Simply, "The Man"



Musial was the picturesque professional, both on and off the field.
photo courtesy of www.cbssports.com

   Believe it or not, there was once a golden time in baseball’s history. When great players weren’t measured by whether or not PED’s were in their system. Where true greatness was not only appreciated, but marveled at. And as I heard the news of Stan “The Man” Musial’s passing on Saturday, I couldn’t help but feel that something more than “The Man” had passed away.

   Growing up as a multi-generation Cardinals’ fan, you interpret baseball as the gospel according to Musial. The consummate hitter, professional, and personality, Musial was everything that baseball ideal had been built upon. He was unorthodox in his swing, but maintained some sweet science that eluded many hitters before and after him.
  
   Taking a look at his baseball reference page is like looking at create-a-player stats from a video game. “The Man” only lingered below the .300 avg. line five times in his 22 year career; racked up an equal amount of his career hits at home as he did on the road (1,815 each); finished with possibly the most mind-boggling strikeout-to-walk ratio of all time (1599 BB to 696 K). His final hitting line of .331/.417/.559/.976 are some of the most gaudy averages of any era, especially his own.

   For the most part, though, “The Man” was and still is overshadowed by wider market names from the day like DiMaggio and Williams. For a majority of my fandom the stance that any player was somehow superior to Musial felt like a personal affront. The numbers should have spoke for themselves, and while Williams and DiMaggio were legendary in their own right, Musial deserved a fair shake that was never fully allowed him. Perhaps it was the milestone moments rather than Boston/New York media dominance, but then again “The Man” had those too (see 1948, where Musial had more HR than K at 39 to 34, who does that?).

   So it all seemed like elementary favoritism that made a Cardinals purist’s blood boil. When I looked at the ESPN update on my phone announcing Musial’s passing, none of those stats or injustices came to mind, though. Instead, I thought of my grandfather and my father. See, I could never truly appreciate Musial’s playing through numbers on a page and archived black and white footage; even I knew that wouldn’t do him justice. I had to rely on the memory of the two men that passed their passion for the birds on the bat to me: my father and grandfather. And at the end of the day, that’s what really separates “The Man” from others in the pantheon of the MLB.

   While others were legendary, Musial was storybook, living on in little stories passed down from generation to generation. They aren’t stories of feat or limelight, but more of a passion for both baseball and life. There’s a certain glint that comes to my grandpa’s eye when he tells me about listening to the Cards as a young buck in the 50’s. He recalls the play-by-play with clarity that would convince you he was the original announcer. And what all of those stories seemed to revolve around was Musial. It was always about how he effortlessly flipped a ball into the opposite field gap, about how he worked over a double digit pitch at bat to draw a crucial walk, or about how he always seemed to be one step ahead of any clutch situation.

   There were the stories of Musial’s love for his town and his fans, as well. My grandpa recalls moments in Musial’s life that happened long after his playing days. He remembers how “The Man” would belt out “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” on his harmonica whenever asked to. And he still would swear to you that the Cardinals played better just when Stan would show up.
  
   Whenever my family was fortunate enough to make the trip from Chicago to St. Louis for a game, Musial always seemed to sneak into the road trip conversation. “Do you think Stan will be out?” I’d ask. “I hope so,” my dad would respond with a smile. It’s as if seeing “The Man” at Busch Stadium brought its own aura to the modern state of the game. Somehow Stan had that magical power to turn everyone in the park to children again with a simple wave of the hand, even if the fans were too young to have ever seen his greatness on the field. And on days we were fortunate enough to see him sitting shotgun in a golf cart, making his way around the field; it was as if we were seeing it in its original black and white form.

Musial was thee figure head of the Cardinals, even through
his final years. photo courtesy of www.bleacherreport.com

   At the culmination of his life, I don’t know that “The Man” would have wanted his legacy any different. Aside from his status as underrated, his gaudy numbers, or anything he ever did in a uniform for that matter, Musial was a sentiment. He was a figure and a person that loomed as large as his statue outside Busch Stadium. He’s an ideal that will continue to live on in storybook moments passed down from one hand of time to another.

   I can’t say for certainty that in today’s baseball world I’ll be able to tell my children of many men like him. There’s one thing that gives me comfort, though. Thanks to my grandfather, father, and Stan himself, I will be able to tell them about “The Man.”