Some stories stick with you.

Others disappear somewhere into the back of your brain, buried beneath 47 years of life, only to suddenly reappear when something happens that unlocks the door.

This is one of those stories.

I grew up going to Mass every week, like most Catholic kids in South Louisiana. And if you grew up Catholic around here, you probably know that our Cajun priests have always had a certain way of delivering a sermon.

There was Scripture. There was a lesson. And every now and then, if you were lucky, there was a joke.

Sometimes a pretty good one.

I couldn't tell you exactly how old I was when I first heard this particular story. I can't tell you which priest told it. I certainly can't guarantee I'm remembering every word correctly.

But when I heard the news today that legendary LSU baseball coach Skip Bertman had passed away, a story that I hadn't thought about in decades suddenly came rushing back.

And so did another memory.

Later that week all those years ago, I remember telling the story to Tony Robichaux.

Robe listened.

Then came that familiar little smirk. A brief laugh.

If you knew Tony, you know the one.

That was about all the validation I needed.

Over the years, pieces of the story faded. I've picked at that memory from time to time, trying to put it back together. I'm sure some version of this joke has been told in churches, locker rooms and baseball dugouts all over the country with different coaches and different teams.

But today? This version belongs to Skip and Robe.

And in my memory, it went something like this.

Welcome to Heaven, Skip

Coach Bertman arrived at the Pearly Gates and was welcomed by none other than an old baseball rival from down I-10.

Tony Robichaux.

The two coaches shook hands, exchanged some pleasantries and probably talked a little baseball before Robe motioned toward the gates.

"Skip," he said, "you lived a long, good life. You accomplished just about everything a baseball coach could accomplish. Come on. Let me show you around. I think you're going to like what we've been working on for you."

Skip followed.

They walked through the gates and down a long road until suddenly the clouds seemed to part.

There it was. A baseball stadium.

But not just any baseball stadium. This place was magnificent.

Purple and gold banners hung everywhere. Thousands of fans filled the seats. The grass looked like it had been cut five minutes earlier, without a single blade out of place.

It looked a little like Alex Box Stadium.

Only better. Much better.

The kind of place that could only exist in Heaven.

Every concession imaginable lined the concourse. And because this was Heaven, the concession stands never ran out of anything.

No long lines.

No $14 beers.

No running out of nachos in the sixth inning.

Just baseball.

The scoreboard was a magnificent old-school throwback, something straight out of Fenway Park, complete with little hidden angels changing the numbers after every run.

On the field were former LSU players who had gone before him, back in uniform again.

Young. Healthy. Playing baseball.

Just like they remembered.

Skip stood there taking it all in. Robe reached over and handed him an LSU baseball cap.

"Time to get back to work, Skip."

He pointed toward the dugout.

And for Coach Bertman, this truly was Heaven.

Five national championships. Eighteen years building one of the greatest programs college baseball had ever seen. Generations of players and fans shaped by what he built in Baton Rouge.

And now he had his ballpark.

His players. His dugout. Baseball forever.

Not bad.

But then Skip noticed something. Across the street.

Another stadium.

And this one was bigger.

Wait a Minute...

Skip squinted and looked across the road.

The stadium was draped from top to bottom in vermilion and white. There were more angels in the stands. More seats. A bigger press box. A scoreboard so advanced that even Heaven's engineering department probably had questions about it.

And then there was the food.

Deano's Pizza. Olde Tyme Grocery po-boys. Boudin and Cracklins from The Best Stop. Probably somebody's mawmaw cooking a gumbo somewhere behind the third-base line.

It was basically South Louisiana with a baseball field dropped in the middle of it.

And out on that field were former Cajuns who had passed on, wearing SLI, USL and Louisiana across their chests again, playing ball in the clouds.

Skip looked back at his stadium. Then across the street. Then back at Robe.

He didn't look angry. But he did look a little offended.

"Coach," Skip finally said, "no disrespect, but I won five national championships in eighteen years. We built LSU into one of the greatest programs in college baseball. We helped change the sport. My name is tied to one of the greatest runs in College World Series history."

He pointed across the street.

"So why in the hell do you have a bigger stadium than me?"

Robe didn't say anything at first. He just looked at him.

And then came that smirk. That same little grin I remembered seeing when I told him this story all those years ago.

Robe put his hand on Skip's shoulder. "That's not mine, Coach."

He pointed toward the enormous vermilion-and-white palace across the street.

"That's God's house."

Louisiana Legends

I don't remember exactly how the priest told the story all those years ago.

Maybe I've changed a few details. Actually, after three decades, I'm almost certain I have.

But I remember the punchline.

And I remember Robe laughing at it.

That's enough for me.

Skip Bertman and Tony Robichaux represented opposite sides of a rivalry, different programs and different paths through this game. But both became larger than the uniforms they wore.

They were baseball men. Teachers. Builders. Legends in this state.

And for those of us fortunate enough to grow up watching Louisiana college baseball during their time, their names will forever be attached to some of our favorite memories.

So on a day when Louisiana lost another giant of the game, an old joke from a Cajun Catholic priest somehow found its way back to me. I'd like to think somewhere Robe is telling it to Skip right now.

And Skip is probably already arguing about the size of the stadium.

Rest easy, Coach Bertman.

And Robe… Save him a seat.

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