Fredbird finally gets his due.
In the grand tapestry of America’s pastime, there are the players. The legends. The champions.
And then… there is Fredbird.
On this 17th day of June, in the year 2025 of our Lord, the Mascot Hall of Fame—temple of felt and foam, shrine of shenanigans—has summoned the Redbird of Reverence to take his rightful place among the immortals.
For 46 seasons, Fredbird has patrolled the sacred grounds of Busch Stadium, a feathered sentinel of silliness. He has danced, he has doused, he has flung t-shirts with a precision that would bring shame to even one Nolan Ryan. He has pantomimed pain, conjured confusion, and evoked ecstasy—all without uttering a single word. The silent Stanislavski of South City.
He joins the hallowed ranks of the Phillie Phanatic, Mr. Met, and others whose resumés also included “accidentally tackled by security.” But make no mistake: Fredbird is not just a mascot. He is the mascot. A unifier. A mystic. A bird who has seen Mark McGwire’s home runs, Yadi’s pickoffs, and more joyful fans than can be counted without advanced metrics.
He is a paradox: both timeless and perpetually stuck in 1987. A performer and a prankster. A walking contradiction with zero lines of dialogue but infinite charisma.
Let future generations study the tapes. Let them attempt to replicate the heel-clicks, the dance moves, the way he once beaked an unsuspecting fan without ever being noticed. But they will never truly understand. Because there is—and will only ever be—one Fredbird. The bird. The myth. The legend.
And now, forevermore… he soars among legends. Fredbird is a Hall of Famer.