There
are certain moments that stick with us for the rest of our lives. Some of
the time we recognize these moments as we are living in them but even more of
these moments come and go without being registered consciously. My first
memories of Albert Pujols fall in the latter category. I can remember
running home from school that day and for good reason. April 2, 2001
brought with it the joy and breathless anticipation of opening day. Not
unlike every other year, this date was the true marker for the beginning of
summer for baseball fans everywhere. It was a day that held the promise
that warm days were only right around the corner.
On
this day, the name Pujols meant very little to me. In fact, I did a
double take when I saw such an odd name in the starting line-up. Who was
this guy? Where did he come from? How the hell do I pronounce that
“J” in the middle of his name? It did not take long before I figured out
not only how to pronounce his last name, but also that the player I was
watching mature was one of the most consistent and talented players the game
had ever seen. Over the years, my breath was taken away more than once by
his heroics. He would come up again and again with big hits against
pitchers that I otherwise believed to be untouchable, reinforcing the feeling
that the Cardinals always had a chance because they had the best player on the
field.
On
December 8, 2011, this relationship which had inspired Cardinal's fans to cheer
louder and with more excitement than for any player not named Stan Musial was
over. Pujols had made the decision to take his Babe Ruth sized bat and
Hank Aaron like consistency to the west coast. At least I will not have
to go through the pain of seeing him play for another National League team, but
the feelings of betrayal still linger almost a month later. It has taken
me about this long to get through the 5 stages of grief on my path to
acceptance that Pujols is gone. I know it sounds odd to talk about
watching a baseball player leave using these theories, but for someone who had
not seen his 15th birthday when Albert Pujols began his run of
brilliance, it somehow feels appropriate.
Denial:
As
a student in graduate school during finals week, I had stayed up the entire
night before the Pujols defection in order to study for my first final exam of
the year. I studied, yes, but I would be lying if I claimed that the test
the next day held even close to my full attention. The Pujols contract
was about to be settled, and my night was filled with optimism that I would be
pleased with the outcome. At the time I had heard nothing about the dark
horse from the west coast that was speaking in my childhood hero's ear, luring
him away from a fan base that would appreciate him more than anywhere else possibly
could. I somehow picked the exact moment that the signing was announced
to turn off the computer that was feeding me updates with my constant, almost
obsessive-compulsive clicking of my web browser's refresh button. After
checking only seconds before turning off the computer, my phone exploded with
texts spilling the news of El Hombre’s decision to leave. There was no
part of me that wanted to believe this sad truth. I waited the rest of
the morning, constantly checking my phone in hopes that Bud Selig would jump in
as if it were the NBA and declare the deal void because of what it would do to
my hopes and dreams. Unfortunately, that text never came.
Anger:
It
did not take long for the second wave of emotions to hit. To put it
frankly… it took only seconds before I was flat-out ticked off. I was
angry at the Cardinals, the Angels, Pujols, and anyone else who I could claim
had something to do with the events that had transpired. All too quickly,
I found myself wishing for the Angels to end up in last place and for Albert to
tell the world that he is actually 38 years old but more than willing still to
take the money. Some of this anger will always be there. Why did
the Cardinals not offer Albert more money two years ago before the likes of Ryan
Howard was so vastly overpaid? Why wouldn’t Albert sign for less money to
stay here in St. Louis where he had never heard the faintest whisper of a
boo? How much money could it possibly take to leave a fan base that had
loved you unconditionally from the second you made your major league debut?
More questions than answers only caused my anger to grow.
Bargaining:
Not
long after Pujols signed, I realized that the Cardinal’s would now have $20+
million to spend, and there had to be all kinds of possibilities right? I
wasted little time to look at the free agent pools for not only this year, but
for the next few off seasons to come. It didn’t take long to realize what
I had feared all along: there is only one Albert Pujols…
Depression:
The
feeling of sadness has been the longest lasting. For all the reasons I
was angry, the realization that there was nothing that could be done has hit
home. I will never again see Albert Pujols wearing the correct shade of
red in Busch Stadium for as long as I live. It is a tough pill to
swallow. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this
sadness was not because I believed the Cardinals would now somehow be doomed to
fail, or even that I would not be able to see Pujols when I go to a game next
season. The real sadness came with the realization that Pujols would no
longer be ours. He will never again be looked at as the face of the
Cardinals franchise, and that above all else, is why the loss of Albert Pujols
has been so difficult.
I
am a man in my mid-20’s. I have never seen Stan Musial play in
person. The closest I have or will ever come is watching old highlight
tapes from nearly the birth of the video camera, and yet I have been told
stories about The Man for as long as I can remember. As the hero of my
father, I have consumed myself with reading anything I could get my hands on
about Stan Musial. In my bedroom, I can still see a picture of me
standing next to Musial’s locker as it was set up at the Hall of Fame in
Cooperstown. Through my father, Stan Musial had become my hero without
ever seeing an at-bat. This season I was fortunate enough to be in the
stadium for playoff games in both the NLCS and World Series, and I looked
around with tears in my eyes as Stan made his triumphant ride to home plate to
the music from The Natural and in the midst of more than 45,000 fans who were
still mystified by the presence of The Man. To feel that much emotion for
a man who was a generation into his retirement by the time I was born cannot be
common. This is how it is in St. Louis, though. At least this is
how it has been for me.
Watching
Pujols walk out the door, it was impossible not to think about how I had lost
this special relationship with my future children as my father had with.
For 50 million dollars, Pujols traded in the opportunity to one day be carted
out well past the time when he could hit a baseball and still with more money
than he could have spent in ten lifetimes. In whatever version of Busch
Stadium the Cardinals franchise will be playing in at that time, fans with
grandparents who had seen him take his first at-bats would stand and applaud
the man for the legend he had become. It is not hard to imagine a stadium
filled with the red, looking down at a frail old Albert Pujols as he is helped
out of a cart saying, “There goes The Man. There goes the greatest player
who ever lived. He is St. Louis, and St. Louis will always be Albert
Pujols.” Through tears they would chant his name as I was yelling for
Stan Musial.
Acceptance:
Albert
Pujols deserved the contract that he was given, and I have no doubt he will be
loved in Anaheim/Los Angeles/California/whatever other title will be put in
front of Angels over his next 10 years there. I truly hope he thrives
there. My ill-wishes have faded, and the acceptance of a lineup without
its rock batting third has set in. I have not yet decided how I will be
able to tell my children and their children about Albert Pujols. In time
I suspect his play on the field and multiple championships will dominate the
conversation more than his time spent on the west coast, but he will never
fulfill the promise that he once had to become my generation's Stan
Musial. I am proud to say that I saw Albert Pujols playing at his best.
It is my children who have been robbed of a hero.
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