It was the World Series clinching game in 2006.
Packed like a can of sardines, we sat in the cramped upper deck.
Chilled to the bone by a breeze that was a windmill and freezer combined,
Engulfed by a sea of red, the stadium was filled with 45,000 fans.
Smells of victory mixed with grilled onions in the air,
Exhilarated with the scene, I sat on the edge of my seat.
In between my parents, I was squeezed like a hot dog in a bun.
Waving the rally towels, the crowd jumped to its feet,
Some of the most hyper fans I’ll ever meet.
‘Twas the ninth inning,
Scoring two runs, the opposing team had cut the lead in half.
Rubbing the baseball, the Cards’ pitcher fired home.
The player’s bat swung about.
Shouting “You’re out!” the umpire waved his hands in the air.
The Cardinals win! The Cardinals win!
My parents, two people with frozen brows,
They crushed me with hugs and high fives.
That day will be remembered forever like my first day of kindergarten.