Memories, how they linger in the twilight and in the wee small hours sometimes just before dawn

above lyric from "Memories" by Van Morrison

Yep, back to the black. Not because I want to, because baseball season is over. Tonight was really bittersweet. I'm not going to dwell on it. I just think it's sad that we got this far and it's over. Soon, the old house will be gone, and the new house will rise from the rubble. I'm gonna miss that old house. It's gonna be different next year.

Len said all this stuff a lot better, go check out his blog. Look over there ----->
on the sidebar for the link.

I remember several key memories of the old house. I remember growing up hearing stories of legends -- Stan the Man, Yogi Berra, and countless others. I grew up watching legends of my own play in that old house -- Ozzie, Willie, Tommy Herr, Vince Coleman, Mark McGwire, and now Albert, Jimmy, Eck, and Matty Mo. I remember going to games every year. The majority were nosebleed seats, but it didn't matter. I was watching the ballgame.

I remember being a little girl and going on vacation with my grandparents down to our cabin. We didn't have TV down there. My parents and grandparents would stay up and listen to the ballgame on the radio. I was supposed to be asleep, but I'd creep out of bed and crack the door slightly, just so I could hear the game being called.

The lights went off in Busch Stadium for the last time tonight. The last hot dogs were sold, the last pictures were taken, the last family outings to the old ballpark were gone on, the final ball, the final catch, the final game.

Memories are what we make of them. Life is what we make of it. It's weird to get so sentimental over a building, but it shapes who I am, how I grew up, and what I've experienced. Future generations are going to look down 630 feet from the Arch, looking to the west, and won't see the old house, the so called bottlecap, the landmark of the downtown skyline. They'll see the new house.

Just like when a relative passes away, or we move away from friends and loved ones, we have memories to share. Memories are a part of growing up and reliving beautiful things that have occurred in our lives. The legends that passed through the old house in the past 40 years will live on in memories and stories, just like names like Dizzy, Red, Stan the Man, and others have been passed down in stories to all of us. We'll talk of the old ballpark, the clydesdales marching around the warning track on opening day, the only homerun ever hit out of busch stadium, Jack Buck, the post-9/11 ceremonies, The Beatles in concert. We'll talk about times we've had at the old house with friends, nights that seemed to go on forever. We'll talk about birthdays, fun, drinking entirely too much and heckling the opposing team, players, coaches, everything. We'll remember looking at the DK 37 sign and knowing what it means and remembering the towering pitcher who left us all too soon. We'll remember the Plaza of Champions, the long walk up to the upper deck, sitting in the bleachers and baking in 100 degree heat. But we did it and we will remember it. We did it, for the love of the game, the love of a team, and the love of a sport that captivates our thoughts and our eyes, rules our conversations and makes us feel a sense of pride, a sense of belonging to something bigger than ourselves, and having something that we can call our own.

I'll miss the old house. With life comes change. It's time for a change.

It's been a glorious season. See you next year, boys, at the new house.

I'd like to leave you with a poem, written by ESPN magazine contributor Jim Hall, entitled Baseball Is

Baseball is grass, chalk, and dirt displayed the same yet differently
In every park that has ever heard the words play ball.
Baseball is a passion that bonds and divides all those who know it.
Baseball is a pair of hands stained with newsprint,
A set of eyes squinting to read a boxscore,
A brow creased in an attempt to recreate a three-hour game
From an inch square block of type.
Baseball is the hat I wear to mow the lawn.
Baseball is a simple game of catch
and the never-ending search for the perfect knuckleball.
Baseball is Willie vs Mickey, Gibson vs Koufax, and Buddy Biancalana vs the odds.
Baseball links Kansan and Missourian, American and Japanese,
But most of all father and son.
Baseball is the scent of spring,
The unmistakable sound of a double down the line,
And the face of a 10-year-old emerging from a pile of bodies
With a worthless yet priceless foul ball.
Baseball is a language of very simple words that tell unbelievably magic tales.
Baseball is three brothers in the same uniform on the same team for one brief summer
Captured forever in a black and white photo on a table by the couch.
Baseball is a glove on a shelf, oiled and tightly wrapped,
Slumbering through the stark winter months.
Baseball is a breast pocket bulging with a transistor radio.
Baseball is the reason there are transistor radios.
Baseball is a voice in a box describing men you've never met,
In a place you've never been,
Doing things you'll never have the chance to do.
Baseball is a dream that you never really give up on.
Baseball is precious.
Baseball is timeless.
Baseball is forever

ANDREA