We are Cardinal Nation. We are the 3 million in the stands and the millions more at home. We are generations of generations. We are a father, a son, and a scorecard. We are Ducky, Dizzy, and The Rajah. Albert, Yadi, and Waino. We are a hard nine. We are a kid, an old radio, and a disregard for bedtimes. We are curtain calls and the Clydesdales. We are sac bunts, hitting the cutoff, and the 4-6-3. We were “America’s Team” before there was such as a thing as “America’s Team.” We are 1, 2, 6, 9, 14, 17, 20, 24, 42, 45, and 85. We are “Go Crazy Folks” and “That’s a Winner.” We are Hornsby’s .424 and Gibby’s 1.12. We are Bonilla’s hamstring and a rookie named Albert. We are Robison, Sportsman’s, and Busch. We are “Seat Cushion Night.” We are Ol’ Abner, among other Shannon-isms. We are “Brummer’s stealing home!” We are 1892, and 1982. (And not to mention ’26, ’31, ’34, ’42, ’44, ’46, ’64, ’67, and ’06.) We are the Gashouse Gang, Slaughter’s Mad Dash, and Brock for Broglio. We are backflips on Opening Day. We are peanuts, Cracker Jacks, and home runs that break things. We are a porch swing, a summer night, and the crackly of the Mighty ‘MOX. We are Whiteyball and the baby blues. We are Mike Laga and the Legendary Foul Ball. We are “Meet you at Musial.” We are 42,396 on a Tuesday night. We are 475 home runs, 3,630 hits and 3 MVPs, despite WWII. We are George Kissell. We are two birds on one bat. And always will be. We are 43 Hall of Famers, 10 World Championships, and counting. We are the first team this side of the Mississippi… And the best fans this side of anywhere. We are Cardinal Nation.