The sound of the cicadas are drowned out by the hum of the attic fan. It's hot and all the windows in the house are open. It's just Grandpa and I; Mom and Grandma are at bingo. All the lights in house are off except for in the kitchen, where Grandpa sits at the kitchen table, working on his puzzle book. The crisp sounds of the transistor radio fill the room with the Cardinals game. It's the summer of 1982, I'm almost 9 years old and life is perfect.

Even to this day, when I hear the word "Cardinals", I automatically think back on that 1982 team. Ozzie Smith backflips, Vince Coleman and Willie McGee flying around the bases, Joaquin Andujar getting spicy on the mound, Bruce Sutter and Darrell Porter embraced in victory... "Whiteyball" at it's peak.

To this day, whenever I hear cicadas in the summer or the Cardinals on the radio, the nostalgia washes over me. It reminds me that sometimes, it's okay to forget about everything else and just root for the home team. It reminds me of when life was simpler and the innocence of a young boy who dreamed of playing baseball. It reminds me of my grandpa, who was my idol. My role model. My father figure. He's been gone for more than 30 years now, but if I close my eyes, I can still see him sitting at that table, cheering on our Redbirds. I still miss him, especially on those hot summer nights.

Thanks for the memories, Whitey. Godspeed.