I’m writing from Busch Stadium.

I’m here for a St. Louis Cardinals game. I wore a Cards cap in an author photo once. People still bring it up at events sometimes. They mistake me for a diehard fan. The truth, however, is that I wore the hat for the picture because I’m bald, a choice that probably cost me a few readers in Chicago over the years.

The Cards are playing the Tampa Bay Rays today. This time last year, I was on a cruise ship. That’s what the stadium reminds me of: a monstrous, land-bound cruise ship, complete with music blaring from the loudspeakers and pretty girls dancing atop the dugouts.

The girls are also blowing whistles and slingshotting T-shirts into the crowd. It’s the bottom of the second, and I’ve just finished my first twenty-dollar beer. At this rate, my wife will kill me. She’s not here, but she gets a notification every time I swipe my credit card.

My kids aren’t here either. For the first time in a long time, I am a lone ranger. I’m on the loose in St. Louis, thinking about my son, picturing him wearing the home team’s colors, wondering what all it would take for him to make it here.

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“No Hands” by Waca Flocka Flame erupts across the stadium as Cardinals second baseman Nolan Gorman enters the batter’s box. I’ve always been intrigued by walk-up music. I’ve had fun considering what my own music might be if I were to ever take a swing in a big-league stadium.

But now I’m thinking about my son, going over a list of his current favorite bands: The Black Keys, AC/DC, Jack Johnson. I lean to my left, wanting to ask him what song he’d pick, but he’s not there. Neither is his sister, or my wife.

It’s weird, and getting weirder.

The “Tums Cam” appears on the jumbotron between the fourth and fifth inning. It’s an advertisement for antacids with live-action shots of fans scarfing down nachos and ball park franks. I slide my beer into a cupholder and scan the aisles for hidden cameras.

Then it’s time for the seventh inning stretch. The game is really humming along. The Cards blow a four-run lead in the ninth and call Rayne Stanek, a six-foot-four former Razorback relief pitcher, to the mound. “Still D.R.E” by Dr. Dre thumps through the house speakers. The Kiss Cam flashes across the big screen. I think of my wife and close my eyes.

Baseball is a game of sounds: the crack of the bat, the smack of the glove, the organ. Yes, a real-life organist still plays all classic ballpark hits. The crowd still screams, “Charge!” and performs “The Wave.”

With my eyes closed, it’s as if I’m listening to the game on the radio. I can almost hear my son asking to go to the bathroom, or my wife and my daughter laughing over some private joke.

When I open my eyes, the seats beside me are empty and the spectacle rages on.

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