I’ve visited the stadium before, but today’s tour allowed me to slip past the usual barriers. Standing in the dugout, I imagined the nervous pacing of players, the silent rituals — a tap of the helmet, a muttered prayer — before stepping up to the plate. The worn wooden bench seemed to hold memories of countless late-inning rallies and silent disappointments. I rested my hands on the padded railing and looked out at the field, a player’s view rather than a fan’s. It felt intimate — like being backstage at a play I’ve watched for years.
The broadcast booth offered a different thrill. From that height, the diamond stretches out in perfect geometry — the kind of view that makes you marvel at the precision of the game. I thought about the voices that have narrated so many summers of my life, guiding each pitch, each swing, each diving catch. The room itself felt both important and familiar, like visiting the command center of an old friend’s house.
Strangely, the moment that struck me most wasn’t on the tour itself — it was a memory. Sitting in the stands back in 2004, watching the new stadium rise in the background. The old Busch was still hosting games, yet this sleek new structure was climbing into the skyline — a promise of what was to come. Now, standing in that new stadium, I felt the weight of time. The memory of those 2004 games — Rolen and Edmonds patrolling the field, Pujols in his prime — felt like a postcard from a different life. The new Busch isn’t so new anymore, but it still carries that feeling of potential — of something big about to happen.
I can’t wait to come back for a game this year — to feel that electric moment when the beast wakes up, the crowd roars, and the field glows under the stadium lights. Today’s tour offered a glimpse of that magic, frozen in stillness. Soon enough, the silence will break, and the air will crackle with the rhythm of baseball once again.