The angel touched my life; David Freese gave me life.

The angel and David Freese. The divine duo that saved me, then rejuvenated me.

It’s October again, the month that spins dreams for baseball fans. The month it all started.

Oct. 8, 2009. Erin Meines had been visiting a mutual friend in Denver. Erin — a luminous lady, an effervescent goofball, a stunner with blonde hair that was seemingly illuminated, making her appear almost angelic. Erin and I hit it off all week, but this October night, while she and our friend went out, I stayed in: The Cardinals were on.

I’m originally from St. Louis. Coloradans have the mountains; St. Louisans have the Cardinals. Our DNA is cross-stitched with red lace. My dad is a teacher, and he taught me baseball better than any teacher taught me anything. He taught me to love the game, to live the game, to believe in the game. He taught me to be a St. Louisan.

That night, the Cards blew a winnable playoff game when a fly ball, the potential final out, literally bounced off of an outfielder. I was despondent. As Erin would later joke (as only Erin could), “I made Ben feel better by making out with him.”

Erin became my girlfriend, my love. She moved to Denver for me. We were just so adorable. We’d kiss in public like every date was our second date. We’d wear Cardinals T-shirts when the team was in town. We’d snuggle in our bed with our little family — me, Blondie and our labradoodle puppy. I lived bliss.

Erin showered me with her love, and to be loved by Erin, well, it was to be loved by an angel. When Erin loved you, she made you wonder if anyone could be more loved.

I was in Cleveland when she died.

Erin was alone in our Wash Park house. She passed away unexpectedly. It was Jan. 28, 2011, and my life felt over, too.

What do you do when the universe steals your soulmate? You don’t get over something like that; you just try to get through it, by losing yourself in other things you love. Baseball was therapy. I watched games throughout the summer, but darn it if the boys weren’t slipping. On Aug. 25, the Cardinals were 10½ games out of the wild card.

But something was up. They started winning and winning, and the unbreakable Braves started losing. It was inexplicable. And there I was on the couch, alone, on the last night of the regular season. If the Braves lost to the Phillies, we were in the playoffs. But Atlanta led the Phillies 3-2 in the ninth. The Braves’ brave closer, this stud named Craig Kimbrel, had 46 saves on the season.

Tenth inning. I squeezed the couch pillow. Eleventh inning. Cameras showed the Cardinals, frozen in their clubhouse, watching their fate unfold on a television. Twelfth inning. It was becoming absolutely excruciating. Thirteenth inning … .

I screamed so loud they could hear me in Cheyenne. The Braves lost. I frantically called my dad. I screamed again. And then … I started crying. Uncontrollably. There are those rare moments when sports are bigger than just games and athletes. This was one of them.

So about David Freese. The Cardinal was all-star this season, but in 2011, he was that guy who just always had something going on. Injuries, some fluke, slowed his progression. And he was no angel; he had two arrests for drunken driving. He was mortal. But he was raised in St. Louis. He knew it was a blessing to wear the birds on the bat. He got it. David Freese was one of us.

And then, he started doing things. Big hits against the Phillies, whom the Cards beat in the National League division series. Clutch homers against the Brewers, whom the Cards beat in the National League Championship Series.

The night that we won the pennant, I posted this on Facebook:

I’ve always remembered this moment: After her husband died, actress Blythe Danner won an Emmy award … and she said in her speech, “I think my husband is up there, stirring this up for me.” Well, the Cardinals were 10½ games out of the wild card on Aug. 25. And now, they’re in the World Series. I can’t help but think that Erin is up there, stirring this up for me.

But after five Fall Classic games, the Cardinals trailed Texas, 3-2. I flew home for Game 6.

Oct. 27, 2011. I went to the game with Drew, one of my closest friends. There we were on a chilly October night, in our jackets and matching Cardinals hats, seated in the last row of the right-field bleachers, awaiting a miracle. When you pour everything into something, you don’t feel anything except that everything. This night, I was in a vacuum – this was the world, this was all that mattered. Each hit, each out, a tingling jolt shot through my body. This game was taking a hold of me.

Bottom of the ninth. The Cardinals trailed, 7-5. The Texas closer, towering on the mound, was this triple-digit fire-baller named Neftali Feliz. He was there to kill my dream. And that’s when David Freese gave me life.

Two on. Two outs. Two strikes.

Freese assaulted the pitch, driving it to right field. It was headed right below us. It all happened so fast, the outfield racing toward the warning track, leaping in the air, his glove extended. Then, suddenly, time froze. I couldn’t see anything. Did he catch it? Did it go over the fence? Then I spotted it, rolling away from the wall.

“THERE’S THE BAAAAAAAALL!!!”

Like a superhero or something, Freese slid headfirst into third base and then, in one swooping motion, popped up and knelt, his left knee on the base, his body statuesque, as the world erupted around him.

It’s almost as if similar greatness became just footnotes. Texas’ Josh Hamilton launched a two-run homer in the top of the 10th. But after the Cards, down two, had already scored once in the bottom of the 10th, literal graybeard Lance Berkman singled in the game-tying run — similarly to Freese, with two outs and two strikes.

The game was tied in the bottom of the 11th when Freese again came to the plate. When Freese crushed the baseball toward the centerfield wall.

When Freese made magic.

I leaped into Drew’s arms. He lifted me off the ground. I jumped into some stranger’s arms. I hopped onto the metal bleacher bench, punched the sky with both fists and let out an uncontrollable primal scream of euphoria. No one had ever cheered louder for anything.

It was the greatest feeling of my life.

Next night, same seats. I was with Michael, my close friend since we were 11. That night, we were 31 years old going on 11.

Fate is not a fallback. This championship did not feel guaranteed. And sure enough, Texas scored twice in the top of the first. But in the bottom of the first, Freese was up. Two on. Two outs. Two strikes. Of course, he doubled in the two runs. Of course he did.

The Cardinals chipped away all night, while the rattled Rangers went scoreless, mustering just three more hits.

When Allen Craig squeezed the final out in his glove, I squeezed Michael. I then raised my arms and looked up to the sky, to share the moment with Erin. A light rain began to fall in the ballpark.

I took my red Cardinals hat and covered my face while I cried and cried, wondering why I was just so unlucky, yet why I was just so lucky.

Benjamin Hochman is a Denver Post sports reporter. E-mail him at bhochman@denverpost.com.