I haven’t made it to many games this season, but I went to the one on Wednesday against the Pirates. It was, unexpectedly, lovely. A late summer evening, the kind that teeters on the edge of fall—when the sun sets earlier, but not so early that you lose the light. The air had that first hint of autumn in it, a soft chill brushing against your skin while the last rays of sun stretched golden across the stadium. It was warm and cool at once, like the season itself couldn’t decide.

I sat there in my seat watching the shadows stretch across the outfield as the sun dipped behind the Arch. It felt like a secret—like I’d stumbled into a private showing of a Cardinals game, just for me and a few thousand others. No lines at the gate. No crowd at the concessions. It was, in a word, lovely.

But then the quiet started to feel… too quiet. The emptiness wasn’t just convenient—it was telling. This wasn’t a sleepy Tuesday in April. It was a late August game, against a division rival, with playoff hopes technically still alive (1.4% per Baseball Reference). And yet the stadium felt like it had already given up.

I thought about the piece written by ORSTLcardsfan last month, the one that laid out the numbers and trends. The Cardinals are down nearly 4,000 fans per game compared to last season. That’s not just a blip. That’s a shift. And sitting there, in the golden hush of a nearly empty Busch Stadium, I could feel it.

ORSTLcardsfan broke down the logical reasons plainly: economic strain, extreme summer weather, school starting back up, and of course, the team’s performance. All valid. And then there’s downtown St. Louis itself. Don’t get me wrong—I love this city. But there was a melancholy to it on Wednesday that’s hard to place. Something just felt… off.

I don’t want to rehash what was already a well-argued piece. Because I think ORSTLCardsfan nailed it: while all those factors are real, there’s still some quiet other thing. That intangible disconnect. As they wrote:

“It makes one wonder how much of the ‘connection’ the team has with its fanbase has been disrupted. And how they get that back. Or if they get that back.”

I’m a baseball fan. I enjoy baseball. It was a beautiful night at the park, and the lack of people actually made it a more pleasant experience. But… I just wanted the game to be over. Maybe it’s me getting older. Maybe my passion is fading, as other things take precedence over watching young men hit a ball with a stick. Maybe it’s just me.

But I don’t think so.

My sister was at the game with me. She’s more of a “normie” fan—likes baseball, but doesn’t follow it like I do, or like you reading this probably do. On the way there, she said she hoped to see Ryan Helsley pitch because she liked that he walked out to Hells Bells and the stadium did the cool effect with the lights. I had to explain that he wasn’t on the team anymore.

Part of me wonders if that isn’t the real explanation. The team hasn’t been good, which leads to trades, which leads to churn. And churn erodes connection. You stop recognizing the names. You stop caring about the stories. The human element—the part where you root for a guy not just because he’s good, but because he’s yours—starts to fade.

I think about how many players have come and gone in the last two seasons. How many jersey purchases now feel outdated. How many walk-up songs we used to associate with a moment, a mood, a memory—now gone. When my sister asked about Ryan Helsley, it wasn’t just a casual fan moment. It was a reminder that even the small rituals of fandom are fragile. That the emotional scaffolding we build around a team can collapse quietly, without us noticing.

And when that connection frays, the game itself starts to feel… flatter. Even a close game can feel boring if you don’t care who’s playing it. Even a win can feel hollow if you don’t know who you’re winning with.

Which isn’t to say they shouldn’t trade players. That’s clearly the right move. This is just a theory, a feeling, a vibe. I write about baseball as a living, breathing thing—how it makes us feel. Sometimes there are numbers, sure. But mostly, I’m chasing the pulse.

And the pulse right now feels faint.

I think the mistake wasn’t the trades. It was letting things get to the point where trades were the only option. That’s the trap for mid-market teams. They fall behind, so they trade away talent to reset. But every trade chips away at the emotional connection. Fans lose their favorite players, their rituals, their reasons to care. So they stop showing up. Stop spending. The team has less money. Can’t retain stars. Has to trade again. And the cycle deepens.

It’s quicksand. And the real mistake might have been going into 2023 with a roster that felt more like a hope than a plan. 2023 was the emotional hinge—Molina gone, Pujols gone, Wainwright fading into twilight. It wasn’t just the end of an era; it was the end of identity. And the team didn’t find the next heartbeat. So what now?

That’s the question, isn’t it? What do you do when the bridge collapsed behind you and the path ahead is fog?

I think it starts with honesty. Not just about the standings or the payroll, but about the story. The team has said they’re rebuilding, but some of their moves—some of their words—haven’t always matched that. And fans feel the dissonance. If you want patience, you have to earn trust.

Let the kids grow. Don’t rush it. Don’t force the next emotional anchor. That kind of connection can’t be manufactured—it has to emerge. Organically. Authentically. The way it did with Yadi, with Waino, with Albert. And then? Hype them. Celebrate them. Not just for their stats, but for their quirks, their walk-up songs, their stories. People loved the “Youngry Birds” because it felt like something ours. Something new, but familiar.

That’s how you escape the quicksand. Not by clawing your way back to the past, but by planting something new. Something worth rooting for. Something worth remembering.

And I think the Cardinals are positioned to do that. They have young players emerging. They’ve had a few impactful drafts in back-to-back year and the farm system feels like it’s humming with possibility. There’s new front office leadership on the horizon, too. A chance for fresh eyes, fresh ideas, and maybe even a fresh tone.

This isn’t about returning to glory overnight. Baseball is a game of memory, yes. But it’s also a game of becoming — of adapting. And if the Cardinals can lean into that—if they can be honest, be patient, and be human—they might just find their next heartbeat.

Happy Sunday!