bellyitcher

As we stand on the eve of the Cardinals' 2005 season, gathering our strength, double checking the supply of hot dogs and Bud Lite, visiting store-front psychics and voodoo queens, we are comforted by thoughts of a kid with "old eyes," an honest-to-goodness lefthanded starter, two guys who are pretty much assumed to be the best at their positions, a fast-learning tank/cannon behind the plate (the Army drools with jealousy), and knowing that it's just possible that huge bowl of concrete that holds the heat so well might take on a life of it's own this summer, raising the mound a tad in the top halves of innings and moving the fences in just a bit in the bottom halves.

Humbly submitted to the Baseball Gods:

Pujols is my shepherd; I shall not want
He maketh me to watch stuff in green stadiums:
He leadeth me beside the pretzels and beers.
He restoreth my baseball:
He leadeth me in the paths of winningness for our city's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of loss,
I will fear no Renteria: For he art with the Sox;
Thy bat and thy pitching staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a bullpen before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou annointest my ballcap with Bud; My cup runneth over onto the guy in front of me. (sorry about that, dude, I say)

(prayer by cardinalgirl)