Nanner
10-27-2006, 11:04 AM
Well, since there's not much going on in Orioles' Land, I thought I would post this article I found in the Baltimore Sun the other day.
I found it very touching. Baseball.....it can be such an enduring part of our lives.
For grieving family, Cards are part of life
Originally published Oct 26, 2006
Rick Maese
St. Louis // There's a certain way die-hard fans measure the passage of time, borrowing baseball's timeline to mark those seminal life moments. Andrew Woodrow Lingle, whom everyone called just Woody, was no different.
He was born on the second-to-last day of the 1941 season. The next year, the Cardinals won 106 games, still a franchise record, and went on to beat the Yankees in the World Series, losing the first game and then winning four straight.
Woody had his first child in 1964, the year the Cardinals again topped New York in the Fall Classic, this time in seven games.
When he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver six years ago, the Cardinals won their division and Woody's favorite player, Albert Pujols, made his professional baseball debut.
So I guess it wasn't really a big surprise that when his obituary appeared in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch last week, it was immediately noted that Woody had died during the fifth inning of a Cardinals playoff game.
Here, in perhaps the best baseball city in the nation, thousands could make a pretty compelling case that they're the biggest, most loyal Cardinals fans to ever don red and white. There's just something about this team and this city and these people.
Woody grew up in the St. Louis projects, playing ball in the streets because that's just what you did back then. And the Cardinals always seemed like a part of everything - Red Schoendienst, Enos Slaughter and Stan Musial giving purpose to childhood, Bob Gibson and Lou Brock giving Woody something to cheer about as an adult, and then Ozzie Smith and later Pujols providing the glimmer to the golden years.
These past few months, Woody's family ached over fate's little curveball: The Cardinals kept getting better, and Woody kept getting worse.
His liver, cursed by hepatitis C, had betrayed him and spread poison throughout his body. Woody faded in and out of consciousness. His eyes would only focus on the television when the Cards' game was on, and his sons sat by his hospital bed, testing him and teasing him.
"The Cardinals are in the playoffs against the Braves," they'd lie.
"No," Woody corrected them. "Cardinals-Mets."
"His whole life, he made sure he was watching every single game," granddaughter Joanna Hearst said. "No matter what was going on, if he was at the hospital, or somewhere, whatever, he wasn't going to miss a game."
As they had done so much of his life, the Cardinals won on the day Woody died, Game 3 of the National League Championship Series, Oct. 13. His children were in the hospital room. It was the fifth inning, and Jo Gallagher, Woody's eldest daughter, turned off the TV.
"My brother and sister had a fit," Jo said. "I guess I was thinking that it didn't really matter whether the game was still on. Everyone else was saying, 'It's the Cardinals!'"
In the days that followed, Woody's children sorted through their father's lifelong affair with a baseball team. Among the ticket stubs, caps and jerseys. Jo found a small pile of photographs. She showed them to her brother, Andrew Lingle, and asked, "What's this?"
Andrew studied the photos for a second. They were obviously taken from the living room, where Woody had clearly aimed his camera at the television set. "It's simple," Andrew told his sister. "He was just trying to take pictures of Rolen or Pujols hitting a home run."
"If there were more people like my dad," Jo said, "there wouldn't be a single empty seat in any stadium in the country."
This week hasn't been an easy one for the four children and 11 grandchildren Woody left behind. They have no doubt that wherever Woody is, he's got the game on and he's cheering on his Cards loud as ever. But it's hard for them.
When you have a fan so devoted to a team, those who love that fan can't help but associate their beloved with a sports franchise. Maybe that seems silly, but it's not. So watching the Cardinals play in this World Series is a stinging reminder that Woody isn't here, pleading for Pujols to tie it up with a homer or for a 6-4-3 double play to end the inning.
We spend a lot of time showering attention and adulation on players and coaches. But they come and they go. The fan and the team are the constants, and the relationship they share is the heartbeat that makes everything else in sports flow. When you watch these big sporting events, it's impossible to miss how important a team, a logo and some fancy script lettering stripped across the chest can be to some people.
Asked what he's enjoyed most about the World Series, Jeff Suppan, one of the Cardinals' pitchers, was quick to note: "This is my job. This is my profession." He showed no shame, nor should he have.
But it's not like that for everyone. For many - for guys like Woody - this is their life.
Copyright © 2006, The Baltimore Sun
I found it very touching. Baseball.....it can be such an enduring part of our lives.
For grieving family, Cards are part of life
Originally published Oct 26, 2006
Rick Maese
St. Louis // There's a certain way die-hard fans measure the passage of time, borrowing baseball's timeline to mark those seminal life moments. Andrew Woodrow Lingle, whom everyone called just Woody, was no different.
He was born on the second-to-last day of the 1941 season. The next year, the Cardinals won 106 games, still a franchise record, and went on to beat the Yankees in the World Series, losing the first game and then winning four straight.
Woody had his first child in 1964, the year the Cardinals again topped New York in the Fall Classic, this time in seven games.
When he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver six years ago, the Cardinals won their division and Woody's favorite player, Albert Pujols, made his professional baseball debut.
So I guess it wasn't really a big surprise that when his obituary appeared in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch last week, it was immediately noted that Woody had died during the fifth inning of a Cardinals playoff game.
Here, in perhaps the best baseball city in the nation, thousands could make a pretty compelling case that they're the biggest, most loyal Cardinals fans to ever don red and white. There's just something about this team and this city and these people.
Woody grew up in the St. Louis projects, playing ball in the streets because that's just what you did back then. And the Cardinals always seemed like a part of everything - Red Schoendienst, Enos Slaughter and Stan Musial giving purpose to childhood, Bob Gibson and Lou Brock giving Woody something to cheer about as an adult, and then Ozzie Smith and later Pujols providing the glimmer to the golden years.
These past few months, Woody's family ached over fate's little curveball: The Cardinals kept getting better, and Woody kept getting worse.
His liver, cursed by hepatitis C, had betrayed him and spread poison throughout his body. Woody faded in and out of consciousness. His eyes would only focus on the television when the Cards' game was on, and his sons sat by his hospital bed, testing him and teasing him.
"The Cardinals are in the playoffs against the Braves," they'd lie.
"No," Woody corrected them. "Cardinals-Mets."
"His whole life, he made sure he was watching every single game," granddaughter Joanna Hearst said. "No matter what was going on, if he was at the hospital, or somewhere, whatever, he wasn't going to miss a game."
As they had done so much of his life, the Cardinals won on the day Woody died, Game 3 of the National League Championship Series, Oct. 13. His children were in the hospital room. It was the fifth inning, and Jo Gallagher, Woody's eldest daughter, turned off the TV.
"My brother and sister had a fit," Jo said. "I guess I was thinking that it didn't really matter whether the game was still on. Everyone else was saying, 'It's the Cardinals!'"
In the days that followed, Woody's children sorted through their father's lifelong affair with a baseball team. Among the ticket stubs, caps and jerseys. Jo found a small pile of photographs. She showed them to her brother, Andrew Lingle, and asked, "What's this?"
Andrew studied the photos for a second. They were obviously taken from the living room, where Woody had clearly aimed his camera at the television set. "It's simple," Andrew told his sister. "He was just trying to take pictures of Rolen or Pujols hitting a home run."
"If there were more people like my dad," Jo said, "there wouldn't be a single empty seat in any stadium in the country."
This week hasn't been an easy one for the four children and 11 grandchildren Woody left behind. They have no doubt that wherever Woody is, he's got the game on and he's cheering on his Cards loud as ever. But it's hard for them.
When you have a fan so devoted to a team, those who love that fan can't help but associate their beloved with a sports franchise. Maybe that seems silly, but it's not. So watching the Cardinals play in this World Series is a stinging reminder that Woody isn't here, pleading for Pujols to tie it up with a homer or for a 6-4-3 double play to end the inning.
We spend a lot of time showering attention and adulation on players and coaches. But they come and they go. The fan and the team are the constants, and the relationship they share is the heartbeat that makes everything else in sports flow. When you watch these big sporting events, it's impossible to miss how important a team, a logo and some fancy script lettering stripped across the chest can be to some people.
Asked what he's enjoyed most about the World Series, Jeff Suppan, one of the Cardinals' pitchers, was quick to note: "This is my job. This is my profession." He showed no shame, nor should he have.
But it's not like that for everyone. For many - for guys like Woody - this is their life.
Copyright © 2006, The Baltimore Sun