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Historical Summer 2019 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
I emigrated from Milwaukee to St. Louis thirty one years ago, enticed by the mild winters, and summer’s inferno.
I met my wife here, and all three of my children were born here. Along the way, I’ve grown fond of the beer, square pizza, and gooey butter cake, all St. Louis staples.
I must confess, however, to one St. Louis tradition I’ve refused to embrace; St. Louis Cardinals baseball. I’m an admitted Milwaukee Brewer fan.
In St. Louis, that’s viewed with more amusement, than disdain. Why eat hamburger when you can have steak?
I think it’s my inner vegetarian screaming for attention. Baseball can be a bridge between the past and present. At the ballpark, the shadows cast from the freckle faced little boy, with an oversized mitt on his hand, reveal the man in the nosebleeds with liver spots, and an overpriced beer, instead of the mitt.
To tell the truth, I was never any good at baseball.
I was what you might call a zero tool player.
I couldn’t hit, field, catch or throw.
My greatest on field memory came when I was twelve years old. Somehow, I snow coned a routine pop up for the second out of the inning, and my teammates cleared the bench to carry me off the field just for catching the ball; my Wizard of Ozzie moment.
While glory eluded me on the playing field, it couldn’t escape the friendly confines.
In 1987, at the old County Stadium in Milwaukee, fame and heartburn covered me like German mustard.
In my finest hour in baseball, I ate for the cycle.
On the field, hitting for the cycle requires a player to register a single, double, triple, and home run in the same game.
In 1987, eating for the cycle at County Stadium was more daunting.
In nine innings I polished off a quintet of sausages.
In my first plate appearance, I dribbled a Brewer plumper, a tasty all beef hot dog, into my gullet. Next, in succession, came the brat with sauerkraut, then the Italian sausage.
As the game wore on, and the meat sweats became an issue, I seemed to go belly up.
But sometimes, in competitive eating, you’re able to find an extra stomach. Down in the count, I launched a Polish sausage deep down my esophagus.
The energy in the ballpark became contagious.
The only thing standing in the way of immortal indigestion was the Vienna sausage. Like the triple, this was the hardest one to get.
This long, slender sausage known for its snap, was made more difficult after dipped in the spicy red sauce. Down to my final chance, I let out a burp, and disposed of the sausage, like Roy Hobbs with his Savoy Special. Grill it, and they will come.
As the years ebb away, my record remains etched in history. Believing their sausage choices were too Euro-centric, Brewer officials replaced the Vienna with the Chorizo, and the sausage races were born.
But I can’t think of that now. Gloria is ringing in my ears. Let’s go Blues, and hold the mustard.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, Summer 2019.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times2019_06.pdf, printed page(s) 4; PDF page(s) 4.
