Tony, death, and a pretty good lamb chop....

Gateway to the West. City of Death

Arriving in St. Louis for Game 6 carried a temporary moment of dread. I was hoping for a quick series, hoping that it would end in Texas, averting a return to a city I do not particularly like. I have my reasons.



I don't like the Cardinals. My experience with this franchise has never particularly been positive. It really has little to do with the team. Bob Gibson (along with Jackie Robinson, Sandy Koufax and Willie Mays) is high on my list of favorite players I never saw play. So is Curt Flood.

The problem is the manager, Tony La Russa. He and I are not warm. He probably does not remember this but he introduced me into the sportswriting game thusly.

The date was Sunday, Sept. 19, 1993. I was 24 years old, sent to cover an Oakland A’s-Chicago White Sox game for the Oakland Tribune to spell John Hickey, the regular beat writer. I only remember two things about the game.

Dennis Eckersley entered a 1-1 game in the ninth and gave up a two-run home run to Robin Ventura.

I wrote a story, saying that Eckersley lost the game, but the Tribune headline read, “Eck blows another save, A’s lose.”

Naturally, entering a tie-game is NOT a save situation. I was betrayed by my own paper on my first day on the job. As fate would have it, I was sent out the very next night, to cover A’s-Royals, the first big-league start of touted phenom Todd Van Poppel.

Before the game, La Russa was in his office fuming. Numerous veteran writers were there: Frank Blackman and Ray Ratto of the San Francisco Examiner, Pedro Gomez of the San Jose Mercury News, David Bush of the San Francisco Chronicle. I stood in the corner.

La Russa focused on Blackman, holding up my story. “You see the shit I have to put up with, Frank? You see? Where’s Hickey? This is bullshit.”

Moments later, La Russa noticed the byline was not Hickey’s but mine.

“Howard Bryant? Who the fuck is Howard Bryant?”

I raised my hand, and said, “Tony, the story’s right. The story didn’t say it was a save situation.”

La Russa ignored me, and continued on, with Blackman playing a willing straight man. “You see, Frank? This is the kind of shit I put up with every day.”

La Russa continued to embarrass me with his false outrage. Finally, Pedro Gomez interrupted and said, “Tony, you know we don’t write the headlines. Leave the kid alone.” Welcome to the big leagues, Howard Fucking Bryant.



Twelve years later, during the height of the Steroid Era, it would be La Russa and I would clash again, this time when we both appeared on 60 Minutes in February 2005, and again in 2009 during an hour and 10 minute phone clash over a column I wrote asking why La Russa defended the disgraced Mark McGwire more than McGwire defended himself.

La Russa and my final clash came last year, when McGwire completed his deception-as-redemption tour, finally admitting the worst-kept secret since Liberace’s homosexuality: Mark McGwire used steroids after all. “La Russa called me, and we went at it again, him asking me if “I believed in forgiveness” and how I could “be so sure McGwire would be not a positive influence.” I told him neither was not nearly as relevant to me as my question for him: “why is McGwire the one who gets to say he’s sorry after lying for all these years and collecting roughly $75 million in career salary?” We agreed to disagree, but only after La Russa said to me, “I have respect for you. I didn’t think you had the guts to call me back. Most people in your industry wouldn’t.”

Having made peace with La Russa, I hopped in a cab for Game 6, and headed for downtown, the Hyatt at the Arch, formerly the old Adams Mark Hotel. We leave the tollgate at Lambert Airport and the cab driver made a wicked, erratic screech onto the freeway. I put my seatbelt on.

Shortly into the drive, he is swerving into the right lane. I look in the driver’s rearview mirror to see his eyes fluttering, his head nodding to the left. He straightened slightly, only to fall completely asleep.

I yell at him. “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m good. I’m good.” What an uninspiring way to check out…Finally, we get to the hotel, and I say to this menace, "You need to get some sleep." He responds, "I got it. I got it."

That said, Tony and the napping cabbie notwithstanding, St. Louis deserved the opportunity for redemption, and Dominic’s seemed to be the perfect starting place. The restaurant is old-school, one of those elegant establishments with crisp white tablecloths with only a few diners. And of course, it was irresistible to quote a few lines from the ill-fated Turk, Solozzo, from The Godfather ("You give me too much credit, kid. I'm the hunted one."). We took a round table near the front of the restaurant and the entrée of choice was the veal T-Bone chop with truffles sauce, fingerling potatoes with carrots and zucchini.

"Try the veal. It's the best in the city." 

The choice was solid, an upgrade over a competent carpaccio appetizer. Having missed the Sidney Street Café meal before Game 1, I was satisfied that Dominic’s compensated.

That was, until our waiters, Bruno and his wife Ryan, took our plates away and Dave Sheinin of the Washington Post said, “I’m sorry, but Sidney Street blows this place away.”