World Series Was the Place Cardinals Became a Disgrace

I would appreciate it if some collector out there would send me a baseball card with a team picture of the 1985 St. Louis Cardinals.

I want to carry the card in my wallet. The next time I’m talking to a coach or a jock and he or she starts that tired old sermon about how athletics builds character, I’ll whip out my Cardinal card.

If I get an extra card, I’ll mail it off to the Cardinals so they can use it as a dust pan when they sweep up what’s left of their pride and poise.

All the Cardinals did was embarrass themselves, their league and their sport.

They marred what was otherwise a nice little World Series. No, it wasn’t exactly a Thrilla in Manila-style slugfest, but it was a peppy little rendition of “Dueling Banjos.”

For the Cardinals, though, it became an in-your-face disgrace.

Not because they lost the World Series. Some team does that every year. But not since 1919 has a Series team made such a complete collective ass of itself.

It’s not so much that the Cards hit lousy, although there is a rumor that they will try to make an off-season trade for Buddy Biancalana because they need a cleanup hitter.

It’s not even that the Cardinals were merely sore losers, which they were. No, when they were leading the Series 3 to 1, they were sore winners.

And what’s even more disgusting, before it even started they were sore warmer-uppers.

Earlier this season, Herzog said of the Dodgers: “Except for their pitching, they’re a horse(bleep) team.” In the National League playoff series, John Tudor grumped and groused about having to talk to the press, and Danny Cox refused to talk.

Joaquin Andujar talked, and what he said to the media was: “When it’s all over, don’t blame Joaquin.”

Ah, the power of positive shrinking.

Now it’s all over, and who do we blame? We can’t blame Joaquin, because he only blew two games in the World Series, and they both would have been gems if the umpires weren’t such vicious cheaters and strike-zone squeezers.

No, I think we can blame it all on an anti-Cardinal conspiracy by modern appliances. Consider:

--An automated tarp roller in St. Louis ate Cardinal star Vince Coleman. There were several tarp sightings during the Series, but not a single Royal was attacked.

--A steel-bladed dugout fan attacked John Tudor and tried to slice the Cardinal ace’s left arm into cold cuts. No Royal even nicked himself shaving.

--Cardinal Manager Whitey Herzog was attacked by a voltage-crazed electric barber’s clippers. No Royal suffered this indignity.

Not nearly enough was said about Whitey’s hair style. The man simply got some bad fashion advice. A team’s attitude is usually a reflection of the manager’s attitude, and if you had a haircut like Whitey’s, you would be grouchy, too.

Whitey spends a lot of time being surly. Earlier in the season, he said of Dodger pitcher Orel Hershiser, “He’s king (bleep) out there.”

When the Royals tied the World Series at 3-3, Herzog said of the umpiring, “We’re getting (bleeped).”

Bleep is Herzog’s favorite word, although he pronounces it different.

Before the Series, when someone wondered aloud how the governor of the state might feel about this all-Missouri Fall Classic, Whitey barked, “How the (bleep) should I know? Go ask the (bleepin’) governor.”

Had the Cardinals won, Whitey would have answered the phone in the clubhouse, and then he would have shouted over the clubhouse noise:

“Hey, shut the (bleep) up, I’m talking to the (bleepin’) President of the United (Bleepin’) States.”

But the Cards lost, and Herzog graciously said: “I’m not taking anything away from (the Royals), but I don’t think they could win our division.”

What a great bleepin’ guy! And what a lovable bunch of players!

Just what we need in the sports world. You can’t expect John McEnroe, Larry Holmes, Bo Schembechler, George Steinbrenner, Steve Carlton and Red Auerbach to do all the sunshine spreading. They need help.

Right now you’re probably wondering: “Exactly how were the Cardinals supposed to act? This is an emotional sport. With a lot at stake, they’re supposed to go down grinning and shrugging?”

Glad you asked. Good losers are boring, it’s true. But give me Gene Mauch hurling a tub of spareribs, Tom Lasorda attacking his office walls with a chair, George Brett busting up a commode with a bat or a Terry Forster crying his eyes out.

Please, no more whining, paranoid, finger-pointing sourpusses. There’s a big difference between noble rage and petty sniveling.

Dylan Thomas wrote a poem about old age that could also be applied to giving it the old 100% effort in a World Series. Thomas said: “Do not go gentle into that good night. Old age should burn and rave at close of day; rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

In the Cardinals’ version, you blame the bleepin’ electrician.