In all my life there's only been two managers who REALLY defined what Cardinals Baseball means: Whitey Herzog and Tony LaRussa. Whiteyball was my youth, it's what I grew up watching. Ozzie, Willie, Jack and Tommy, Danny Cox and Todd Worrell. This was my childhood, it's what baseball meant to me. When Whitey's number was retired and he made that trip around Busch Stadium I couldn't help but cry. This was my childhood I was watching all over again. The acrobatics of the Wizard, Jose Oquendo's critical home run in the '87 pennant race. My mom and my dad together watching the games on KPLR, or listening on KMOX in the days before cable brought us every game of the season. The Heat is On.
And then Whitey was gone, and Tonyball took its place. There may have been a break in between as Torre took the reins, but it is so short-lived as to have not happened at all. Instead, we remember two managers whose style of ball couldn't be more dissimilar: Speed against Power. The Wizard of Oz takes his final bow, and the appearance of Big Mac and chasing history with #70. The pennant chase of 2000 and the heartbreak of losing to the hated Mets. The rise of El Hombre. The passing of Jack and the silencing of the greatest voice the game has ever known, the tragic loss of DK and 2002's Team of Destiny, watching the Cardinals carry his jersey out onto the field, leading the team into the playoffs just as he had lead the team in life, but falling so painfully short. The Wizard taking his rightful place in baseball's most hallowed ground, bringing a small shred of light to a heartbreaking year. The hope of 2004 and the pain of seeing it dashed by the end of a Curse. The rivalry with Houston exploding out of nowhere and dominating the Central Division. And then 2006 and a return to glory. Beating the Mets in their own ballpark, when everything hinged on one pitch. The great upset and vengeance for the Series of '68. Falling short for two years, and another heartbreaking exit in 2009 that should not have been, then the Rally Squirrel and 11 in '11. The team who shouldn't even have been here, scratching and clawing their way into the postseason. The upset of Philadelphia and taming the Beast in Milwaukee. Making Tony Plush eat his words. The dramatic come from behind in Game 6 that will be remembered in baseball forever, and the last out to bring one more ring to La Russa's finger.
This has been my life through baseball. Every game, at-bat, every out, every pitch. This is what Tony meant to me. No matter how controversial, knowing that there was no decision not thoroughly thought through. Just how MUCH he knew about the game, and how frightfully intelligent he was. Every match-up calculated down to the last strike. Fans either loved him or hated him, but that was Tonyball. Whiteyball was my childhood, Tonyball was my maturity into adulthood. The pain and the heartbreak, and the elation of standing on top of the baseball world. For the first time in 31 years I don't know what the game will be. Speed or power? Old-school hardball, or the modern idea of playing every number for what it's worth? It's frightening, but it's baseball as life. The uncertainty, the anticipation, the fond memories of what has passed.
Tony was a part of my life, the part where I grew up. We'll miss you, Tony, the victories, the defeats. Every calculated move, every look into the dugout. The sunglasses at night, the ejections, the eccentric arguments. Tony gave nothing away. Not a play and not an inch. He was a gamer, and defined all that was best about baseball in St. Louis.
He'll be missed, and can never be replaced, only succeeded.
