The Long Run
Yesterday, my beloved St. Louis Cardinals finished their worst season in more than three decades. There will be no playoff run, no dramatic walk-off, no heartbreaking play at the plate. The glory or despair of those singular moments are for someone else’s team in someone else’s ballpark. The memory of this season will not be live on in a 10-second highlight, but in the long, slow slog of defeat.
After the maelstrom of calamities visited upon the Van Meters in 2023, you’d think a losing record and last place finish would be piling on. And in a way it is. After all, what’s the point of following a sports team if you don’t care enough to mope?
At the same time, a little perspective, please. This is a game—a game, with no more at stake for me than the plot line of the Barbie movie. I can react to it, sure, but in the end they are both in the same category: distraction/entertainment. Ultimately, the outcome of any given contest or subset of contests does nothing to impact my quality of life unless I give it permission to do so. And no matter how much worship those around me yield to the Sportsball God, I’m just not willing to sacrifice my happiness upon that altar.
That’s a different attitude than 16-year-old Eric had in 1990, the last time the Cardinals were anywhere close to as bad as this year’s team. I raged at the losses. I sulked. I lost more than a few hours watching the train wreck, and at least that many complaining about it.
It’s a little embarrassing to think about, honestly.
But looking back on the years that span these two awful Cardinals seasons does offer a certain amount of perspective. I was just a kid back then, immature and uncertain, awkward and struggling to fit in, talented yet directionless. My world was smaller and safer, and in some ways I was happier. But now I am wiser and stronger, with deeper relational bonds and skills gathered over half a lifetime of practice. The life I’ve built is no small thing.
I do, however, wish I could go back and tell my younger self is that life is more like the regular season than the postseason. Individual moments matter—of course they do! But they don’t tell the full story. There will be improbable victories and unexpected losses, wining streaks and losing streaks, injuries and rainouts. The days will get shorter and fall will come and eventually it will end. When it does, you are not defined by either your best or your worst moment, but by the sum of your play.
I think this is why I always mourn the passing of the regular season more than I do the last out of the World Series. We are a culture of short cuts, adrenaline junkies waiting to define ourselves or those around us by a momentary outcome. It’s why we give so much cultural identity to football, and why we’ve made so little progress on climate change. We struggle to see past that one moment, that single point in time on which everything seems to hinge. It’s an exciting way to live, but also an unproductive one.
I find the regular season to be a more satisfying metaphor. After a run of bad luck that has stretched more than a year and a half, it helps to remember that each moment is only just that—a moment, fleeting and sometimes fickle. The next moment may be another defeat, but it could just as likely be the start of a winning streak. You have to play on to find out.
This moment is not your life. That unfolds over the long run. For those of us in a disappointing stretch, that’s a good reason to hope.
