Philosophy of Fandom

When I haven't yet taken a shower and my hair is working against me, rather than for me, I adorn a powder blue Royals hat when I go out. While it does a fine job of covering that ridiculous wall of hair that forms on the right side of my head sometime between 3:47 and 4:23 in the morning, the hat remains somewhat conspicuous to those that recognize the emblem on its front. Upon beholding it, some scrutinize the image like it's some form of Magic Eye art; that maybe if one stares at it long enough and hard enough, the blue will eventually give way to black and white streaks, and the "KC" will turn into a "NY". Yankees regalia makes sense; it fits into our little box of probabilities. Of course someone could be wearing a Yankees hat. They win. Someone wearing Royals stuff is enigmatic; it doesn't compute. Why on earth would someone be caught wearing something affiliated with them? After the realization sets in that my hat is not abstract art but indeed just a mere Royals hat, the reaction often goes something like, "Royals, huh?", with an implicit really?? attached to the end. After confirming that I'm a fan, the response over the years has gotten predictable. There's usually a grimace or some sort of facial contortion that ensues, as if the person just did a line of chopped up Warhead. This tends to be followed by an apology which more often than naught sounds more like a slight. Some even keep their distance. The last guy who bagged my groceries at Trader Joe's practically busted out the doctor gloves and one of those SARS masks because he didn't want the Dodgers to catch the my team plays like shit bug that seems to infect Royals fans every April and lasts through September (oddly, we seem to always be fine in March). The bagger exhaled a sigh of relief when I told him that teams with money seem to render the disease innocuous to their fans. "I think you still managed to spread it to the Angels though," he said. Touche, sir.

It's no secret: for the last quarter of a century Kansas City has been...not very good, to put it mildly. We haven't made the playoffs since 1985. That's a year before I was born, which delivers huge amounts of insecurity to April 1986 Kansas-born babies. We're all left to wonder if we weren't prophesied over at birth - this will be the one to bring ruin to his team. Since strike-shortened 1994, we've had two seasons of above .500. Two. In nineteen years. The Atlanta Braves, by comparison, have only had two seasons since '94 in which they were not .500 or better. During that time they've been to fourteen playoffs and won a World Series (they won their division again this year when they weren't supposed to...ho hum). The comparisons are too much fun to stop now. During the period of 1997 to 2003, the Braves had five seasons of 100 wins or more (out of 162). Between 2002 and 2006, the Royals had four seasons of 100 losses or more. When playing a team like Atlanta, Kansas City's players must stare across the diamond at their opponent's dugout and wonder what life is like where the grass is greener, the way a slumdog does when a limousine drives past. This is all to say that if Atlanta can be perceived as baseball riches, Kansas City would have to at least be a nominee for rags. I can hear Ewing Kauffman giving the acceptance speech now: "I'd like to thank Bob Boone, Allard Baird, Tony Muser, Tony Pena...we believe...that was good, Buddy Bell, Trey Hillman, Jose Guillen...I know there's more!" Anyway, I get it. There is a stigma attached to Kansas City's name in the world of baseball. The letters "KC" on the insignia may as well be scarlet. The reaction to my hat is something that perpetual losing for the better part of three decades has produced. I might be less conspicuous walking around with a bag over my head. Some Royals fans have undoubtedly gone there.

But you can keep your sorrys, or stuff them in a sack because I won't be wearing one on my head! This blog post - my first real blog post - isn't about why I cheer for the Royals. That much should be evident. I'm from the damn town. I take pride in where I'm from, I think there's something special about a fan's loyalty to their home town team...something much deeper and visceral than other forms of fandom (if you can call them that), and I just refuse to be some douchebag fair-weather fan who gives up on his team because they stink. Nothing could be more pathetic or craven in my mind. I couldn't live with myself if I abandoned my home team. That's why I cheer for them, anyway. What I'm writing about is why I'm grateful...yes, grateful to have the privilege to cheer for this team.

There exists a psychological phenomenon within the human condition, whereas the degree to which we experience joy as a result of something good is usually directly correlated with the amount of time that it has been withheld from us. Time spent away from something desired creates a sense of longing, and when that longing is finally satiated, the joy experienced is also greater. Water is water. But water is not the same to someone who has plenty to drink as compared with someone who is thirsty. The same rule applies to our fandom and the joy that proceeds from winning. If my team perennially wins, I start to get used to it. I start to feel entitled to winning. But if they don't win all the time, if they've struggled for long stretches, then winning becomes a gift. And let's just say that Kansas City has been wandering a parched land for a long, long time.

Allow me to tell virtually the same story shared by two teams this season: 85-77 and 86-76. The first record belonged to the New York Yankees. They won more games than they lost this year, but their fans weren't happy. There was pandemonium in New York. Failing to make the playoffs is unacceptable to the winningest franchise in baseball history. Their manager Joe Girardi, who has already won a championship, is probably feeling a lack of job security at the moment. New York is probably sulking, especially in light of their two football teams providing absolutely no alleviation from the baseball wounds. The second record belonged to the Kansas City Royals, who managed an above .500 season for just the second time in nineteen years. We didn't make the playoffs, yet there are few in Kansas City who would consider this season a disappointment. On the contrary, the city collectively rejoices in the wake of a winning campaign. Usually, like clockwork, Kansas City has given up hope by the All-Star Break. Dejected, the only thing that keeps us going are thoughts of next year. But for the first time in ten years, the Royals were playing meaningful baseball at the end of the season. Even a week ago they were still alive, with hopes of playing in the postseason. It was marvelous. I haven't had so much fun as a baseball fan in all my life. Every day was an exciting adventure - can they win again? The drama galvanized the city, whose excitement rose to a fever pitch when the season culminated in Kansas City with a walk off grand slam. Idealists dreamed, but the realists knew and faced the probability that we still had a snowball's chance in hell of making the playoffs. But that didn't stop us from relishing every moment. These words were continually uttered by Kansas City-ans again and again in the second half of the season: this is fun; enjoy this! Indeed it was fun, and we rejoiced in every win. Without our many years of walking with this team through the pain of losing, we would be without this perspective: savor this, because it's beautiful; every good thing is a gift, be exceedingly grateful for it all. That's really what happiness is - an appreciation for life and awareness of the abundant gifts that abound in it. Sometimes it takes walking through the valleys in order to appreciate the mountains.

So the Royals end this season having not won a championship or even making the playoffs, but it feels like something special happened. While there are other teams that continue playing, I'm confident that I remain one of the happiest fans in baseball right now, and that I'm joined by many who claim Kansas City as their home. And some day - maybe next year, maybe further down the road - we will make it to the playoffs. Some day we will win a championship again. And in those days we will know the depth of happiness that can only come through redemption. We'll all be rich in spirit. We'll all be slumdog millionaires.