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I love to wax nostalgic about 1985.
You see, 1985 was my official summer of love (for baseball and a girl).
Twice in the last month during the Major League Baseball playoffs I’ve heard analysts mentioned something pertaining to the 1985 Kansas City Royals, the last professional baseball champion the city has known.
The latest was Monday during a live segment ESPN’s SportsCenter. Sports anchor Sage Steele’s report on the Philadelphia Phillies trying to regroup from a 3 games-to-1 World Series deficit to the New York Yankees stated: “The last team to come back from a 3-1 World Series deficit and win was the 1985 Kansas City Royals.”
In both instances the mention of 1985 and the Kansas City Royals stirred emotions inside of me about a time I’ve always cherished.
It was the summer of ‘85 and I was an 11-year-old living with my mother and 13-year-old brother in St. Louis when my mother decided to move from a two-bedroom apartment on the city’s south side to a spanking new government-subsidized three-bedroom townhouse on James “Cool Papa” Bell Street in North St. Louis.
Although we would finally have separate bedrooms, my brother and I were both hesitant about the move because we knew it would be a problem being from South St. Louis living in a North St. Louis neighborhood. Nevertheless, mom made the move and off we were to spend the next six years of our lives.
That first day on “Cool Papa” was unforgettable. I saw the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in the first 11 years of my life. I was instantly taken. She was tall by a girl’s standard, had a caramel complexion and wore her hair in pigtails draped by big, bright bowrettes that were popular at the time.
I called it love at first sight. My older brother Antoine laughed at me for a while that day. He called me all kind of “sucker-for-love” names.
Ironically, we had moved next door to a family of seven that had one boy who was a true St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan. We hit it off instantly.
I mean, I had been a Cardinal fan since 1982, but this guy – my good friend, Craig Jolly – was a diehard. He introduced me to a side of baseball that I had never known – a side of being a true fan.
We analyzed stats, collected, read and stocked baseball cards and made it a point to follow the Cardinals religiously in the local daily.
Now the girl – I can’t really remember her name – had a hold on me. Because of extreme shyness, I never approached her about my feelings. In my youthful mind, she was going to be my girl one day and we’d both fall in love.
It was puppy love at its finest. Baseball and the Cardinals were my only solace for not being able land the girl of my dreams.
Anyway, the Cardinals were in a heated pennant race with the “pond-scum” New York Mets and the dreaded Chicago Cubs. The Redbirds outlasted their familiar National League East foes that year and pulled a mild upset of the Los Angles Dodgers to advance to the World Series.
My good friend Craig and I followed the whole pennant race by listening to KMOX radio, watching local telecasts, reading newspaper accounts and personally attending 16 ballgames that summer. By my recollection, the Cardinals lost just one of those games.
It was the time of my life. Ruined only by the Royals’ World Series comeback and the invariable pre-teen heartbreak. Don Denkinger and “The Call” aside, I appreciated the Royals’ championship. I long for the day for a repeat of an I-70 World Series.
Don’t get me wrong, interleague play is great, but there was nothing better than when the world title was on the line in ‘85 and the Show-Me State was at the center of the baseball universe.
And I was in love.
I love to wax nostalgic about 1985.
You see, 1985 was my official summer of love (for baseball and a girl).
Twice in the last month during the Major League Baseball playoffs I’ve heard analysts mentioned something pertaining to the 1985 Kansas City Royals, the last professional baseball champion the city has known.
The latest was Monday during a live segment ESPN’s SportsCenter. Sports anchor Sage Steele’s report on the Philadelphia Phillies trying to regroup from a 3 games-to-1 World Series deficit to the New York Yankees stated: “The last team to come back from a 3-1 World Series deficit and win was the 1985 Kansas City Royals.”
In both instances the mention of 1985 and the Kansas City Royals stirred emotions inside of me about a time I’ve always cherished.
It was the summer of ‘85 and I was an 11-year-old living with my mother and 13-year-old brother in St. Louis when my mother decided to move from a two-bedroom apartment on the city’s south side to a spanking new government-subsidized three-bedroom townhouse on James “Cool Papa” Bell Street in North St. Louis.
Although we would finally have separate bedrooms, my brother and I were both hesitant about the move because we knew it would be a problem being from South St. Louis living in a North St. Louis neighborhood. Nevertheless, mom made the move and off we were to spend the next six years of our lives.
That first day on “Cool Papa” was unforgettable. I saw the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in the first 11 years of my life. I was instantly taken. She was tall by a girl’s standard, had a caramel complexion and wore her hair in pigtails draped by big, bright bowrettes that were popular at the time.
I called it love at first sight. My older brother Antoine laughed at me for a while that day. He called me all kind of “sucker-for-love” names.
Ironically, we had moved next door to a family of seven that had one boy who was a true St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan. We hit it off instantly.
I mean, I had been a Cardinal fan since 1982, but this guy – my good friend, Craig Jolly – was a diehard. He introduced me to a side of baseball that I had never known – a side of being a true fan.
We analyzed stats, collected, read and stocked baseball cards and made it a point to follow the Cardinals religiously in the local daily.
Now the girl – I can’t really remember her name – had a hold on me. Because of extreme shyness, I never approached her about my feelings. In my youthful mind, she was going to be my girl one day and we’d both fall in love.
It was puppy love at its finest. Baseball and the Cardinals were my only solace for not being able land the girl of my dreams.
Anyway, the Cardinals were in a heated pennant race with the “pond-scum” New York Mets and the dreaded Chicago Cubs. The Redbirds outlasted their familiar National League East foes that year and pulled a mild upset of the Los Angles Dodgers to advance to the World Series.
My good friend Craig and I followed the whole pennant race by listening to KMOX radio, watching local telecasts, reading newspaper accounts and personally attending 16 ballgames that summer. By my recollection, the Cardinals lost just one of those games.
It was the time of my life. Ruined only by the Royals’ World Series comeback and the invariable pre-teen heartbreak. Don Denkinger and “The Call” aside, I appreciated the Royals’ championship. I long for the day for a repeat of an I-70 World Series.
Don’t get me wrong, interleague play is great, but there was nothing better than when the world title was on the line in ‘85 and the Show-Me State was at the center of the baseball universe.
And I was in love.
