What Do I Have To Remember

Everything begins with a story. Let me tell you one.

I used to teach the Old Testament to high school freshmen in Phoenix, Arizona. The lessons started in the beginning, with the story of creation. Not the Adam and Eve version, but the first one. The one where God demanded there be light, and so, there was light. There’s a point in that story where God divides the waters between those that are above the earth and those that are on the earth. I told the children that, of course, this didn’t happen this way. We know now there isn’t a body of water above earth. It was, instead, an allegory, a way for primitive people to explain the unexplainable. Why is the sky blue? Because there is water up there. Where does rain come from? It’s just water escaping the ocean in the sky. This story’s sole purpose was to try to understand the mysterious.

The next day I had an angry phone call from a parent and the day after an angrier conference with that same parent. How could I tell these babies the bible wasn’t true, she demanded to know. I was a blasphemer. I tried to explain to her the theology, but it didn’t matter.  She believed.

As she stormed out of the room, she extended her finger and proclaimed, “Woe to you, o Shepherd, that leads my sheep astray.” To this day, it is the closest I have ever come to being damned. At least, to the best of my knowledge.

I like that story, and I like telling it to people I meet.  It’s absurd, it’s funny and, if nothing else, it reinforces the power stories hold over us no matter how old either the story or we may be. We want to find meaning. We want to understand the mysterious. We want to believe.

Before I tell you the mission behind Portion Under Busch, I want to tell you one more story.

Curtis Granderson slipped. I still remember that.  My dad jumped up and down.  We both did.  I remember that too. Him hoarsely screaming about Curt Flood, 1968, and karma to everyone around us. It was ecstasy.  I was at the World Series with my father and the Cardinals were on the verge of tying the game.  They would not only tie, but eventually win that game and the next night, for the first time in my cognitive life, they would be World Series Champions. It was everything I had ever wanted. 

I worry I’m forgetting. It’s all moving so fast and the little things are starting to escape me. Like how my son used to beg me to carry him by holding out his hands, looking up and saying “Hold you’s me?”  I’ll forget that soon. Or how my daughter used to call her forehead her headfore, such an adorable spoonerism that I never wanted to correct her. I fear I’ll forget that one day. There will be other things. What life used to be like.  It will all become commingled and the days will no longer be distinct.  That day is coming if it is not already here. 

But I don’t think I’ll forget Curtis Granderson slipping. Just like my father didn’t forget Curt Flood falling down in 1968. I’ll remember that sound the crowd made, when 50,000 people realized in unison the ball was going to drop onto the damp outfield grass.  I won’t forget that euphoric feeling in my stomach as if it were I who had actually accomplished something other than passively watching.  All of it will combine into a story I’ll tell my children: The Night Curtis Granderson Slipped in the Rain. So one day they will be able to recite the details of the story in a manner so rote they might as well be describing the dish running away with the spoon and not David Eckstein doubling to lead off the seventh inning.

I promised to tell you why I’m starting Portion Under Busch. But I have a feeling you already know: I love the Cardinals and I love stories.

And that is the mission behind Portion Under Busch. All we are seeking is a story to tell. To let others know we were here, that we lived. That’s the purpose of this journal. It’s meant to tell stories that hopefully convey a message, help us understand the mysterious, to feel connected with others through shared memories. To prove that we were alive.

For me growing up, the Cardinals were as mythical as Ulysses, Aeneas, and Paul Bunyan. So why not celebrate their feats the same way? Why not tell bedtime stories about the heroics of Ozzie Smith, Ray Lankford, and Willie McGee?

That’s what I envision this to be, to create a place we can pass down stories of our favorite team and players. The journal will publish quarterly, right now on Opening Day, the All-Star Game, Game 1 of the World Series, and New Year’s Eve. The theme of the first issue will be entitled Transient Flickers and will look at select players who only played a year (or even a game) in St. Louis. I hope you consider contributing - for we all have a story to tell. 

All potential contributions can be submitted to portionunderbusch@gmail.com. All published writers will receive an honorarium.

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