Where Have You Gone Stan Musial?

{Stan stands poised to send a liner straight up Spruce Street - image by Ben Evans}

Stan Musial, baseball’s perfect knight, died yesterday evening. When I found out—via text message from a friend—I was not exactly sure how I felt or how I should feel. Mr. Musial’s death could not be called unexpected. He was 92 years old, and his declining health had not gone without notice. He did not leave any unfinished business or old grudges, as far as I know. It is the kind of death about which people can remark “Well, he lived a good life.” While this is true, it is also patently insufficient. Musial was a man who had taken on mythical status in the city of St. Louis. In a city that worships baseball, he was a god who walked the Earth, and he was revered accordingly. Any time he would show up at a game or other public appearance, there was a feeling of magic in the air. I never met Stan Musial. I will never meet Stan Musial. That fact makes me surprisingly sad.

I called my mom last night. I wasn’t sure what else to do. Because I was calling much later than I normally do, she answered the phone sounding worried. Stan Musial died, I told her. After a sad sigh, she responded: “Isn’t that strange? I was just thinking about him this afternoon.” Me too, mom. I was thinking about him that afternoon too.