The air on the night of Game Five seemed tangible, maintaining a tension that formed from the innumerable Cardinals fans’ final hopes of a home-won World Championship this year.
As the game neared, the people of St. Louis stayed off the streets for the most part with only a few stragglers attempting to cram their way into the restaurants and bars already brimming with red and white shirts and caps.
I found myself in the same position, only with considerably less red clothing and only a recently-purchased Cardinals hat to protect me from the jeers of slightly condescending yet completely enthusiastic fans.
“Where’s your red?” asked a waitress of a member of my party.
“I’m a Yankees fan,” he replied.
“The Yankees aren’t in the World Series!” she parried.
Oddly enough, she wasn’t wearing red, either, though this was most likely because Hooters requires a very strict uniform. The restaurant overflowed with the red-dressed mass of bodies, though the suffocating conditions were easily overlooked as Jeff Weaver approached the mound in the bottom of the first.
After a quick three-up-three-down, the energy in the restaurant increased immensely, the fans going as wild as possible in each of their square-foot standing areas.
By the third inning my party and I had given up hope of ever being seated, and despite our efforts of ignoring our biological needs, we were forced to leave Hooters in search of a restaurant that was not standing room only.
At this point the streets were practically deserted as everyone in St. Louis had found a shelter with a television or headed to Busch Stadium to try their hardest to catch a live glimpse of the game.
The street we decided to walk down sat about three blocks from the stadium, the cheers emitting from it giving us a full grasp of the delay Fox had placed on its broadcast.
Applause from the stadium would be accompanied about three seconds later by the sounds of a bar full of excited fans.
After a decent walk, we stumbled upon a Pan-Asian restaurant nearly devoid of people, though the waiters and waitresses all wore Cards gear.
Here we sat eating General Tso’s chicken and watching America’s pastime until Cardinals closer Adam Wainwright threw the game-winning strike, which was immediately accompanied by a complete awakening of the street outside.
Fans ran down the sidewalk, yelling at the top of their lungs and high-fiveing every living creature in the area and even some inanimate ones.
The few cars on the street began blaring their horns while passengers leaped from inside to jump on the hood of the car and dance or just stand there and scream.
A large crowd formed from fans exiting the various establishments in the area, and most, my party and I included, were drawn to Busch Stadium like moths to a flame.
The electricity in the air around the stadium was enough to raise the hair on my arms as I received hug after hug after hand-blistering high five from the ecstatic crowd.
Many fans held up copies of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch with the word “CHAMPS!” written across it in massive letters, and I managed to find a copy for the low price of $5.
Granted, the same edition would’ve been 50 cents the next day, but I wanted to be able to say that I’d bought it outside the stadium only moments after the Series had been taken.
We hung around the ballpark until our hands were sore, at which point we decided to head back to our hotel.
By this time many of the stadium-goers had made it to their cars and were attempting to exit the downtown area despite traffic that moved slower than a depressed Detroiter.
Horns blared from what seemed to be every car in the street while music overlapped from many different automobiles, giving the dancers on the roofs of the cars a cavalcade of beats to celebrate to.
Fireworks exploded from the stadium, bringing daylight at 11 p.m. and sending the already rabid fans further into frenzy.
The crowd was tame as riots go. I did not see one person killed or any cars set ablaze, which honestly did not bother me much.
Eventually we made it through the endless sea of red and to our hotel, which contained a fair number of celebrants who offered me more raised hands and a more prominent ache in my palm, which I easily ignored in favor of the experience of being in a town with a team that had just won the World Series.
The coincidence of being in St. Louis on that day is one that will be hard to match in the coming years.
Not only did I have the opportunity to attend a World Series game, but I also managed to be a part of the largest celebration I’ve ever seen.
Thanks to the rain delay of Game Four, my ticket says that I attended Game Five.
Though this is incorrect and I didn’t actually attend the clenching game, I guess I can always lie.