Star Struck
Nine o’clock, sitting in the cold gray sludge of a Saturday morning, waiting for Irish to walk out to the car from her slumber party. El Oso, our escort into the city, dropped us off at the corner of North 4th and Chestnut. He would spend his day with Puck hiking around a frozen lake, stuffing buttered popcorn at the movies, and hunting out one-dollar James Herriot copies at the local mall. While this was an awesome way to do “guys time”, Irish and I had other plans.
Cardinals Winter Warm Up at the Hyatt Regency.
It had been two years since Lance Berkman signed a baseball for my son on an equally cold January day. And this time, it was Irish’s turn to explore the fan-crazed world of snaking autograph lines, discount baseball cards, and cash-only lunch buffets.
We squeezed into two vacant seats three rows back from the front. About twenty minutes in, I got the felted feather finger of Fredbird in my right ear. He thinks he’s a pretty funny bird. Irish, who avoided any such absurd poultry-based interactions, and who had also lost about six or seven hours of quality sleep the night before, nodded off a couple of times, her head falling to the side before she caught herself.
It was after twelve. We needed sustenance after two hours of auctions and Q&A. We followed the red line of also-hungry visitors past more tables stacked with merchandise. A vendor leaned over her counter to someone behind us. “You should have seen this place when Yadi walked in. People lost their mindz.”
During ham/beef and American on disintegrating rolls, Irish and I discussed the zoo-like atmosphere of watching baseball stars sign autographs. Thousands of St. Louisans unashamedly observing the wild creatures in their unnatural habitat.
“Adam Wainwright would be a giraffe. Of course.”
“Yadi would be a panda. Definitely a panda.”
“Who would be the ostrich?”
“Pete Kozma. Or maybe he’d be a peacock.”
We ended this allegory after record-breaking chow-down in a carpeted corner of the floor by a baby grand – overspill is definitely an issue in this crazy city – tossed half-empty plastic boxes in the trash, and returned for Rick Horton and a couple more star struck hours.
Then … we saw the baseball cards, luring us with their sirenish songs down the escalator. I refuse to even enter that world of no return. But Irish just couldn’t resist the call of destiny. One Jon Jay t-shirt, one Jon Jay photograph, and two Jon Jay baseball cards later, we packed our bags to go.
Another batch of collared shirt baseball rock stars putting in their 400 signatures for a good cause. I’m sure it made them appreciate a quiet post season all the more.
Under smudged blue glass sky dropping rain and mixed snow, we returned to civilian life. Chinese. Comedy. Until Round Two on Sunday.