ST. LOUIS — The place that calls itself “Baseball Heaven” is now filled with a bunch of shirtless dudes.
And women, in bare chest novelty tees. And kiddos, who needed permission from their moms to strip from the waist up. And those proudly showing off their hairy chests, and pimply backs, scars from surgeries and stretch marks from a life well lived. They all congregate here in the right-field bleachers of Busch Stadium. Every night, it starts with just a handful of the bravest, and youngest fans, but inning by inning, it spreads like a virus, infecting a crowd of all ages and body types.
United, they celebrate baseball with zeal, and the majority does so without their tarps (a.k.a., their upper-body garments). Together, they have resurrected the cemetery where The Cardinals Way went to die. These fans stand all game and cheer loudly, so loud that even the visitors in their dugout down the third-base line can hear them.
They are the new celestial beings protecting the great tradition in this Gateway City.
And they are the last thing you’d expect to originate through the St. Louis Cardinals.
The Tarps Off wave that has swept through Major League Baseball began in earnest last month when several out-of-towners visited St. Louis for a weekend. Inside a sleepy Busch Stadium, some college baseball players decided to shed their shirts, repurposing them as rally towels. Their fervor sparked a comeback win by the Cardinals, and a shout-out from manager Oliver Marmol.
Since then, the Cardinals organization has embraced this organic movement, printing “Oli Says Tarps Off” T-shirts and even dedicating sections 107 and 109 as a space for fans to let loose. The movement feels like a miracle drug for boredom, a long time coming for even baseball’s most traditional fan base.
Best Fans in Baseball. Put that on a billboard, haters. Right above the Missouri-Illinois state line on I-70 West for all to see. I’m from here, grew up on gooey butters and pizza slices covered in Provel cheese and cut into squares, and I can assure you with great humility and Midwest modesty that St. Louis baseball does God’s work.
Our franchise has never spent Dodgers Money on buying teams. We build ours. Fun fact: The architect behind the game’s modern farm system was Cardinals executive Branch Rickey. (We invented the minor leagues, basically.)
In the 1880s, while affiliated with the American Association of Base Ball Clubs, the Cardinals were one of the few teams to permit the sale of alcohol to spectators. (We invented beer, essentially. You’re welcome.)
Also, decades before other clubs created their own “Knothole” sections, in which they gave away tickets to local boys who had previously watched games through the gaps of the outfield fences, the Cardinals sponsored the first “Knothole Gang” in 1917. (We invented kindness, pretty much.)
“I had a sliding catch, when I was with the Mets, down the right field line and got cheers from the home fans here. They just enjoy good baseball,” Chicago Cubs outfielder Michael Conforto recalled to me. “I think the word around the league is just that, like, they’re just great baseball fans. I remember hearing that and finally coming out here, just seeing how they support their team.”
Still, as much as I take civic pride in the whole Best Fans in Baseball moniker — it’s way better than the alternative: St. Louis! Where we’ve lost an NFL franchise … twice! — there’s an ick factor I can’t ignore. An air of arrogance and entitlement. It’s rooted in traditionalism and an us-versus-them mindset, in which people who look like me, and even certain Cardinals players, wonder if we’d be considered them.
Although every born-and-bred St. Louisan wears the birds on the bat, and I mean everyone from the suburbs of South County to the streets of North City, the most vocal of the fan base skews older and Whiter. In 2017, when Dexter Fowler, who’s Black, played here and made some innocuous comments about President Trump’s executive order restricting travel from several predominantly Muslim countries, a commenter posted (with terrible grammar) on the Facebook page St. Louis Cardinals True Fans: “You can take your ass back to chicago. jerk.what you worried your going to have to support your relatives .when he pulls the welfare button …”
Although the Tarps Off crew can still resemble a frat house (the base might no longer be “older” yet still very much “Whiter”), last weekend when the Cardinals hosted the rival Chicago Cubs, I spied several young men of color throughout the section, and a group of four female cousins in shirts printed to look like naked chests. That’s a start. More so, it hits the restart button on the stodgy Cardinals Way.
From left, sisters Elena and Natalie Buss and their cousins, sisters Jordan and Skyler Rosvall, enjoy being part of the Tarps Off crew at Busch Stadium. (Candace Buckner / The Athletic)
The organization’s old modus operandi was Spursian in nature, and similar to Heat Culture, but without all the neon and nightclubs. It worked, with homegrown Cardinals leading the team to playoff appearances and the 2011 championship, until it didn’t. Over time, the team stopped churning out big-league-ready talent and the results showed. The team missed three straight playoffs, and in 2025, attendance at Busch Stadium dipped to 19th in the league.
“They were at the point where they weren’t doing the attendance quiz anymore, because it was too embarrassingly low,” season ticket holder Ryan Russell told me, shirtless and showing off his dad bod. “After what management did and everybody voting with their feet to not come back, the team does need something.”
Still even when the so-called Cardinals Way was a thing, you might walk around Busch and ask 10 fans what it meant, and get 20 different answers. But not Tarps Off. This is a movement that doesn’t require words. It’s visceral and primal, and yes, sometimes regretful.
At its best, it’s two and a half hours of passion. Nightly roll calls that start with chants of “Jor-dan Walk-er,” the 24-year-old native of Stone Mountain, Ga., who’s reaching his peak in this All-Star-caliber season, and dance moves fueled by domestic beer when the opening chords of shortstop Masyn Winn’s walkout song (“E.I.”) blast through the stadium.
I’m a sucker for cornrows and manicured toes. Fendi capri pants and Parasuco’s, as crooned by St. Louis’s own Nelly.
The Cardinals Way was tradition. But Tarps Off is just vibes.
“If you look at St. Louis, the years they were good, and even go back when Ozzie (Smith) and that group was here, man, this was a party,” Marmol told me. “It was a good time to be in the stands at a game at their stadium. With our young group and our roster, that’s why we leaned into that (Tarps Off) group in right field the way we did, because I think it plays well with everybody having a good time.”
Last Friday night, five friends, none older than 20, showed up early for the prime spots at the front of the bleachers. Lucas Gospodarski wore no shirt but covered the scars from his several heart surgeries with a “6” and a “7” — the meme of choice for Gen Alpha — painted in red.
“Hopefully they catch me on broadcast,” he said, smiling.
From left, Sean Tenney, Chase Eberwein, Cayson Bridgeforth, Lucas Gospodarski and Riley Tilley showed up early for the prime spots at the front of the bleachers. (Candace Buckner / The Athletic)
A watchful usher caught his buddy, Chase Eberwein, before the cameras did, and so Eberwein’s upper body looked like a smeared mess — although you could still clearly read the “Cubs Suck” across his torso. Cayson Bridgeforth, the friend who spoke in 2x speed, would normally bounce during the sixth inning whenever he attended a Cards games, but Tarps Off has kept him invested.
“Sometimes baseball games can be boring, but this makes it, like, really fun, you know what I’m saying?” Bridgeforth said.
“The most fun I’ve ever had at a game,” Eberwein chimed in.
“This makes me want to be here the whole time, ’cause it’s like a high school student section,” Bridgeforth continued.
Like high school, the chants emanating from the Tarps Off crew can be a bit sophomoric. Through the series, Cubs outfielder Pete Crow-Armstrong, known by his initials, starred as their favorite target. Whenever he approached the batter’s box, boos smoothly transitioned into a chorus of “Over-rated!”
Friday night, a guy in his 20s remembered PCA’s recent incident in which he responded to a female heckler with vulgarity, and so the Cards fan shouted: “He hates women!” However, when humidity met toxic masculinity, and with the protection that comes with being in a crowd, several bros in the back of the bleachers chanted something that would’ve embarrassed their mothers, and most of civilized society: “P-C-Gay!”
Saturday night, however, Crow-Armstrong shushed the “Over-rated” noise by drilling a 444-foot homer — right to the Tarps Off gang.
“They got like hundreds of shirtless guys in right field. Interesting thing for the year. But they’re rowdy and showing up,” Crow-Armstrong said. “They’re buying into something, so I can appreciate it. They don’t really rest for nine innings. I guess that’s what they’re there to do.”
Tarps Off is what happens when a younger, louder roster and the newer, more appealing innovations in the game appeal to a demographic baseball has been desperate to woo. In St. Louis, every waved shirt feels like a victory.
Upon entering Busch Stadium, an announcement intones: “Welcome to Baseball Heaven.” Yet near the steps that lead to the Tarps Off section, a sign serves as a warning: “This area may not be suitable for guests seeking a traditional seated game experience.”
Tradition’s for the birds. Tarps Off? That’s for the Cardinals.
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