Today, I saw Stan Musial's obit and felt bad, because my wife is from St. Louis and loved him growing up. Moreover, I didn't register a pang of revenge, the kind you feel when when a nemesis dies. (Earl Weaver, for example, although managers never hit the home run that wrecks your weekend.) I can truthfully report that I have no truck with Stan Musial. He never hurt me.
In fact, he never hurt any of us. Twice, long before any of us came online, Stan played against the Yankees in the World Series, and he was - well - more Stan the Nick Swisher.
Of course, in 1942, he was just a tyke, Stan the Boy. But those are meager numbers. In today's climate, he'd have to splainin' to do. And the saddest part is that his post-season career ended at age 25. The guy played until 42, retiring in 1963, a year before the Cards beat us in the World Series. That's when he would have done damage.
Today, players appear so frequently in post-seasons that they accumulate statistics representative of entire years. (Jeet, in 16 post-seasons, has come to bat 734 times, with a .308 average and 20 HR.) Stan the Man really never got the national audience - and the distractions that come with it - that he deserved.
Oh well. R.I.P. Stan. You never hurt me. I thank you.
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