Sometimes… you just have to write an article about Albert Pujols. Not because there’s breaking news. Not because it’s his birthday or an anniversary or anything like that. Just because.
I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic lately. Maybe it’s the season—the way summer starts to fade and baseball settles into that late-August haze. Maybe it’s the way the St. Louis Cardinals have been wobbling, and I find myself reaching back for something solid. Something legendary.
What I do know is this: as a Cardinals fan, I’ve been lucky. I’ve watched this team do some truly cool stuff. And today, I want to write about the cool stuff. Specifically, the coolest rookie season I’ve ever seen.
Let’s talk about 2001.
First let’s set the scene. The summer of 2001 in St. Louis was a strange kind of hangover. The city had just lived through the fever dream of the home run chase—McGwire’s thunderous swings, the national spotlight, the nightly countdowns. But by the time the calendar flipped to April, the buzz had faded. Mark McGwire was aging and injured, the team made the playoffs in 2000, but were eliminated in five games by the New York Mets in the NLCS — star rookie pitcher Rick Ankiel famously came down with “The Yips” (H/T to dsmcardfan) — and there was no clear superstar waiting in the wings. The Cardinals were good—not great. They were a 93-win team that tied for first in the NL Central but settled for the Wild Card thanks to a tiebreaker with Houston. They were managed by Tony La Russa, anchored by Jim Edmonds and Edgar Renteria, and still trying to figure out what came next.
Much like the rest of the world.
It was the summer of 2001. Wikipedia had just launched, and nobody knew what it was. People were still burning CDs and arguing over whether Napster was a revolution or a felony. “Friends” was still the most important show on television. George W. Bush had taken office after the contested 2000 election. The Euro had just launched in Europe. September 11 was on the horizon, though no one knew it yet.
It was a world on the edge of transformation. And in St. Louis, a rookie named Albert Pujols was about to transform baseball.
He wasn’t supposed to be there. Albert Pujols had been drafted in the 13th round in 1999—an afterthought, really. He wasn’t a top prospect. He wasn’t on anyone’s radar for Opening Day. But after a scorching spring training, Tony La Russa made the call: the kid was coming north.
And from the moment he stepped into the lineup, everything changed.
In his first month, Pujols hit .370 with 8 home runs and 27 RBIs for a 198 wRC+. By May, he was batting cleanup. By July, he was an All-Star. By September, he was rewriting rookie record books. He set a Cardinals rookie record for home runs (37), RBI (130), hits (194), and total bases (360). He finished with a 1.013 OPS, one of the highest ever by a rookie with 500+ plate appearances. He would go on to be the National League Rookie of the Year, earn a Silver Slugger Award, and finished fourth in MVP voting behind Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, and Luis Gonzalez.
Most legends are only recognized in hindsight, but with Pujols, you knew you were watching greatness unfold. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t gradual. It was immediate and overwhelming—like watching a comet streak across the sky. Somehow, even as a rookie, he carried himself like he’d been here before. Even Tony LaRussa acknowledged it in Spring Training:
“Impressive… Balls he swings at,” La Russa said when asked why Pujols had caught his eye. “Balls he takes. The way the ball comes off his bat.”
Pujols gave fans something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was shifting. The world was changing—fast, unpredictably, and sometimes painfully. But every time he stepped into the batter’s box, there was a kind of stillness. A pause. He showed that talent could be quiet. That greatness didn’t need hype. That sometimes, the right person shows up exactly when you need them—even if no one saw them coming.
Albert Pujols didn’t just give us numbers. He gave us certainty. And in this late-August haze, when the present feels wobbly and the future unclear, I find myself reaching back—not for stats, but for that feeling. The feeling of watching The Machine boot up.
And also an excuse to post this:
One my favorite sports things ever was watching Albert Pujols watch his own home runs. I could write another 800 words waxing poetic on that expression. Maybe one day I will!
Happy Tuesday!
