St. Louis by Matt Carpenter
From: The Players’ Tribune
There’s something about home plate at Busch Stadium. It might just look like another batter’s box to you. But it’s different, man. It really is. When I was up to bat, I could feel the rhythm of the park — the heartbeat of a baseball city. On a fall night, 45,000 in the stands, I could feel all of St. Louis right there under my cleats. In my chest. There’s nothing like it and I can promise you I never ever took that feeling for granted.
Every time I stepped into that box, with the birds on the bat stitched across my chest, I was reminded of what it meant to be a Cardinal. I could close my eyes and see all the greats who put on this jersey before me. I cherished that feeling. I cherished it all the way until the end.
But the end is here.
My time wearing that iconic uniform is over. Goodbyes can be really hard. And I really felt like I owed each and every member of Cardinal Nation something. Because these last few months, once people started to understand that I might not be back next year, that this might be the end, I’ve been getting a lot of “thank you” messages. And I appreciate that. I really do. But I’m hearing them, and I’m reading them, and I’m thinking about it like….
No, man. I’m the one that should be saying thank you. Y’all are who need to be thanked. I’m the one who is filled with nothing but overwhelming gratitude.
Because this should have never happened. If it weren’t for the Cardinals organization — if it weren’t for St. Louis — my baseball career probably would have ended 12 years ago on a field in Austin, Texas.
I was a fifth-year senior at TCU. That’s right — 23 years old in his fifth college baseball season. Not exactly a can’t-miss prospect. We had just lost to Texas in the NCAA super regionals. And as I walked off the field, and looked my dad in the eye…. I knew what he was thinking. I could see it. He didn’t have to say it. Mom didn’t have to say it. But I think we all thought the same thing: There was a pretty good chance that I had played my last ever baseball game.
I’d been in love with the sport since I can remember. Heck, holding a bat on my shoulder is probably the very first memory I have. I spent countless hours with my dad working on my game, playing catch with my brother. I thought about the game all the time. I dreamt about the game. It was just … it was all we did. I really mean that. So on that field, wearing my Frogs jersey, it was hard not to be emotional.
I hadn’t heard from a scout my entire college career. Not one phone call. I didn’t have an agent. I split playing time as a freshman. I was nothing spectacular as a sophomore. And then my junior year, when most college players start their pro careers, mine was derailed by Tommy John. (I know what you’re thinking: “You’re not a pitcher….” Trust me, I know.) I was challenged in ways I never thought I would be as a college player. Both on and off the field, I took many lumps.
My coach, Jim Schlossnagle, made it very clear to me the day before my surgery that I had two options. One: keep going down this road of mediocrity and let my career play out with no chance of going anywhere. Or two: rededicate myself to the game. Find that passion I had when I was a kid. Get better every day and finish my career here strong.
I did just that. I came back leaner, stronger and with a reignited passion for being the best version of myself that I could be. I had a great senior year, and a really strong super regionals against Texas. And it gave me a glimmer of hope that, just maybe, somebody was watching somewhere.
