Finally, our long national nightmare is over. The St. Louis Cardinals are no more, and with their elimination comes a feeling of satisfaction I didn’t know was possible from a baseball game.
I’m not exaggerating.
All over the world, people are raised with an irrational, irreversible hatred for certain creeds, religions or ethnicities. Fortunately, my parents raised me in such a way to avoid falling in to such a trap. Unfortunately, I chose to fill that void in my human nature with a hatred for the Cardinals.
Granted, it’s not like it was escapable. Even after the Cubs clinched the NL East title in 1989, my great-grandmother was crying after a loss to the Cards in the final series of the regular season.
“Grandma, it’s OK,” my cousin reasoned. “They’re still going to the playoffs.”
“But it’s the Cardinals,” was her response.
And so it was on. Those bastards made my 89-year-old great-grandma cry. They would always inhabit a dark place in my heart. I just had no idea of knowing how dark i