8 a.m. – 52 degrees and sunny. Hoping the weather holds for the Cardinals Home Opener. Brunch at Chris@theDockett on Tucker Blvd around 10 a.m.  Honorable mention to the HK skillet breakfast, a truly spicy chile-style combination topped with eggs. Mimosas with orange juice make this my first alcoholic breakfast, as  well  as  my  first  Opening  Day  ever.

The Clydesdales prance the inner perimeter of Busch Stadium on Opening Day. This is apparently a big deal, kind of like the appearance of the Royal Rooters of the 1890’s in the old Boston ballpark or politicians waving at the spectators for Opening Day in Washington, D.C.  As a northeastern migrant to St. Louis and an emergent Cardinal fan I have yet to catch the Clydesdale fever that comes of witnessing their great entrances at the Poplar Street entrance. Victoria and her friends are beside themselves with anticipation. They have almost forgotten that the Clydesdales are the pre-game show and there is baseball game to follow.

The gates open at 1 p.m., and we planned to find our seats in the National Car Rental Suite at 1:30 p.m. We have all-inclusive tickets, which means unlimited eating and drinking and indoor shelter from two hours before till two hours after the game. This is the kind of decadent life I have always considered the hallmark of patricians not really interested in baseball, just alcohol. Here I am fraternizing with decadence.

The Clydesdales were apparently staged in a inaccessible site, so we finally gave up on witnessing their arrival and headed for our party suite, which turned out to be on the right field side between first base and the foul pole, not at the National Car Rental Suite in left field. We had a good overhang, which kept the rain out and a warm enclosure behind us, which kept the drinks flowing, so we were fortified for the chilly Opening Day weather. (Open this movie file)   Clydesdales Opening Day 

For the record, the weather did not hold, the clouds rolled in, and later in the game, so did the rain. April is the cruelest month, as the poet says. We managed to console ourselves with nachos, bourbon, and pretzels with melted cheese, none of which was warm, except to the imagination.

I admit the sight of the of bejeweled Clydesdales high-stepping in perfect rhythm to the tune of “Here Comes the King,” (homage to Budweiser, no less), is a sight to behold.  The team of eight patrician horses lend more class than a plebian sport like baseball can possibly deserve, but they remind us of days of beer barons delivering the finest ales to the monarchs of yesteryear.  We were honored for three uplifting minutes as they pranced the outer track.

Adam Wainwright then brought us down to earth.  He struggled with the strike zone in the first inning, loaded the bases, and was spared three runs by a catch at the wall by Dylan Carlson, who made drama of it at the last minute by turning around and snagging a deep fly off his left hip.  Not a good omen for Wainwright’s day on the  mound.

Adam Wainwright smiles after throwing a simulated inning at

Arenado launched the first pitch down the third base line into the stands and everybody stood up to cheer the magically timed swing. Arenado stood and screamed his joyful war cry before turning up the first base line, the game virtually clinched by his blow. The crowd awoke madly. “Here comes the king” suddenly had a new subject, as Arenado rounded the bases.