I forgot my camera.I looked at my friend Cory. He didn’t bring one either.

And so began our last trip to Busch Stadium.

In actuality, we both knew we didn’t need a camera on our final voyage. We’d both been there too many times to not remember the white arches or endless ramps.

Besides, anyone who’s been to Busch knows you can’t capture everything with a photograph.

You can’t truly grasp what it’s like being a part of a literal sea of red through 35-millimeter film. Although it’s entirely possible, you can’t get a picture of a ballpark hotdog.

So we continued on, determined to reach Busch in time for the 7:10 start.

The first component to the true Busch Stadium experience – the experience we had set out to accomplish – is riding the Metrolink.

After every game, hundreds of red-clad bodies pack into the nearby Metrolink station in an attempt to squeeze as many people as humanly possible onto any given train.

The Metrolink, in actuality, is just for those too cheap or lazy to drive to the game. But for Cory and I, there’s no other way to travel. You can’t pile a few hundred fans in the back of your car, after all.

We boarded the train and made it to the game in good time. Once at the stadium, we set out on our next journey – finding the hotdog.

The ballpark hotdog is a spectacle that cannot be described to those who haven’t been treated to one in their lifetime. Words don’t do justice to the unique nature of the ballpark dog.

It’s like food services went to the store, bought regular-sized hotdogs, cut them in half and called them regular, and called regular-sized hotdogs jumbo. They then overcooked them, smashed the buns and decided to charge $8.00 apiece. “I’ll take two.”

In fact, sometimes I miss ballpark hotdogs so much I’ll personally smash the bun and give my parents 10 bucks just for nostalgia.

After dropping $40 at the concession stand, we made our way to our seats. By seats, I mean the hard wooden benches they call bleachers.

The concept of bleachers has been around for ages. Since we were all born, we’ve been surrounded by bleachers. The little league baseball diamond. The high school football field.

I had to request that my apartment be removed of all furniture and furnished only with bleachers.

Nonetheless, the idea of bleachers as seats is widely accepted and seldom understood in Busch Stadium.

Unfazed, we took our seats. And as is standard procedure when sitting in the bleachers, I immediately got acquainted with my neighbor, only sitting mere centimeters away from him.

The game rolled along – a real pitcher’s battle between Chris Carpenter and the Marlins’ Dontrelle Willis – and we uncomfortably watched from our seats 800 feet away.

Looking around the stadium, it was hard to believe the history that was about to be demolished. For all the jokes and shots taken at the ballpark experience, I couldn’t imagine a better place to grow up learning the art of a baseball game.

The names on the flags in right field: Smith, Brock, Musial. The 40,000 plus people standing in approval of a sacrifice squeeze. The goodwill towards everyone – Cubs fans excluded.

Everything about Busch Stadium has shaped the sports fan I am today.

When the game ended, we began our march to join the rest of the Metrolink-bound herd. No tears. No hugs. Not even one last trip to the bathroom for old time’s sake.

After enough visits to Busch, the games and events and outcomes all tend to blend together. Complete game shutouts. Game winning homers. I’ve seen both. And more.

So the final score of the game isn’t what’s important. I don’t remember who did what or how many runs were scored. It’s the other things that you go for.

The Metrolink. The hotdogs. The bleachers.

And the chance for one last, three hour-long goodbye.