Remembering Lou Brock: I was late when I tried to speak to one of the speediest in baseball

Growing up in the central Illinois town of Bloomington in the 1960s and 1970s, I lived roughly halfway between Chicago and St. Louis on the old Route 66 line, now long since converted to I-55. Being able to travel the “Mother Road,” which went from Chicago to Los Angeles, is now nothing but a nostalgic memory. But 66 played a part in how I selected my favorite sports teams because the pro teams at each end of 66 were what I was most familiar with.

When it came to baseball, I had Chicago’s Cubs and White Sox at the north end of the state or the Cardinals of St. Louis right across the Mississippi River, both cities reachable by taking 66, Chicago a half hour closer. Going either direction had its plusses. Going to Chicago allowed stops at relatives who lived in Kankakee plus, of course, once in Chicago seeing the great museums and points of interest. And going to St. Louis took us through Springfield and all the Abraham Lincoln history and in St. Louis itself was the Arch, the river and Mark Twain influence, which I loved.

I played American Legion Little League baseball, and even though Wrigley Field was the first pro baseball field I went to as part of a paperboy trip, I was drawn to be a Cardinal fan, probably because they were winning the World Series at my impressionable age and the Cubs, well, they were the Lovable Losers, but I wasn’t feeling the love. Also, I recall our family going to Cardinal games but never to Cub games, and I probably took that as a sign of who I should root for. But how is this for a convincer: On the day I was born, May 24, 1959, the Cardinals and Cubs played at Wrigley Field, with St. Louis winning, 7-3. I guess you could literally say I was meant to be a Cardinal fan from the day I was born.

As a kid, you always knew the names of every baseball team’s starting eight and pitching staff. The Cardinal teams of the late 1960s were awesome: Cepeda at first, Javier at second, Maxvill at short, Shannon at third, Brock, Flood and Maris in the outfield, McCarver catching and a pitching staff led by Bob Gibson.

All of the childhood joy of being a Cardinal fan has been revived with me since the news of Lou Brock’s death on Sunday at age 81. And if ever the timing of someone’s passing could be called “fitting,” how appropriate that Brock died while the Cardinals and Cubs were playing another series in their legendary rivalry. It was the Cubs who traded Brock to the Cardinals back in 1964, just one of the many threads that knit these two teams together.

I really don’t feel I have a “favorite” Cardinal. I liked Ted Simmons a lot, and actually my favorite player of all-time is Brooks Robinson, who played for my second favorite team the Orioles. But Lou Brock would be in my top three Cardinals. I always wanted, but never got, one of the clever Brock-abella umbrella hats that he endorsed. Brock, in fact, was the focus of an early journalistic journey to St. Louis while I was in college at Illinois State University. I was going to school to get an English major and mass communication minor, with the dream of being a sports writer. I was working for the student paper, The Daily Vidette (now just The Vidette), and in the summer of 1979, Brock’s final season, I had arranged for a press pass to go to a Cardinal doubleheader, likely on Sunday, July 1, against Philadelphia. The plan was to see Brock before the first game, talk about all aspects of his career, then write a piece for the paper. I had taken a similar tack the previous year when I interviewed my all-time favorite athlete in any sport, John Havlicek, in his final season with the Boston Celtics.

That visit with Havlicek went marvelously well. The Vidette ran the story and I wrote about that experience earlier this year on my website on the one-year anniversary of Havlicek’s death. Going to see Lou Brock didn’t go so well, no fault of his. I was dependent on getting a ride to St. Louis and remember insisting that my ride leave at a certain time to make sure I got to Busch Stadium in plenty of time. Like most sports stadiums, if you didn’t hit the area at the right time, you were in a traffic logjam. At St. Louis, coming from the Illinois side of the river, you could be backed up across the bridge.

Sure enough, we didn’t leave when we needed to, and ran into a wall of traffic. By the time we got to the parking area, I knew I was doomed to do Plan A and talk with Brock pregame. All I remember is running to get entry through the press gate and down to the dugout. As I ran I thought of Plan B: I’ll just introduce myself and tell Brock my intent and ask to speak with him between games.

Engulfed in my own naivete, I got into the dugout entrance with no problem, with roughly 15 minutes before the 1:15 game time and there he was. Brock happened to be close by, and my throat clenched up. He just seemed to be in a bit of a zone by himself, just standing without doing much, staring out at the field. I, on the other hand, was pacing a little bit, wondering how I was going to make him aware of my plan. In what seemed like an hour but was likely just a few seconds of me lingering to get his attention, I finally started coming toward him, saying, “Mr. Brock.” But Lou, who’d certainly had young inexperienced “cub” reporters approach him before, must have known my intent. Before I could say anything further he said, “You’re a little too late, my friend.”

But, of course, a legendary speedster would recognize someone slow, and that was me. I had been slow to get there, but after his remark, I was fast to leave. Down the dugout ramp I went, out past the locker room and out into the main concourse where I belonged with the regular folks. It was only then that I sulked for awhile, mad at my ride, mad at myself, mad that I looked like an amateur. I felt like I’d had a setback in my young sports journalism career. Seeing Hondo had gone so well, but this was just the opposite. I tried to ease my mind by thinking that at least Brock wouldn’t know my name, because I didn’t get a chance to pitch it. I joined the others in my party in our seats.

I have no recollection of how the rest of the day in St. Louis went, although I recall it was a beautiful weather day. The Cardinals won both games, but I remember telling the others that I wasn’t feeling up to going back down between games or after Game 2. The wind had been taken out from my sails and my enthusiasm for the task was nil.

I wasn’t upset with Brock or changed my team loyalty. I just remember thinking over and over that I didn’t want to speak with him then, I just wanted to tell him I would like to meet him later in the day. Why wouldn’t he let me speak to him? I was just trying to do the courteous thing. But after I “grew up” as a sports reporter, I realized that wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need to know I was there and I could have approached him cold later. I could have met him with the rest of the reporters afterward. And as I look back on it today, I just think of it as a learning experience that happens to everyone.

As a Cardinal fan, my Lou Brock experience is pretty solid. It mainly consists of watching him play his career with the Cardinals and hearing Jack Buck beautifully call his games. A friend, Bump Williams, who has been to many Cardinal Legends camps, brought back a Lou Brock autographed hat, which will never be worn or spoiled.

Then there’s the one brief encounter in which Lou Brock told me I’d been late to the game, an observation of tardiness no one ever associated with him, one of the speediest and well liked players in baseball history.