a huge part of the Cardinals, and that’s one reason we’re so proud as fans.

You’re full of integrity; you’re everything a baseball manager and boss should be. You’re a class act. I know that some team will snatch you up, and that we’ll be seeing you coaching in another postseason, too. And soon. I wish you the best. Thank you.

Opening Day: Yay!

Hallelujah! Baseball is back! It’s a wonderful thing.

A few years ago, I didn’t follow it much, but in recent years I’ve made a point to listen to the Cardinals. My parents are lifelong fans, so I grew up hearing Jack Buck and Mike Shannon call the games, it seems, every summer night of my youth. I go back to being a kid, up to my elbows in suds at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes after supper. The windows would be open. The air would be humid and heavy, but blessedly a bit cooler. The sound of the ballgame formed an auditory tapestry with the sounds of katydids, whip-poor-wills, crickets, frogs, nighthawks, distant traffic on Mexico Gravel Road or Route B.

I grew up hearing stories about the great Cardinals of the 1940s, because they were the heroes of my Mom and Dad. Mom used to say she was named after Dizzy Dean, since her middle name was Dean. I heard about Marty Marion, Enos Slaughter, Mort and Walker Cooper, and Stan Musial. Whenever Mom needed to tell someone how to pronounce the “oe” in our name, she’d tell them, “It’s like Red Schoendienst.”

By the time I was old enough to start paying attention to the radio while we were driving home from Jeff City, I heard Buck and Shannon call out names like Lou Brock, Bob Gibson, and Keith Hernandez.

When I was in junior and senior high, everyone was excited about Willie McGee, Vince Coleman, Darrell Porter, John Tudor, Bruce Sutter, Bob Forsch, Jose Oquendo, and, of course, Ozzie Smith, the super-athletic 13-time Gold Glove-winning shortstop who always did back flips as the team dashed out onto the field at the start of the game. Of course we watched all the playoff and World Series games.

But I didn’t really follow the Cardinals. Not like my parents and my brother did.

There was a time when I was a kid that I used my mom’s old first-baseman glove (a Snag-Em model), or borrowed my brother’s glove, and played lots of catch in the backyard, mostly with my brother. I never got into it; I was not very good at catching, since my depth perception suffers from my amblyopia and alternating vision. Also, there were no teams for girls, so not really a way to get involved enough to improve. And with my growing sense of feminism, I started realizing that sportsball, at all levels, is all about boys and men, which is incredibly unfair.

I used to wonder why practically a third of every newspaper and every news broadcast is traditionally devoted to coverage of sports. Why not science? Why not the arts? Why sports, especially so much on professional sports? Why not include it in the business section?

But I’ve altered my opinion in recent years—hence my purposeful attention to the game. It’s a way for me to connect with my parents. It’s a way to connect with my past, and my region. And it’s just fun. I like to listen while I’m fixing dinner or doing the dishes, or (with ear buds) even mowing the lawn. We haven’t had a TV in ages, and I don’t miss it. Radio baseball fits my lifestyle better.

We've even made a point of driving to St. Louis or Kansas City at least once a year to catch a game, except for last year.

Last year’s lack of baseball was revealing. There was a huge empty space in the summer evenings. It was as if the crickets had stopped chirping. It was so quiet. Also, we needed the diversion. With all that happened with the pandemic, and all that stress—we really needed it for its entertainment value. It didn’t matter who won or lost—we just needed the diversion. It was a blessing when it returned, even if just for a brief, weird season.

I just makes me appreciate baseball even more. It’s a challenging, complicated, unpredictable, and generally nonviolent game. Those players are like our friends. Their success is our success. Their struggles, frustrations, and losses are ours, but fleeting. It can be so symbolic and uplifting. It can reflect a lot of what’s great about the human spirit, including our sense of fairness and sportsmanship.

I’m so glad it’s back!

Go Cards!

Dear Cleveland