The Machine comes home

I’m in St. Louis near the end of a long road trip. I’ve come to Busch Stadium to catch one of the stops on the Albert Pujols farewell tour.

Pujols is in the last season of what has been a Hall-of-Fame career. At one time, he was the most feared hitter in the game, a deadly combination of power, consistency and discipline. He not only could tear the hide off the ball when he sent it scorching to the stands, but he also was a tough out, a batter who rarely, if ever, was fooled or swung at a bad pitch.

In his best years—a stretch from 2001 to 2010—he invariably hit well over .300, slammed 40 or so home runs per season and drove in more than 120 runs. He was so well-drilled that his nickname was “La Maquina.”

The Machine.

Pujols spent those glory days here in St. Louis. He led the Cardinals to two World Series titles before the lure of a huge contract prompted him to sign with the Los Angeles Angels.

After he left this river city, he was never the same player. Though he was still formidable, he no longer towered over the game and the other players the way he had when he wore the Cards’ uniform.

After more than a decade away, Pujols came back to St. Louis for what he promises will be his final season. He says he’s 42 now, but rumors persist that he’s really two to three years older than that.

Time and injuries have taken their toll on him. Never the fleetest of players, even in his prime, he now runs like an arthritic plow horse.

At one recent game in Toronto, when the Cardinals’ third-base coach waved him toward home to try to beat a throw from the outfield, Pujols could be seen shaking his head in disbelief as he lumbered around the bag. The throw beat him by more than a city block.

But he’s still figured out ways to contribute, to help the team. His season got off to a slow start—he struggled to hit above .200 for a time—but he’s caught fire lately and his batting average has crept toward .250.

In the game in Toronto where he was thrown out at home, he carried the Cardinals to victory. Their best and much younger players couldn’t make the trip to Canada because of COVID protocols, so Pujols was inserted into the lineup.

He collected multiple hits and hit the home run that put the Cardinals over the top.

On this night, there won’t be similar fireworks.

The Cardinals host the Milwaukee Brewers. The two teams are battling for the lead in the National League’s Central Division with the Cards holding a slight edge.

It’s a beautiful night for baseball, warm but not hot with an occasional breeze wafting through the park. The game is a taut, hard-fought one, a defensive struggle that makes both runs and hits hard to come by.

Every time Pujols comes to the plate—each time facing a pitcher almost young enough to be his son—the huge crowd buzzes.

I saw him play often when both he and I were much younger. Then, I marveled at his power and native skill, the ability not just to hit pitches coming in at 100 miles an hour but send them blazing to spots he seemed to have chosen.

Now, I find myself moved by the ways he relies on experience and guile to substitute for youthful prowess and natural energy.

He’s still a tough out. He puts the bat on the ball a couple of times, hitting it hard but straight at fielders.

On his last time up, though, he rips a grasscutter between shortstop and third, finding a hole that yields a base hit. It’s a canny, veteran bit of hitting, sniffing out a weak spot and exploiting it.

The Machine at work, one more time.

After he reaches first, the Cards’ manager sends in a pinch runner, both to avoid a replay of the Toronto third-base debacle and to give the crowd and Pujols a chance to salute each other.

As he leaves the field, applause rolls over the big stadium.

Pujols tips his cap as he heads to the dugout, an aging gladiator taking a modest bow.

Old guys.

They rule.