Royal Dogma

Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens.
-J.R.R. Tolkien

I'm ashamed to admit it now, but I lost faith in the Royals during Game 4 of the ALDS against the Astros. I had given up, and I conceded the game. If I had merely thought it, then I could've kept it to myself and probably would have. But as faithlessness was not enough, I felt compelled to add foolishness to my rap sheet by sending out a public capitulation to two of my friends. Whelp. 2015 was fun. The Astros were the better team this series. Looking forward to 2016! Not one of my finer moments as a fan, but I think it's the perfect backdrop to frame what these Royals accomplished this postseason - the improbable, if not the impossible.

Up two games to one in the best-of-five series, the Astros had just ameliorated their lead to 6-2, as Colby Rasmus, who looks more like a stereotypical grunge rocker than he does a baseball player, hit yet another homerun for the Astros. I didn't want to watch anymore. I didn't want to see my team that had put together such a wonderful season walk into the dugout with heads hung low, while the city of Houston rejoiced in a euphoric fever pitch. I shut off the game feed that had been streaming on my phone, and I started reading the very first thing that popped up on my Facebook feed - a letter about the Church's response to homosexuality. Just what I needed...a little light reading. It was, however, a terrific departure from anything baseball-related, and truth be told, it seemed like a joyous respite compared with having to watch that ugly man with his greasy hair trot around the bases to a jubilant red-neck cacophony. So I read on...

At that point, the Royals had a 3% probability of winning the game. Math was trying to tell me that if the Royals played out those two innings 100 times, they would win the game only 3 times. I of course didn't know the math in that moment. I didn't need math to tell me that we were screwed. A four-run deficit in the eleventh hour told me that. The frivolity of Houston's players and the pandemonium of its crowd told me that. Our seventh inning pitcher Ryan Madson's pathetic, demoralized face told me that. The countless hours I have spent watching and dissecting baseball told me that.

There aren't too many entities in the world that are able to stand in the face of math and deride it. We live in a physical world governed by laws, and math almost always wins the day. In no sport has this been more true or evident than in baseball. Baseball has always been a game of stats, but in the last fifteen years it's gotten damn near out of control. Baseball has birthed its own statistical vocabulary for crying out loud! With the advent of sabermetrics, we now rely more heavily upon statistics in baseball than ever when it comes to valuing and appraising performance. We used to just have batting average, RBI's (runs batted in), and homeruns for batters and wins and ERA (earned run average) for pitchers. Life was so much simpler back then. Now we have convoluted statistics such as OBP (on-base% plus slugging%) for batters, xFIP (expected fielding independent pitching) for pitchers, and WAR (wins above replacement). I mean, seriously, DOES ANYBODY HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THE HELL WAR IS??!

wtf...

This is all to say that baseball and math go together like peas and carrots. But in STATS 101, we all learn that with a stream of correlated data, there can exist a statistical outlier - a number that deviates from the norm. On a graph, an outlier falls clearly outside of where the rest of the points are associated. Well in the thirty teams that comprise Major League Baseball, there exists a big blue outlier that does not conform with the rest, beautiful and terrible to behold. That would be the Kansas City Royals.

Let's go back to me choosing to read over watching the Royals play postseason baseball - an offense that I have been repeatedly apologizing to God for. All of a sudden, I received a knowing text from one of the very same friends who I had sent my ill-advised white flag to. His text insinuated that something interesting was happening in the game that I had so recently abandoned. Now curious, I brought the game back up on my phone. The first thing I saw upon returning to the coverage was Ben Zobrist hitting a bloop single to center field to load the bases with no outs. Now I've witnessed plenty of occasions in which a team finds itself in that very situation only to experience futility in scoring no runs. So I tempered my enthusiasm. After all, the next several batters still need to execute hitting that little white ball, traveling at speeds close to 100 miles an hour, with those thin wooden sticks, to an area of the field suitable for scoring said runners. It's a hard thing to do. Still, with my interest now piqued, I allowed a few seedlings of hope to begin to sprout in my deadened heart.

In these types of game situations, everyone is looking for a "big hit" - a double or better yet, a homerun, that can clear the bases all in one swing of the bat. It's easier. It's quicker. We live in an age of information. We can access whatever we want with a quick press of the "return" button. Hell, we can just ask Siri or Google to retrieve the information for us. Of course you'd want the big hit. It's instant gratification. But this is the Royals. Remember the outlier motif...

After loading the bases with three humble singles, Lorenzo Cain did not get a big hit. He hit another single - a very unimpressive ground ball through the left side of the infield. Everybody moved up a base. 6-3. Eric Hosmer did not get a big hit. He hit another single - the fifth in a row - right over the second baseman Jose Altuve. Everybody moved up a base. 6-4. Then something remarkable happened. The Royals' designated hitter - big switch-hitting Kendrys Morales - hit a hard ground ball just past the pitcher Tony Sipp. Sipp reached out to attempt to field the ball, but the ball went skirting just off his glove, taking a slight detour towards shortstop Carlos Correa. Carlos Correa at this point in the game was an absolute hero. He had hit two homeruns and a double - responsible for four of Houston's six RBI's. The American League's Rookie of the Year had been a one-man wrecking crew. And in this moment, the baseball approached his glove for a tailor-made double-play, which would've allowed one more run to score, but ultimately could've halted Kansas City's rally just before they would've been able to tie the game. It's a play Correa probably makes 97 in 100 tries. But in this instant of cruel irony, the ball skirted past his glove also. Error. Two more runs scored, and no outs were recorded. 6-6. Three more batters after that, after Mike Moustakas had a ten-pitch strikeout, and Drew Butera drew one of the most heroic ten-pitch walks I've ever seen, Alex Gordon finally hit the go-ahead run in with a sacrifice grounder to Jose Altuve. After the inning was over, the Astros had used three pitchers who had thrown a robust 55 pitches. That pitching staff wanted nothing more to do with the Royals. They wouldn't be the last team that felt that way. The Royals would go on to win the game 9-6.

I was stunned. I had never seen anything like this before. There was quite simply no precedent for this kind of thing...

Oh yeah...

...damn it. Just one year earlier, Kansas City trailed the Oakland Athletics in the American League Wild Card Game by four runs in the eighth inning. At the end of the seventh inning, the Royals' win probability was a mere 2.9%. They would go on to tie the game in the ninth, fall down a run again in the twelfth, finding their win probability at just 10.9%, and finally score two runs in the bottom of the twelfth to win the game. That was probably the single craziest postseason game in Major League Baseball history. Game Four against Houston is in the running for runner-up. 

In each of their first two wins over the Astros, the Royals found themselves down by two or more runs. When Game 5 came back to Kansas City, Johnny Cueto promptly gave up a 2-run dinger to Luis Valbuena in the second inning to put the Royals behind 0-2. They would come back to win that game 7-2. Noticing a pattern here?

They would go on to win five more games when trailing - eight of their eleven postseason wins. Seven of those were when trailing by two or more runs. The next highest mark by another postseason team in Major League history is four. And if what we had seen prior to the World Series was magic, then it was just a rabbit out of the hat. They were about to saw the girl in half. The Royals came from behind against the Mets in all four of their World Series wins en route to winning the championship. In three of their four wins, they trailed in the eighth inning. In two of them, they trailed in the ninth. It was quite frankly bizarre. It was simultaneously a dominant performance by the Royals, while at the same time being a very close series. Mets fans still think they should've been up 3-2 heading back to Kansas City.

This quite simply doesn't happen in baseball. It's bloody difficult to play from behind. And yet the Royals made a mockery out of that reality. SportCenter tweeted out a graphic shortly after the Royals had won Game 5 against the Mets. It read:

Those are a lot of numbers. Allow me to put it in layman's: the Royals were in a tight spot, and then they were dead in the water. They were down, and they were out. They were screwed, and then they were between a rock and a hard place. But they won. Every time they won. 

I still can't seem to wrap my mind around it, can you?? This was quite frankly the most exciting, tenacious, and resilient team ever. And I don't think I'm being hyperbolic in saying that. No team has ever come close to doing anything like this before. And I do put emphasis on the word team. No one or two players were responsible for these wins. Everyone, literally everyone, did something along the way that you could make a strong argument was pivotal in winning a game. Remember the eighth inning against the Astros? When Lorenzo Cain came up to bat with the bases loaded, the broadcaster said, and Lorenzo Cain can tie it now. Instead, they went through the entire lineup plus a batter on the way to something better than tying. By the end of that half inning they were leading. Sometimes the humble approach is better. Keep the line moving was the Royals' mantra all postseason long. It's exactly what they did. They are one of the strangest looking offensive juggernauts baseball has ever seen. My friend described getting beaten by the Royals as death by a thousand paper-cuts. Indeed. It's annoying, and it stings like hell.  

Okay, I've been through some of the math ad nauseum in order to argue that this team is more than just an anomaly. They're not just different; they're special. You don't just come from behind against impossible odds, and then do it again, and then do it again, and then do it again...without garnering along the way some sort of support that there's a very good reason for it all. So what is that reason??

In order to be an effective leader, you have to model the very kind of behavior, ethic, and resolve you expect to receive from those beneath you. General manager Dayton Moore and manager Ned Yost are somewhat of an odd couple. You could not find a kinder, more accommodating person than Moore. Yost, on the other hand, has been known for his prickly demeanor. Both men are Atlanta imports. During their heyday, when they were winning their division every single season in the 90's, the Braves' organization built a culture brimming with professionalism, pride, and excellence. Their slogan was "the Brave way". It's catchy, but more so than that, when you add division title after division title to your resume, "the Brave way" starts to have profound meaning. It ceases being just a platitude and begins being a way of life. It means being the best, and it means carrying yourself in a way that is worthy of the jersey you wear. That may sound cheesy, but it's not cheesy to those who wear uniforms to work. 

Though the Royals truly are on the cutting edge of baseball in many respects (to expound upon that would mean writing another blog), there is a lot about them - namely Moore and Yost - that is very traditional, almost antiquated. In the first eight innings of Game 5 of the World Series, the Royals' offense looked anemic. More than that, Mets' starter Matt Harvey looked unhittable. He had all of his pitches working, and he was spotting them wherever he wanted. He had recorded nine strikeouts against a team known for not striking out. So when he returned to the mound in the top of the ninth to finish the gem he had started, there was no earthly reason why any Royal affiliate should've been optimistic. But Dayton Moore, up in his executive suite, with apparently a different, omniscient vantage point than the rest of us, turned calmly to the person he was sitting next to and softly stated, Pay attention now. We're about to find a way to win the World Series. WHO SAYS THAT KIND OF THING?? If I were the man sitting next to him, I probably would have politely chuckled and said something really White, such as, Well, that would really be something, wouldn't it?...when really, in my head I'm thinking, BITCH, PLEASE!!

The days of "hunches" and "gut-feelings" have long been going the way of the dodo in baseball, replaced by sabermetrics and analytics. But Saint Moore and Father Ned are returning to their patristics and the age-old practice of baseball mysticism. With Ned, it's not uncommon to hear that he, just knew we were gonna win that game, or, in the case of Game 4 against Houston, I felt real confident that we were going to make a game out of it. I just felt that the bats were going to come alive... After hearing Yost say things like this for years now, you start to get the impression that the man is, or thinks he is a clairvoyant. But before I go poking fun at Ned, I need to remove the plank in my own eye. I knew that the Royals were going to lose that game against Houston. I was operating out of an understanding of probability when I should've been operating out of belief. Fool me once, shame on the Royals. Fool me twice, shame on me! 

Let's call the hunches and gut-feelings what it is. It's belief. Moore and Yost have a profound belief in their players and in the Kansas City Royals team, and it has had quite the trickle-down effect. You can tell that the players also believe in the collective aura of their team's character. After that ALDS Game 4, Eric Hosmer said, We always feel that we're still in games, and we still have a chance. That's the mentality of this whole entire team. It's never quit, and the character we showed today, that's what a championship ball club does. Mike Moustakas, who began rallying the offense in the dugout with a speech shortly before the 5-run onslaught, said in his post-game interview, I just knew we were gonna win that game today. I knew we weren't going to lose...that at some point we were going to be able to find a way to come back and win. Sound familiar at all?? If that isn't the adopted lingo of Ned Yost, then I don't know what is! 

Some people are faster to believe than others, but eventually if you witness enough evidence, even the most skeptical of us will be convicted. I tend to be a pretty skeptical person when it comes to the mystical. That's probably why I shut off the feed in the seventh inning of that game. But there is something mystical about this team. Nothing about this postseason run seemed earthly. All the come-from-behind wins, Alex Gordon's iconic homerun in the bottom of the ninth in Game 1 of the World Series (when I legitimately worried that neighbors would tip off the police in regards to a domestic violence case on account of my yelling), and Hosmer's ballsy dash home to tie Game 5 of the World Series...none of it should have happened, but it did. 

Let me bring it all a little closer to home. A lot of you know that my dad passed away this April, on Opening Day. He was a life-long Royals fan and was able to impart that love to both of his sons. It's silly, but some of my favorite memories are of being at Kauffman with him, or calling him on my way to work to talk about the Royals, or sitting out on our deck, drinking beers and...talking about the Royals. We could always, always chat about this team. During the height of their days mirroring a little league team, my dad would lament to me about how I had never seen the days of Brett, White, Wilson, and Saberhagen. Yet he always remained optimistic when it came to the future. And while last season represented such sweetness for all of us who had been waiting for 29 years just to make the playoffs, it also left us with a feeling of unfinished business. We fell just short of the pinnacle, just 90 feet away. How long might it take to get back there again?

I can't quite explain it, but I've felt my dad's presence during this season. I felt him on Opening Day, when the Royals dominated the White Sox 10-1. I felt him when my brother and I went to Kauffman for the second game of the season to witness a late-inning victory. I felt him when I had the pleasure of going back home during the summer, and my family attended a 4-3 walk-off victory over the Angels in ten innings. And during all of the magic of this postseason, I couldn't help but feel that my dad was in heaven, lobbying with his Savior to give a couple more gifts to his family back home. My dad passed away at 12:34 am on Opening Day. The Royals won the World Series at 12:34 am. I went to bed that night listening to Kansas City sports radio, which was being broadcast throughout the night. One of the hosts shared a sentimental story - that he had taken his two boys to Game 7 of the World Series last year, and after the loss, his youngest walked back to the car with a jacket over his head, tears running down his eyes. Now, a year later, in the wake of the celebration of a Royals championship fulfilled, he hugged both his boys tightly in a moment he'll never forget. It was emotional for me not because my brother and I couldn't enjoy that same moment with dad last year, but because I knew that in this moment dad was hugging us tightly also. 

J.R.R. Tolkien is my favorite author. When asked why he wrote his fiction from a historical, rather than allegorical perspective, he remarked that allegory limits the reader to one message, while history opens numerous doorways of meaning. What the Royals just accomplished was historic, not allegorical. It's significant to me for a multitude of reasons - one of which is knowing what this means in light of my dad's passing. To me, this was another hug from my dad. But what is so special is also knowing that there are countless other lives of Kansas City fans that this story has touched in a profound, yet personal way...so many other hugs that were given. 

Royal dogma is about belief - belief in the collective unit, belief in "us", belief in the person who hits before you, and belief in the person that hits after you. You don't try to hit singles when the bases are loaded and you're down four runs unless you believe in the people around you and their ability to continue moving the line. Baseball has always been a game essentially featuring a matchup between two people. There's a pitcher and a batter, and then there's a whole lot of guys standing around. Not so with this Royals team. There's a pitcher and a batter, and then another batter, and then another batter, and then another batter. And all of them are going to be relentless in their approach to make sure the next man gets up to bat. Perhaps a humble approach is more beneficial to the group than a heroic one. It's not the culture we live in, but it's the culture in that Royals clubhouse. Outlier.

And so how fitting that this should all end with the most epic collective group celebration of a sports championship I would argue ever. Our city literally came out to celebrate a team that it feels so closely connected to, and that all of us have been inspired by. 

I imagined what this would feel like in one of my first blog posts. I likened a fan who has wandered the desert for years and years and who finally gets to taste a championship to a slumdog millionaire. I wrote that in theory, not knowing what it felt like to cheer for a playoff team, let alone a world championship team. I wrote that not knowing that the oasis for my parched fandom was actually just around the corner. Indeed, I can confirm that we all feel like royalty. So in the immortal words of Freddy Mercury and Queen - words that seem as though they were penned with this Royals team in mind, we sing together, We are the champions, my friend! And we'll keep on fighting till the end. That's damn right. 

Spotting Thestrals

The last enemy to be destroyed is death.

-1 Corinthians 15:26, also found on James and Lily Potter's tombstone

In J.K. Rowling's beloved Harry Potter book series, the main character - Harry, is constantly dealing with adversity in the wake of his experiencing death. As a baby, Harry was in the very room that his mother was murdered in. And as a student, Harry witnesses the death of his classmate Cedric, his godfather and guardian Sirius, and his friend and mentor Dumbledore. Harry's experiences with death make him more vulnerable, but they also have impressed upon him strength and growth unique in comparison to his peers.

In Rowling's third installment, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry is plagued by the soul-sucking dementors that guard the prison Azkaban. Being able to feed more incessantly upon those with painful pasts, they unfairly prey on Harry. Later, Harry's Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher - Professor Lupin (the only competent Dark Arts teacher Harry has in the entire series) - teaches Harry the shielding spell necessary for warding off the creatures - the patronus charm. But in order to conjure a proper patronus, the wizard needs to delve into a memory - a happy memory to be exact. Harry first tries the spell while remembering the first time he rode a broom. WIZARD FAIL. The dementor breaks through Harry's broom-shield the way a strong, generously-proportioned kid busts open the pinata. Coincidentally, Harry needs chocolate to recover. At the behest of Professor Lupin, Harry attempts the spell again, this time with a much more powerful memory. Being unsure of this second memory's happy quality, he is certain of its power. This time Harry succeeds in repelling the creature. The powerful memory turns out to be the earliest one he has - of his parents before they had been murdered by Lord Voldemort. So a memory inextricably linked with deep pain turns out to also be a source of great strength for Harry.

The theme of death takes on a startlingly different visage in The Order of the Phoenix, in the form of the creature/conveyance thestrals. Whereas the other students assume that the coach that brings them from the train to Hogwarts pulls itself due to magic, only Harry and Luna can see the situation for what it is - that the thestrals are what actually pull the coach. Luna later informs Harry that it is because they have seen death that they can see the creatures. What can best be described as a skeletal pegasus, the thestral won't exactly be winning a beauty contest any time soon. When Luna states why others avoid thestrals (presumably other than the fact that most can't see them), Harry finishes her thought by saying that they're different.

In the film's depiction, Harry finds Luna in the woods, feeding the thestrals. He learns that Luna lost her mother when she was younger due to a spell that went wrong. Luna is refreshingly honest about the situation, telling Harry that it was a horrible thing, and that she is still sad about it from time to time. Rowling creates an insightful depiction of what healthy grieving looks like through Luna. The truth she reveals is that grief is indeed a difficult thing - something that many try to avoid, but it is in fact a healthy thing to visit grief from time to time, nourishing it with reflection and memory. This is why Luna can in the same breath tell Harry that her mom was a remarkable witch and also that the pain of her death still lingers. If she were to avoid processing the grief involved in her mother's death, she would also be neglecting the memory of the beauty of her life.

Two of the four existential givens in psychology are death and isolation. These are universal themes found in life that we as humans (and wizards) must confront at some point. It's no coincidence, then, that the same scene which features Luna's reflection of death also features Harry's struggle with isolation. After all, the two often work in tandem with one another. After Harry makes a passing comment about how Luna and her father are probably the only two who believe in him, Luna reprimands Harry and corrects him, saying she doesn't think that's true, although that's probably exactly what Voldemort wants Harry to believe.

In Narrative Therapy, the therapist works with the client to alter negative storylines that the client may have developed in life, called dominant stories. In this circumstance, Harry's dominant story that he has authored is one in which he is alone - perhaps that he has been alone all his life. Like a jedi, Luna plays inception on Harry, implicitly challenging him to begin reframing his dominant story into an alternative one - that he is in fact not alone, and that there are many who are on his side if he would but simply let down his guard and invite them in. Perhaps implicit in their interaction is that Harry can begin to reframe not only his isolation, but also his experience with death in contributing to his strength and maturity as a precocious young wizard. Perhaps death has not been holding him back but instead has driven him towards the realization of his being The Chosen One, the boy who lived. Wasn't it Death, after all, who gifted the Peverell brothers, and consequently Harry, with the means to conquer death?

Well I am not The Chosen One, and my life's narrative reads far differently than Harry Potter's. But I have experienced death. I lost my dad back in April. I was by his side when he passed. Witnessing death does change you. Like Harry with the thestrals, you begin to see things differently. You think differently about life, as you come face to face with its fragility and finitude. Wounded, you are left more vulnerable to the dark arts of this world. But the lesson we learn from Harry and Luna and dementors and thestrals is that though death is indeed ugly in its unveiling, that does not mean we should shy away from confronting it in our grief.  It is incumbent upon our ability to grieve properly that we can in turn cherish the memory of that life. And what lies in the power of those memories is the ability to shield oneself from dark thoughts when they attack. We are not strongest when we avoid the pain of death; we are strongest when we attribute meaning to it.

As I said, I'm not Harry Potter. Death in the land of muggles is death, and it hurts. And at the end of the day, I can't turn to the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak for mastery over death; I look instead to that same promise found on James and Lily's tombstone, and in the death and resurrection of Christ I find a different kind of hallows. In replace of the Elder Wand fashioned by Death himself, I have a cross and the blood of Love Himself. Instead of a resurrection stone, I have an overturned stone. Instead of an invisibility cloak, which obscures a man, I have the hollow linen cloths that prove His absence.

Hallow means holy, sacred. My dad passed away the day after Easter. He had the hallows. They were close in his mind and in his heart, which is right where I'll keep him.

Moore Stars

In 1990, Bret Saberhagen was the sole Kansas City Royal to earn that requisite team all-star spot. It was the beginning of a twenty-two year drought that would see only twenty-four Royals featured in all-star games. You know things are bad when you reflect back on 2003 and remember Mike Sweeney and Mike MacDougal as the glory days. Juntos Podemos...

My how the times have changed! In 2015, the Royals sent seven all-stars to Cincinnati for the game - five of whom were voted in by the fans (Alcides Escobar, Lorenzo Cain, Salvador Perez, *Alex Gordon, and Mike Moustakas), one of whom was voted in by the players (Wade Davis - who finally gave up his second earned run of the season because Alex Rios needed to man the less than god-like defensive outfield position), and one of whom was taken by manager Ned Yost (Kelvin Herrera). 2003 is now a punch-line - a page-break in the annals of Royals history during a time that Kansas City would sooner forget than bring up. The glory days are here and now.

And though the number of all-stars is not exactly the litmus test for the strength of a team, that's not quite the point. Five Royals were voted into this year's All-Star game by the fans. Not the Yankees of New York, not the Red Sox of Boston, not the Angels of Los Angeles. It was Kansas City that rocked the vote. This is a small-market team's fan base that just kicked every other team's fan base in the nads en route to voting in four Royals to start the All-Star Game...and then gouged some eyes for good measure in order to get Moustakas in as well. This Royals team is tenacious, and the fans are adopting that scratch-and-claw mentality in their own way. If you can't swing a bat, you can sure as hell click a mouse.

The point is that we have fallen in love with this team, and we're prepared to fight for them the way they fight for Kansas City. For a while, eight Royals were leading the all-star vote. It was a team potentially comprised of Mike Trout and Royals...good odds for the AL! This, however, was not cute to the rest of the nation's baseball fans, who saw the surge in Kansas City votes as an affront to the integrity of what the All-Star Game stands for. Renowned baseball writer Jason Stark, while talking with Kansas City pundit Soren Petro over the radio airwaves, posed the question, "Do you know how the rest of the country is feeling about all of this??" I love Jason Stark, but do you know how little we give a shit about the rest of the country's feelings?? What's the phrase I'm looking for? Oh yeah: there's no crying in baseball! Either campaign for someone else, or shut the hell up. We don't want to hear complaining from cities and fans who had every opportunity...hell, more the opportunity than Kansas City did to vote in the players they wanted to see in the game.

But this particular blog post is dedicated to the past, not the present. What can I say? I'm a history major dropout; I love having context of a situation in understanding how the present has come to be. Someone or some thing deserves credit for what has happened in Kansas City. And though I can find myself praying to the Almighty concerning potential outcomes in sports, I don't think He actually cares. Either that or San Francisco prayed more fervently than I. So I want to take the time to honor the executive prowess of the man largely responsible for assembling this team - Royals' general manager and architect Dayton Moore. Namely, I want to highlight two of the best trades that have ever been made in this franchise's history - trades that have unquestionably contributed to the team's composition as the best in the American League and its complexion as the funnest and most tightly-knit in all of baseball.

Dayton Moore took over as general manager for the Royals in June of 2006. Although personally, it represented a triumphant return home for the lifelong Wichita-born Royals fan, let's face it, it was professional suicide. The Royals had become the laughing stock of major league baseball. Even the name "Royals" was synonymous with "pathetic". People in no way wanted to be royal. Four of the previous five seasons had seen 100+ losses. And although you'd think that with so many top draft spots following such atrociousness that the farm system would be stockpiled with talent, such was not the case. In a seven-year stretch between 1997 to 2003, the Royals had seven top-ten draft picks. They took: Dan Reichert, Jeff Austin, Kyle Snyder, Mike Stodolka, Colt Griffin, Zack Greinke, and Chris Lubanski. If you even remotely follow baseball then you know that one of these names is not like the other. Six of those players together amounted essentially to jack squat. But there was Zack Greinke. Thank God for Zack Greinke. Zack Greinke who would eventually go on to win the American League Cy Young award in 2009 with Kansas City. Zack Greinke who would become one of the best pitchers in baseball. Zack Greinke who would unwittingly save Kansas City's franchise...

Now I love Zack Greinke. I loved him when he was a Royal, and I still love him as the starter of the National League All-Star team for the Dodgers. I love his sick arsenal of pitches. I love his cerebral approach to pitching. I love that he returned to baseball and became a perennial Cy-Young contender after having departed for a while to get his mind right. I love that he stood his ground on the mound when Carlos Quentin charged him and dislocated his shoulder. I love that he's one of the most awkward and least interesting interviews in sports. I love that his parents spelled his name with a "k". Such sycophantic adoration is what inherently comes with cheering for your team's best players. They can do no wrong. George Brett could've punched a nun in the face, and Kansas City would've shoved her out of the way to check if Brett's hand was alright.

It perhaps goes without saying then that when Dayton Moore traded Greinke to the Milwaukee Brewers in December of 2010, it was a dark day for me indeed. The previous Royals organization had a long history of trading away its best players in exchange for shitty ones. As a fan, you become conditioned to respond with cynicism after seeing players like Jermaine Dye, Johnny Damon, and Carlos Beltran traded for the likes of Neifi Perez, Brent Mayne, Mike Wood, John Buck, Conner Teahan, and...why am I confounding the situation with names? It was shit. Oakland and Houston could've instead mailed us several large bags of poop. They wouldn't have stunk as long, and they would've come with far cheaper price tags attached. So when I heard the names of the players Milwaukee was giving to us for Greinke - some shortstop named Alcides Escobar, some outfielder named Lorenzo Cain, and some pitcher named Jake Odorizzi, you must forgive me for expressing immediate derision in response to the move. I thought we had just traded away one of the best players in baseball for nothing yet again. I didn't know whether these players would even step foot into beautiful Kauffman Stadium or if they would simply languish with all the other misfit toys on the archipelago known as Kansas City's farm system.

As it turns out, they weren't marooned for long. 2011 ended up being a very significant season for the Royals. Though they would go on to lose ninety-one games, they saw a wave of youth called up to the team, including Eric Hosmer and Mike Moustakas - two of Dayton's high draft picks, Salvador Perez - part of a revamped Latin American recruiting effort by Moore's organization, and trade acquisitions Alcides Escobar and Lorenzo Cain. I thought Dayton Moore was crazy when he traded Greinke away. He was; like a fox. I didn't have the foresight in 2010 to realize that what the Kansas City Royals didn't need at that time was to pay a phenomenal pitcher in his prime a boatload of money and cripple the rest of the team in the process. Their future wasn't Greinke. It was in the young players that would soon come up together, play together, become really good together, and eventually do special things together. That was the vision, at least...

Back to the Greinke trade...

They say that the middle of the field is the most important in terms of defense. This would be the shortstop, the second baseman, and the center fielder. If the fielders are elite, the three comprise a Bermuda triangle of sorts, where balls go to die. The more important of the three - probably the consensus two most valuable defensive positions on a baseball team - are the shortstop and center fielder. In December of 2010, Dayton Moore gave up Zack Greinke and received in return an elite defensive shortstop in Alcides Escobar and a future gold glove-winning center fielder (it hasn't happened yet, but it will) in Lorenzo Cain. Their wizardry on the field tends to obscure the truth that both of these players are also above-average hitters at their respective positions. Alcides Escobar is a career .266 leadoff hitter who steals bases and has a penchant for clutch RBI's. Lorenzo Cain is currently having the best season in his short career by far, hitting .320, already with 17 stolen bases, and 10 homeruns - more than he's ever hit in a season before. While Greinke bounced from Milwaukee to Anaheim to LA, seeking teams that could afford him, these two players have each played nearly five seasons each in Royal blue and presumably have several more in their future. They've played in the World Series and now have both started and recorded hits in the 2015 All-Star Game. Oh yeah, they're making a combined $5.75 million this season. The guy they were traded for makes $27. That wasn't just a good trade. It was a phenomenal trade.

But wait, there's Moore!

There was another guy in that trade (technically there were two, but nobody really cares about relief pitcher Jeremy Jeffress, and quite frankly, he doesn't support my argument). Ahem. Like I was saying, there was one other guy in that trade. His name is Jake Odorizzi. Though you can find better Italian names in baseball, you won't find too many better second pieces in a trade. Odorizzi has indeed become a fine major league starting pitcher. But you won't find him these days in a blue uniform. Odorizzi was part of a six-player deal that sent him and super prospect Wil Myers to Tampa Bay in exchange for frontline ace James Shields and starter/reliever Wade Davis.

The deal wasn't very popular in Kansas City. It was bold, and the writing was on the walls: either win in two years while you have James Shields, or you traded away a potential star for nothing. The general consensus was that if the Royals could simply make the playoffs and end their 27-year drought, the trade would have been worth it. That may sound like a very humble goal, but let me tell you, when you witness year after wretched year of your team not only missing the playoffs but missing it by a mile, the playoffs begin to feel about as accessible as Pluto.

In 2013, Wade Davis was abominable as a starter, the Royals failed to make the playoffs, and Wil Myers won Rookie of the Year with Tampa Bay. Ohhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiit. One year with James Shields down, one year to go. In-depth trade analysis: not good.  Detailed prognostication: not good at all.

In spring training of 2014, the Royals' bullpen - a clear strength of the team - lost its quality setup man Luke Hochevar to Tommy John surgery. Awesome. So someone got the bright idea to take Wade Davis, who I will remind you was terrible the season before as a starter, and convert him into a reliever. Relieve he did, to the tune of a 1.00 ERA, 0.85 WHIP, and a gaudy 3.7 WAR. For the faint of stats, let me help: that is ridiculous. You can't really quantify the value of a pitcher who can shut down the eighth inning every single time...until it's compounded when you combine said pitcher with two others who can do the exact same thing. Ergo the law firm of Herrera, Davis, and Holland - the greatest bullpen in baseball history. If the Royals bring a tie or a lead into the seventh inning, the game is all but won.

Meanwhile, while Wade Davis was putting together one of the greatest campaigns for a reliever ever, James Shields was continuing to pitch extremely effectively. But his pitching wasn't the most valuable asset he brought to Kansas City; it was his charisma. After seven seasons pitching on a perennially good Tampa Bay team that went to the World Series in 2008, James Shields brought with him to Kansas City a winning attitude. He taught the team to loosen up and be themselves. He taught them that it's a long, 162-game season, and not to be discouraged by a 5-game losing streak. Everyone needs a mentor, professional athletes notwithstanding, and James Shields filled that role for a team comprised almost entirely of young players. So like a virus, Shields infected the clubhouse with his swagger. After 28 years of an ingrained losing culture, the Royals didn't need Zack Greinke's stoic excellence. They needed someone who would begin to change the culture, infusing a sense of belonging among the American League's elite. Sometimes you just need Mufasa to show you your kingdom.

So ultimately Zack Greinke was directly or indirectly involved in bringing Lorenzo Cain, Alcides Escobar, Wade Davis, and James Shields to Kansas City. That's three all-stars and a winning culture. Without those players the Royals probably aren't a winning ball club, they don't make the playoffs in 2014, and they certainly don't become American League champions and take the World Series to seven games.

As a fan it's so easy to be critical, especially after three decades of ineptitude. It's taken Dayton Moore's organization the better part of a decade to break that train of thought, but I think it's finally sunk in that these guys know what they're doing. Big, bold moves like the Greinke and Shields trades certainly do a lot to earn that standing, but so do the little things, like trading for Jeremy Guthrie, signing Ervin Santana, Edinson Volquez, and Kendrys Morales, taking a chance on aging pitchers Ryan Madson and Chris Young, and oh yeah, there is that ridiculous 5-year, $7 million contract with three-time all-star Salvador Perez.

Who is the most valuable contributor to this Royals team? It could be the man behind the scenes, making things happen with his phone rather than a bat. What he's given us hasn't come in the form of clutch hitting, run production, or stranded runners. He's given us confidence and trust in this organization - both now and moving forward. You can't measure that, you can't quantify it on a stat sheet, and it sure as hell doesn't pack up and go to LA. We believe. It feels so good to say that and mean it.

90 Feet to Glory (Heaven on Earth)

So I commend the enjoyment of life, because nothing is better for a man under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany him in his work all the days of the life God has given him under the sun.
-Ecclesiastes 8:15

There were two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning, and the Royals were down just a run. But it didn’t feel like just a run. Madison Bumgarner, who, still in the dawn of his prolific young career as a pitcher has arguably built the best postseason resume of any pitcher in baseball history, was on the mound. In the four and two-thirds innings he had pitched in Game 7 relief, he had given up just a single hit, walked none, and retired fourteen straight batters. It wasn’t just a run; it was a chasm. The Royals’ lineup may as well have been going up against the Silver Surfer. But Royals’ all-star left-fielder Alex Gordon was up. The lefty-lefty matchup against Bumgarner didn’t favor him, but he remained the best hope Kansas City had left. It was a fool’s hope, but it was nonetheless hope.

Gordon fouled off the first pitch for a strike. Shit. Then something happened that vindicated the fool in all of us. Gordon hit a single into shallow center that outfielder Gregor Blanco misplayed. The baseball rolled all the way to the wall, where left-fielder Juan Perez bobbled it before finally throwing to the cutoff man. It was a tailor-made inside-the-park-homerun. The play felt like an instant and an eternity at the same time. I almost puked my guts out in a moment that only sports can conjure – where utmost excitement collides with utmost stress.

It’s not that Gordon is slow, because he’s not, but a faster base-runner would’ve scored on the play. A base-runner who would’ve run 100% out of the gate would’ve scored. But Alex Gordon did not run 100% out of the gate, and he’s not speed-demon Jarrod Dyson. To the chagrin of Kansas City, he was held up at third by third base coach Mike Jirschele. All of a sudden, in one swing of the bat and one defensive mishap, the chasm had narrowed considerably. We no longer needed wings to traverse the space; a good hurdle would do.

There exists in sports an odd phenomena: the closer you are to the pinnacle of greatness, the nearer you approach utmost heartbreak. It’s an insidious caveat implicit for all of us who cheer. It’s what we all sign up for. It’s the risk we have to take as fans. And the harder you cheer, the more painful the heartbreak because you’ve dared to invest a larger piece of yourself to the cause.

I’ve witnessed many sports fans develop a defense mechanism to ward off the prospect of imminent pain – the art of cynicism. A cynical fan is a fan that still cheers for a team but does so hesitantly, always quick to remind himself (and all those around him) of the weaknesses and deficiencies of the team, and therefore, why they may ultimately fail. Psychologically this prepares the fan for a heartbreaking loss. When it occurs, it doesn’t quite shatter the spirit of the cynic because he halfway expected it. If the result ends up being a win, however, then it becomes a pleasant surprise. It would seem like a win-win position to take. The cynical fan, however, actually deprives himself of the most beautiful aspect of what being a fan has to offer – the ride.

I’m a KU basketball fan. Watching the Jayhawks’ unlikely road to victory in 2008, which culminated in an incredible come-from-behind win over John Calipari and Derrick Rose’s Memphis Tigers, was one of the most exhilarating sports experiences of my young fanhood. But I watched that championship game in the presence of a KU cynic. He loved and hated the Jayhawks, as he loved and hated himself perhaps. The entire game ensued with his incessant critique, which sounded something like, “(soandso) is going to choke, I can’t stand (soandso), etc.” Bear in mind that (soandso) was always a KU player – of the very team he was “cheering” for. By the grace and temperance of Jesus I overcame the compulsion to pour salsa on top of this boy's head. And when Mario Chalmers sunk one of the most iconic buzzer-beating threes in NCAA basketball history to tie the game and send it into overtime, with subtle derision I asked him, “So, how do you feel about Chalmers now?” His grin in the wake of the moment quickly dissipated, and he retorted, “I still think he sucks.” WHERE IS THE SALSA?! Count to ten. Pray. Slowly my clenched fists began to unravel. Thank you Jesus for the strength to abstain from physical battery. Besides poisoning much of one of the most beautiful sporting events I’ve ever watched with his cynicism, this fan deprived himself of so much. He chose to forego the joy of the game for a paper shield in defense of his heart and the subsequent joy of a fleeting moment.

As a fan, I try not to be a cynic but a realist. I feel it’s a happy medium to be. I still cheer passionately, loyally, and unequivocally for my teams, but I try to stay grounded about the possibilities. That’s why nothing…nothing could have prepared me for the Kansas City Royals’ World Series run this past year. For a team that hadn’t been to the playoffs in 29 years, going to the World Series seemed…well, “unrealistic” doesn’t really do it justice. While the 2008 Jayhawks’ championship run was unlikely, it certainly was a strong possibility, as they had earned one of the four #1 seeds in the tournament that year. I would’ve given the 2014 Royals’ World Series possibilities a snowball’s chance in the hottest circle of hell.

When Kansas City secured a home playoff game as a wild-card team, I was pleasantly surprised and overjoyed. When they came back to win against the Oakland Athletics having been down 7-3 in the seventh inning, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. When they then went on to sweep the top-seeded Los Angeles Angels in three games, I was stunned. When they swept the Baltimore Orioles in four games, there was no amount of pinching that could keep me grounded in reality anymore. And when I finally found myself on the eve of Game 7 in the World Series, winner-takes-all, I suddenly found myself in the most beautiful…and the most precarious position that any fan can be in. In a matter of four hours I would either be the most joyous fan in all of baseball or heartbroken beyond belief – far more so than if the Royals had simply followed their own status quo and decided to not make the playoffs in the first place.

The night before I had gone to Game 6 with my family – my brother and both sets of my parents. The Royals had to win, or there wouldn’t be a Game 7. Win they did. It was one of the most enjoyable evenings of my life. We went to the game early and tailgated. There were sandwiches from Potbelly’s, chips and guac, and beer. We then went inside the stadium around an hour or so before the game started. It’s a strange sensation being at a game with such fatalistic significance. I’d imagine it’s the daunting feeling Frodo and Sam felt after they had journeyed across Middle Earth to Mt. Doom but still had to climb the mountain and throw the Ring into the fires.

The game wasn’t even close. The Royals opened up a 7-run second inning en route to a 10-0 drubbing of the Giants. It was magical - sports nirvana. Elysium. Let's search for more celestial terms. I essentially didn’t sit the entire time. My voice was gone midway through the bottom of the second inning. But I found a way to keep yelling. Royals’ up-and-coming future ace Yordano Ventura was lights out – an inspired performance following the death of his close friend and countryman Oscar Taveras (Yordano's hat from that evening, with the inscription RIP Oscar Taveras, can now be found in Cooperstown, NY). Everyone in the lineup contributed, including a solo homerun exclamation mark from Mike Moustakas for the final run. I went home that night with a stable sports high, remiss with the understanding that I could only hang on to it for less than 24 hours.

The next afternoon my family did about as quintessential a Kansas City thing as we could – we got barbecue at Joe’s of Kansas City. The insanely popular restaurant, which started in between a gas station and a liquor store and now has two more uppity locations in the more affluent parts of the southern suburbs, was absolutely packed. The way in which this World Series run had galvanized the entire city was made no more evident than by the fact that about half of the patrons in the restaurant were wearing Royals garb. It was an overt display of solidarity that I have scarcely seen in our modern society. It’s part of what makes an intimate city like Kansas City great.

In the restaurant that day was none other than Royals’ designated hitter Billy Butler, who apparently derives his “power” from pounding a full rack of ribs. Though only a few approached him in the restaurant for autographs and pictures, the entire place erupted in applause as he left, as if to supplement the power from the pig he had just ingested with a colossal dose of confidence and support. It was an oddly nostalgic moment as many of us knew that our cheers were in fact a last fanfare and farewell for the soon-to-be free agent who had come up through our farm system as a teenager.

Enjoying KC BBQ on the eve of Game 7

One of the reasons why perhaps many Kansas Citians were urging Alex Gordon to round third base and make an attempt for home is because Royals’ catcher Salvador Perez was coming up to bat next. Though Salvy had produced the most iconic hit in the Royals’ season – the game-winning single down the third base line that won that chaotic wild card game, he had otherwise had a miserable postseason at the plate. His plate discipline was atrocious. His ability to hit pitches outside of the strike zone soon became a curse, as pitchers discovered that Perez would continue to swing at just about anything. An integral piece to Royals’ defensive success, he was coming off a year in which he set a record amount of games played at the most taxing position in all of baseball. He looked exhausted. To top it off, he was limping as a result of having taken a pitch off his left leg earlier in the game. Perhaps Royals’ manager Ned Yost had visions of Kirk Gibson, but all I could think of was that I wanted Josh Willingham to pinch-hit.

Josh Willingham did not pinch-hit, and Salvador Perez would go on to pop up to third-baseman Pablo Sandoval in foul territory to end the game. The San Francisco Giants had won their third World Series in just five years. They will be remembered in the annals of baseball history as a dynasty, while the Royals’ magical 2014 season will most likely fade out of memory. The runner-up is rarely remembered.

It’s taken me nearly three months to summon the strength to write about this. I’m still sick to my stomach when I think back on that Game 7 and how close my team was to, as Jake Taylor would say, winning the whole fuckin’ thing. But it’s not all sadness; in fact, nothing could be farther from the truth. The Kansas City Royals in 2014 provided me with the most exhilarating ride as a fan that I have ever experienced.

You see, for a Kansas City Royals fan, the most exciting time of the year tends to be spring, before the baseball season has even begun. This is when we can entertain delusions of grandeur, placing hope in a fictional story that this may just be the year that our team goes to the playoffs and maybe even does well.

My dad, my brother, and me in Surprise, AZ for spring training

2014 has changed all of that. It’s the year that our fantasy became reality. I began it in hot and sunny Surprise, AZ, with the same misguided hopes that I bring with me every season, but I ended it on a cold night at Kauffman Stadium in Kansas City, screaming with an already mangled voice, as the Royals pummeled the Giants to force Game 7. I’ve always loved the cold. I had never truly felt cold at a baseball game before. It makes you feel alive.

Game 6 of the World Series at Kauffman Stadium

Spring is no longer the most exciting time of the season for me. I can now verily say, There is nothing like fall baseball. This year I’m looking forward not just to March, but more so to October.

2014, though heartbreaking in its culmination, taught us to always withhold a measure of hope, to be fully present in the moment, and to enjoy the ride. These aren't just axioms for sports fans; they’re axioms for life.

Thank you, Kansas City Royals, for 2014 – a fantastic nonfiction and one hell of a ride.

This blog is dedicated to my dad, a lifelong Royals fan who taught me to love the game of baseball and encouraged me to write about sports.  2014 isn't a personal story of joy; it's a corporate story that entails sharing these memories with some of the people I love most in life. That's what truly made this season special. Countless texts and phone calls were made during this season to my family members, hours spent dissecting trivial Royals matters. And I'm thankful for every second of that quality time. 

The prevailing theme for this blog is "enjoying the ride". On a macro level, it means being thankful wherever you're at in life and living life to the full. That picture was taken just last week, as dad and I were out on a walk. In the midst of facing a terminal disease, his arms were raised because...of so many reasons, really. It was 70 degrees in January. He was walking - something he wouldn't have been able to do just weeks before. It was another day to breath, another day for new mercies, another day to love and be loved. My dad didn't need the Royals' 2014 season to teach him to enjoy the ride. He has been living it out his entire life. And in facing the scariest and most trying obstacle of his life, he continues to inspire those he knows with his bravery, his sense of peace, and most of all, with the joyous light that emanates from him which no darkness can shroud. 

Take the risk to love big in life. That's what dad has done, and in the end, though his life may not measure against the longest, it will measure with the fullest. 

Dad, I'm so proud of you. I love you so much. I thank God for the full life you have lived and am overwhelmed with gratitude for the memories we've shared together, including the ride that the 2014 Royals gave us.