It’s a cereal-flake sized sample, but Joshua Baez is making progress. The rookie slugger is flashing the formidable, natural talent that has the Cardinals and their fans so excited about his future.

In his last six games through Wednesday, Baez slashed .333./.368/.889 with a 1.257 OPS, two homers, four doubles, four runs scored and four RBIs. He’s hittin…

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Late Tuesday evening, I watched the Cardinals deposit five home runs into landing points beyond the outfield walls. The customary night-time marine layer at Dodger Stadium couldn’t prevent it. The Cards slugged their way through the aerodynamic drag and unloaded 13 runs.

During the 13-8 victory over the two-time defending World Series champion Dodgers, …

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OK, I’ve had too much caffeine and it’s late in the afternoon, so I just made a lame joke linking the St. Louis catching crew to the famous J.D. Salinger novel, Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caufield is a fictional character, so Pedro Pages has nothing to worry about.

Until the Cardinals instructed catcher Jimmy Crooks to get his car and report to Triple A…

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Even as a stat-obsessed kid, I’d look at my favorit…

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But the weekend got the best of me. And that was a beautiful thing. A lot of emotion was invested over a wild weekend. A lot of emotion that has been in a weaker and vulnerable place was converted into something stronger and more powerful and energizing. I didn’t have an epiphany or anything. But yes, it was quite the weekend.

Cardinals and Phillies? Oli Marmol and Riley O’Brien? Kyle Schwarber murdering a sinker in broad daylight? That can wait a few hours. I will get to that and more. And I will stick to sports. Promise. First I must speak on the last 72 hours or so.

One of my goals here is to have a more personal touch. Well, here I am again. There was a lot of excitement over the weekend. Writing my first post about my intense love of writing and where it led me. Getting to know about everything here at Substack. Searching for the keys to Substack. And making sure I responded to those of you that took the time to write so many wonderful notes.

I have to tell the truth: I was like a little kid when the subscriptions started coming in. And they came in fast. Overwhelmingly so. Each time I received an email notification, my mobile phone would go ding, ding, ding. And I couldn’t resist. I had to check the latest arrival. Who was there? Who signed up? Hey! I see you!

And of course, I had to monitor the numbers to see how many of you were onboarding. It was cool to see those numbers expand. I already expected this would be a positive place for me — but on the subscriptions I didn’t know how it would go.

I privately had lowered my expectations. But whatever I anticipated, it turned out way better than anything I imagined. It was thrilling. And a little crazy. The fast-growing number of subs elevated us to No. 5 on the Substack “rising” list for sports blogs. Then we climbed to No. 2.

Then on Sunday I was notified that we made the Substack “Best Seller” list at No. 2. That’s for all categories; not just sports.

What? Me?

No.

Actually it wasn’t “me.”

That’s why I just referred to “we” and “us.” That was intentional.

Because “I” wouldn’t be on any Substack list unless you all put me there by helping me make the climb. And you 100 percent did that. You came through.

Though I can assure you my humility is fully intact, we can take pride in this together because you made the commitment that elevated everything … not just the rankings.

You elevated me.

You raised my spirit. Higher and higher. This did wonders for me. You have no idea, how much it really means. Which is why I’m sharing this with you. And your generous support streamed in, propped me up. And it seemed like about 17 minutes for all of this to happen.

I’m going real personal now.

I deal with depression and most days are good days, but the bad days can be painful.

On top of that I had another challenge to work through. The future destination of my writing was uncertain. That’s unsettling. And other than my wife and family, writing is my energy source. It must be charged and recharged. I started out as an underdog in this business. An overachiever. And that underdog is still within me. I was able to get ahead in this business, in large part, through my relentless quest to outwork everybody. I was a maniac. And writing was everything.

It was troubling to wonder what was next, where I would go, how I could avoid making another mistake. I just didn’t want to get involved in a setup where the writing wasn’t important. Where the writing just sat there like a leftover bagel. Was anyone even reading this? Is my career on the wane? Where do I fit? So, yes, I’ve been feeling anxious about this.

I have no problem acknowledging my insecurity. The underdog Bernie can’t just lower his head and ram through. The work ethic can’t be everything. Not at my age. So I wondered: did my written work still matter? Really matter?

Now, I don’t want to get too heavy here, but I feel I must share this. This anxiety over my place in the media ecosystem his also prompted me to reflect on other aspects of my life. Because when I reached age 65 (now 67) I started thinking about immortality. And how much time was left on the clock. And that made me melancholy.

What was I doing with my time? If I was so worried about the clock winding down, then why did I take myself out of the game? Why was I so distant from people? Why did I stay out of sight, sheltered and alone in my room, listening to Brian Wilson and John Prine? Why was I antisocial? Why did I disconnect and go into my hideaway zone. What the hell was wrong with me?

I didn’t like the way this was going. I didn’t like what was happening. This was no way to spend the fourth quarter of my life.

In this inspection process I recognized something important: I needed to reconnect. And share. And listen to others. And to care more about others. And to interact with people who cared about me. And then it would matter … but in a more personal and direct way. Rejoining the human parade would give me a fresh outlook, and a more balanced life.

You see, this is the unexpected joy — and the bonus — of making the move to Substack. Thanks to you, I’ve finally made some meaningful discoveries. The same is true of my friends on X. It’s good to be with people again.

So many of you who subscribed also took the time to let me know how you felt about me and my work. You told me how it enhanced your enjoyment and experience of following the Cardinals and other teams. But mostly the Cardinals.

Some of you told me how my print columns made their way to the kitchen table where your mom or dad would share those columns with you, and maybe talk about what I’d written that day. A few of you mentioned grandparents. Some of you mentioned your own children. The ties that bind.

All of those families. Generations of them. And I had a seat with you at that kitchen table? That’s what you were telling me? And now you’re telling me my seat is still there with you, giving me the opportunity to slide on and be a small part of your lives?

This rocked me. It all made sense now. You had no way of knowing what I was going through, but you let me know you were there for me again. And newer, younger Bernie readers came in with support. All of you gave me a boost. It was humbling and moving and opened my eyes … and my heart. You pulled me up. And I’m not talking about a list. I’m talking about life.

Thank you.

—Bernie

During my lifetime my written work has been processed through a number of methods that reflect the enduring lifespan of a sportswriter and the changes in how we produce and consume content.

I’ve written with crayon. I was 8 years old, and I wrote a book for my dear mother, Betty Lee. And believe it or not, I illustrated the book by hand, using all different colors of crayon. (It looked pretty good!) I stapled the construction paper together so the story could be opened and read, page by page. It looked the way a paper-construction book should look.

The story mattered more. It was about a boy who was shopping with his mother one day, and the kid spotted a brand new baseball glove in a store window and stopped to admire it. It was a Brooks Robinson model. The boy told the mom it was the most beautiful glove he’d ever seen. The boy asked if she could buy it for him. The mother told the son that we couldn’t afford it, and she was sorry. She kissed him on the cheek and they resumed walking. The little guy was disappointed but understood. Three weeks later, as the story goes, the little Bernie character walked to the kitchen when called to breakfast — little Bernie never missed a meal — and the Brooks Robinson glove was on the table, the pocket spread open, as if a catch was about to be made. The mother in the story had surprised little Bernie, and he hugged his mom and ran outside to break in the new glove.

The End.

Actually it was The Beginning.

It was the best book I’ve ever written. And I’ve never written another one. I don’t want to. That one is all I needed. That one was perfect.

Here are words I treasure to this day: “Boy, you’re going to grow up and be a sportswriter.” Yes, Mom. As usual you were correct. And I know that you gently nudged me onto a path that would bring me a lifetime of satisfaction and joy and pride. You had no idea the career you predicted will soon reach 50 years. Or maybe you did. I love you and miss you.

I’ve written stories in pencil, on dogeared notebook paper. My father, Bernie Sr. was generous about taking me to games. Baltimore Colts. Baltimore Orioles. The NBA Baltimore Bullets. Baltimore’s American Hockey League team, the Clippers. My dad, bless him, wasn’t a conversationalist. Unlike his first son, he was a quiet man. He expressed his love in other ways. He took me to game after game after game, and that was our special time together. And the man shaped me into what I would become. He knew.

It was our thing. It was a happy day when he called out, “Bo, you wanna go see the Orioles?” (My childhood nickname was Bo.) Of course I wanted to go see the O’s! So I’d come running to the front door, ready to go, waiting for my dad to grab his keys. Those rides to and from Memorial Stadium — 40 minutes each way — were special trips that turned into hundreds of other trips to ballparks and arenas and stadiums that were my professional itinerary. I’ll never forget the excitement of watching Brooks Robinson and Johnny Unitas and John Mackey and Raymond Berry and Frank Robinson and Jim Palmer … I needed an outlet for what I’d seen.

So when we’d arrive home from the stadium, I would head to my room, sit on the bed, and write a story about the game we’d just attended. I would go to my father, who was usually seated into his comfortable chair. And I handed Bernie Sr. my little story, and he sensed that this was something from my heart, my way of telling him how thankful I was for taking me to so many games. He would read each story and tell me “that’s really good.” And he’d smile in his low-key manner. That was more than enough for me.

More about my father: Having sensed my hunger to read newspapers and devour anything I could that was written by pro sportswriters and reporters, my father would stop on the way home from work each day and faithfully buy six daily newspapers: the Baltimore Morning Sun, the Baltimore News-American, the Baltimore Evening Sun, the Washington Post, the Washington Star. And I read ALL of it, including the political news section, and the local news rundowns, a movie reviews. Mostly: sports and I never had a limit. Words. So many words. All of those words that inspired me and guided me. By lovingly bringing the newspapers to me, this was my father’s way of elevating my dreams by showing me what was possible. The dreams that came true and still drive me to this day. What a father.

I wrote for the high school newspaper. The teacher in charge of the paper told me I had some skill, and that I should keep writing. This inspired me. Sharpened my direction. He gave me confidence and played a major role in charting my course. Those of you that have read my columns for 40+ years will not be surprised when I tell you this: one of my first high school columns was a rip job on the boys’ soccer team for a lack of effort and the way they goofed off in practice. My classmates were furious, so I lost a few friends for a while. It was actually a crappy thing for me to do — but hey, it was my first Hot Take, right? I had a lot to learn.

At age 16, I wrote for a small weekly local paper. Covered high school sports. Took photos at games. I think I made $25, $30, per week. One of my colleagues was a young John Aloysius Farrell, who covered local news. I noticed the meticulous research he did before writing every story. I was impressed. I took notes. So if you wonder why I do so much research in putting together statistical-analyses on Cardinals baseball, Blues hockey, Mizzou football and other sports — well, blame it on John A. Farrell. What a career he had. Became a White House correspondent for the Boston Globe. The Globe promoted him to Washington D.C. Bureau Chief. He authored several books (at least) and won a pile of prizes. When I have the time, I love to read about Presidential history, and Farrell’s book on Richard Nixon “The Life” is the best Nixon bio. And I’ve read a lot of them. I mention all of this for a reason: Farrell has no idea how much he influenced the 16-year old Bernie. Heck, I don’t think he’d even remember working with me. I was just a goofy kid. I’ll never forget what I learned just by watching him work.

My first byline in a major-city newspaper was a story on the legendary Gordie Howe, who was in his final NHL season, playing for the Hartford Whalers. I was a 19-year old intern at the Baltimore News-American. The bosses liked me because I hustled and worked late. Whatever needed to be done for a p.m. newspaper — I was there at all hours. I would have lived at office, under a big desk, if they’d permitted me to. Anyway, I made myself useful. So they put me to use. As a Washington Capitals fan, I was aware of Howe’s upcoming appearance on the schedule — his final game against the Caps in Landover, MD.

The sports editor was skeptical. He didn’t think I was ready to write stories. So I proposed this to him: please get me a media credential, and give me the chance to cover the game. I’ll come back to the newspaper, write the story, and if it isn’t worthy of publication, then just go ahead and kill it. But if it’s up to standard, print it. Either way, I’d be grateful for the opportunity.

I wrote the feature on Howe, who was friendly to the kid who interviewed him.

The verdict? The editor printed my story. The next day I took the newspaper to my maternal grandfather, Herb. He grew up as an orphan in Virginia, never had much of a formal education, but he became a voracious reader. Newspapers were his learning tool. And he could really write; he was a prolific author in “Letters to the Editor” columns in the Baltimore papers and his feisty but intelligent notes hit the target.

My Pop-Pop Herb sat at his kitchen table and began reading the Howe story. I looked over, and tears were streaming down his cheek. My goodness … I can still see him, sitting there, tears in his eyes, because his grandson had a story published in the Baltimore paper. That’s pumped even more passion into my writing.

The takeaway from all of these stories? I have too many people who inspired me and helped me along the way — including loyal readers — and I’m not quitting on them now.

Way back in the day, I wrote stories on an old Underwood typewriter. I wrote stories on primitive laptops that had couplers attached; I’d transmit stories by cramming the phone’s ear piece and mouth piece into the rubber receptacles. Sometimes it would work. Many times it didn’t. Have any of you heard of Harold Ballard? He was the cantankerous, barking owner of the NHL Toronto Maple Leafs. I was covering Baltimore’s minor-league team for a game in the Toronto area … and for some reason Ballard was there. (It could have been something to do with an open bar.) After the game Ballard needed to use the pay phone, which I’d monopolized in my desperation to file a story through the devil couplers. After waiting a few minutes, Ballard began pounding on the phone booth, cursing at me to wrap it up. I was terrified, but I kept calm andI got the damn story transmitted. I much preferred something that happened to me many years later: getting mugged after an NFL game in Philadelphia.

Let me fast forward, because none of you want to read an exhaustive biography that drones on … and I’m getting long in the words here. But I wanted to explain why I still cherish the craft of writing and remained fully committed to my life’s vocation. So let’s go to the faster-paced history.

— In my early career as a beatwriter I’ve covered the Baltimore Colts, the Baltimore Orioles, the Washington (then) Redskins, the NBA Washington Bullets, the Washington Capitals, Baltimore’s indoor soccer team (The Blast) that defeated the St. Louis Steamers for the MSL title. At age 24 I became the youngest full-time sports columnist in the newspaper’s history.

— Then it was onto St. Louis to cover the football Cardinals for three years, and help the great Rick Hummel out on the Cardinals beat, and chip in on the Blues’ beat, and contribute stories on the Mizzou and SLU sports teams. Best part? Getting to know Whitey Herzog and learn from him … just as I’d received a baseball education from Earl Weaver in Baltimore. And with Hummel as a mentor, I couldn’t strike out.

— From there I spent 15 months in Dallas, on the Cowboys’ beat for the Dallas Morning News. I covered Tom Landry’s final season as coach. I covered the sale of the team to Jerry Jones. I covered the early weeks of head coach Jimmy Johnson. I covered the draft when the Cowboys picked quarterback Troy Aikman No. 1 in the 1988 NFL Draft. I broke all kinds of stories, and one day I’ll tell you the story of Jerry Jones in a New Orleans bar, and the night I rescued him.

—- The Post-Dispatch was gracious in offering me an opportunity to become a sports columnist, and that was my career from the summer of 1989 through the summer of 2015. I’ve been privileged to be associated with St. Louis radio giant KMOX. I’ve taken turns at other radio stations but the circuit always led me back to KMOX. I’ve done podcasts and videos and have changed with the times to remain current. I cannot thank the Post-Dispatch enough for giving me the column-writing job that took me to so many places in the traveling circus of sports coverage. I’ve had so many excellent colleagues along the way including Hummel, Bryan Burwell, Jim Thomas, Joe Strauss, Derrick Goold, Jeremy Rutherford, Dave Matter, Dave Luecking, Kathleen Nelson, Stu Durando, Elizabethe Holland, Tom Timmermann, Dan Caesar and Mike Eisenbath.

— I’ve always tried to stay ahead of the curve. At STL Today, I became the first mainstream sports columnist in America to open an online discussion forum for St. Louis sports fans, and it was a wild and lively and crazily entertaining place that, among other things, featured Cardinals pitching coach Dave Duncan entering the forum to spar with critical fans. I had plenty of spirited bouts with readers, and we had a great time.

— I’ve been fortunate to see so much, cover so much, and travel often. I’ve written columns in places that range from Boise to Barcelona, New Orleans to Nagano, Augusta, GA to Albuquerque. My job has taken me to 47 of the 50 states. I’ve written columns on airplanes, ships, busses, trains, taxi cabs and automobiles and hundreds of hotel rooms.

I once wrote a column at the Nagano Olympics from a sushi cafe. The other patrons took note of my size, pointed at me and smiled profusely. What did I do? “They’re calling you ‘The American Giant,’ one of the cafe employee told me. “They like you.” And there was a photo in the paper the next day, with The American Giant smiling among his new friends.

The American Giant has written columns in restaurants, parking lots, saloons, a bowling alley, and from tall mountains. I’ve written columns after being shaken by a massive earthquake in San Francisco, then knocking on 50 doors in a neighborhood near Candlestick Park to find a working phone to send in my story.

During my career I’ve had the extraordinary experience of interviewing Nelson Mandela, Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordan, multiple U.S. presidents, and a future president or two. I’ve met many famous musicians, stars of film and TV, and the experience was definitely cool — but it was more satisfying to make new friends or receive notes or emails from total strangers who let me know my work was meaningful to them. And the biggest stars of all for me? Other sportswriters, especially the star columnists in other markets. Jim Murray in LA, Edwin Pope in Miami, Will McDonough in Boston, Bob Verdi in Chicago, Mark Whicker in Philadelphia, Joe Posnanski in Kansas City, Dave Anderson in New York, Blackie Sherrod in Dallas, Woody Paige in Denver, Patrick Reusse in Minneapolis — and Thomas Boswell, Tony Kornheiser, Sally Jenkins and Michael Wilbon in Washington.

I’ve covered deaths and tragedy. Darryl Kile. Oscar Taveras.

I’ve covered triumphs and sports miracles. Game 6 of the 2011 World Series, Pujols homering off Lidge, Wainwright’s curve ball to Beltran.

I’ve covered more than 30 Super Bowls, four Olympics, at least 12 world championship boxing matches, about 10 World Series, and four of the NBA Finals won by Michael Jordan’s Bulls.

I covered every postseason game managed by the Tony La Russa Cardinals from 1996 through 2011, which means I had a great vantage points for TLR clubs that won three NL pennants and two World Series. I covered around 80 percent of the St. Louis Rams’ games during their time here, and that includes two Super Bowl games and the triumph in Super Bowl 34. That was the 1999 team, led by Hy-Vee QB Kurt Warner, that shocked The STL and The World. One of the greatest and happiest events for me was watching the Blues winning the Stanley Cup in 2019. I could just let loose and be a fan the entire way, and taken as a whole, the Blues’ lengthy and grueling crusade to the Cup was unlike anything I’d witnessed. Blues fans - so true-blue loyal — finally had The Cup.

Goaltender Jordan Binnington was the Kurt Warner of that team, so yes, history repeats itself. And we saw that again with two hometown heroes in nine years: David Freese for the Cardinals in 2011, and Pat Maroon for the Blues in 2019.

I sat courtside and saw the agony and frustration of the great Missouri basketball coach Norm Stewart, who had so many disappointing trips to the NCAA basketball tournament. And though we bumped heads on occasion (ancient history) I felt bad for Norm when those tough, talented Tiger teams came up short. I’ve had the pleasure of writing about Illinois basketball coach Lou Henson, SLU basketball coaches Charlie Spoonhour and Rick Majerus, and Indiana coach Bob Knight. Lou Henson graciously opened up to me about the unexpected and traumatic death of his son, sharing feelings he had kept to himself. I was deeply moved by what he told me, and I cried as I wrote the column in my hotel room at the site of an NCAA Tournament.

Stan Musial. He called me his Polish cousin. I mean, does it get any better than that? Bob Gibson once approached the table I sat at in the media lounge at the old Busch Stadium and asked if he could join me. It was intimidating! At least until he told me to relax.

I’ve had the honor of covering Hall of Fame managers Earl Weaver, Whitey Herzog, Joe Torre and La Russa. How’s that for getting an advanced baseball education? The happiest I’ve felt for any coach in my time was in Atlanta to see Dick Vermeil’s unrestrained glee after leading the Rams to a dramatic Super Bowl victory to cap the miraculous 1999 season. For some reason, after leaving the celebration and ceremonies on the field, “DV” was walking back to the locker room, saw me, and threw himself across a rope-line barrier to give me a huge hug.

I have many great stories to share, so don’t fret if the MLB owners and players make the mistake of shutting down part (or perhaps more) of the 2027 baseball season. I ask you to trust me when I tell you this: I’ve been storing dozens and dozens and dozens of stories in my head, and in my notebooks. I’ve told some of them before, but many have never been told at all, or told in full. And you can count on me to bring them out to you, including some interesting behind the scenes stuff.

I’ve had a lifetime of highlights packed into my sports-writing years, doing features and commentaries on Albert Pujols, Warner, Brett Hull, Yadier Molina, Adam Wainwright, Jim Edmonds, Marshall Faulk, Scott Rolen, Mark McGwire, Orlando Pace, Isaac Bruce, Torry Holt, Chris Carpenter, Al MacInnis, Brian Sutter, Bernie Federko, Chris Pronger, Keith Tkachuk, Dan Dierdorf, Jackie Smith and Aeneas Williams, Bill DeWitt Jr., Walt Jocketty, Georgia Frontiere, Dave Freese, Jason Isringhausen, Dave Duncan, Dennis Eckersley, Paul Goldschmidt, Nolan Arenado, Rick Ankiel, Edgar Renteria and so many others.

I’ve been longtime voter for the Baseball Hall of Fame, Pro Football Hall of Fame, Heisman Trophy and the St. Louis Cardinals Hall of Fame and also (in the past) individual awards such as the NL Cy Young, NL Manager of the Year, and NL Rookie of the Year.

I got emotional when I received a call one day, notifying me of my selection to the the state of Missouri Sports Hall of Fame in 2023. And during a St. Louis sports-media career that goes back to 1985, I’ve won multiple national awards for column writing and sports-talk hosting. But …

I have a new “award” and it’s the only one I need: a splendid new home for my writing. I’ve longed to go independent for a few years now, and I don’t know why I waited this long.

I’m giddy with enthusiasm to take the leap onto this new (for me) platform. And of course, I’m asking for your support because I need that to make this work. How else will I be able to feed our five cats? That food is expensive!

I can’t wait to write for you, work for you, and get to know you. My journey as a story-teller and commentator began some 59 years ago with a box of crayons, five sheets of construction paper, a hand-held stapler, and a story about a baseball glove that I worked on for two days before handing it to my mother … with love.

This has always been about love. The romance that comes with writing sports is as strong as ever.

I look forward to continuing this dream career — this remarkable journey — with all of you along with me for the next step. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to carry my childhood dream to across the newest threshold.

That aspiration, this ambition, is very much alive. This is my calling. I know this, which is I’ll do my best to honor it. And it will be my way of thanking you for staying with me.

And if you are a longtime reader or are relatively new to the Bernie Experience, I promise I will never take you for granted.

If you think I’m wrong (or bull-headed!) with an opinion I’ve expressed here, then let me hear about it. Give me some hell. Or let’s just have a good conversation.

Heck, we could turn this place into a more civil version of the rocking-and-rolling “Bernie’s Press Box,” the long-ago online forum that I’ve missed through the years. After being a recluse for too long, I’ve rediscovered my yearning for interaction. Let’s do this!

Pardon my typos.

Have a fabulous weekend.

Thanks for reading …

—Bernie

First of all, I’m still trying to learn how all of this works and I’m afraid I failed to send you a welcome greeting as soon as soon as you showed me your support with a paid subscription. I apologize for the unintentional error.

If some of you have received two versions of this welcome note, and that’s my fault. I’ll…

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