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With former St. Louis Cardinals slugger Mark McGwire admitting earlier this month that he took steroids during his record-setting home run rampage of 1998, the final nail is driven into the heart of this baseball fan.

Deep in my heart, I figured McGwire was guilty, but I wouldn’t admit it until the slugger himself came forth with the truth.

For me, it wasn’t just another baseball player breaking a record. It was a Cardinal who broke the record.

I grew up a Cardinal fan at old Southside Park in Winston-Salem where the St. Louis farm team gave boys like me inspiration that we also might one day become professional baseball players.

In the 1950s, baseball really was the nation’s pastime. Among our formidable foes were the Greensboro Patriots and the Reidsville Luckies.

The kids in my neighborhood walked the two miles or more to the old ball park to see the Cardinals play — and without a nickel in our pockets.

We didn’t worry about how we would get into the game. We’d connive a way once we got there: recover a foul ball in the parking lot during batting practice and the gatekeeper would allow you inside the park. Some kids belonged to the Knot Hole Gang — a bad place to sit out along the left field foul line. Sometimes we’d slip through a broken place in the fence, or simply dart through the gate when the ticket-taker turned his back.

I loved those Cardinals. Many Cardinals whom I saw up close eventually played in the major leagues. I carried that love for the Cardinals into adulthood.

One of the most popular baseball announcers when the game became a staple for TV was Dizzy Dean, a former bigger-than-life Cardinal. He was a pitcher who murdered the English language in the same colorful way he mowed down Major League hitters. Everybody knew that Dizzy was a Cardinal.

And years later to see a Cardinal — McGwire in this case — break Roger Maris’ home run record of 61 in the 1998 season was phenomenal. I could no longer run the bases with the vigor of my boyhood but I still loved the game. Imagine 62 home runs, one more than Maris and two up on the Babe! And by a Cardinal, too.

It brought back memories of when I had proudly worn that St. Louis Cardinals uniform during my youth.

No, I never made it to the major leagues as a player; I barely made my high school team.

Along with other members of the Red Shield Boys’ Club summer league team, I wore a hot wool uniform and a wonderful cap with “StL” embossed on it. They were hand-me-downs from the Major League team that had been donated to the boys club by the local farm team.

Those were hot uniforms, literally speaking. Sweat poured from my brow and elsewhere on a hot game day. Wool. Maybe 100 percent wool. I sweated proudly in that uniform.

I was a Cardinal, if only for a summer. A Red Shield Boys’ Club Cardinal. “Cardinals” was emblazoned across the front of the uniform.
Years later I would proudly add a plaque of Mark McGwire to my baseball collectibles. The plaque commemorated his historic accomplishment of being the first player to hit 62 home runs in a season. The plaque was pricey, but I figured it would grow in value as some of my other collectibles have through the years. McGwire went on to hit 70 round trippers for the season.

About the same time, I purchased a collection of four baseballs that had the photos of the four greatest home run hitters of all time on them — McGwire, Sammy Sosa of the Chicago Cubs, Roger Maris of the New York Yankees and Babe Ruth of the Yankees.

McGwire, the Cardinal, was the best of them all. Or at least I thought.

Meanwhile, claims of steroid use started being made against McGwire and other players. Similar charges have been made against some major leaguers still playing the game. Bobby Bonds of the San Francisco Giants hit 73 homers to break McGwire’s record in 2001 amid accusations of using steroids.

None of the claims bothered me like my Cardinal hero confirming that he is guilty of using steroids. At least he has finally come to grips with the issue.

Never mind that the value of my McGwire plaque and that four-ball collection are nil. I stashed them years ago. Deep down — beyond my dreams as an impressionable boy — I knew the truth about my hero long before he came to grips with it.

Yet, I still cherish those boyhood dreams that spilled over into my later years. Perhaps I’m still just a boy who mourns not only for Cardinal fans but for fans everywhere.

And I mourn for the Mark McGwires of the game who lost respect for the uniforms they wear, for themselves and for little boys like me.

Contact Bob Burchette at bburchette@triad.rr.com