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.

A Different Song

"The Song Remains the Same"
by Led Zeppelin

I had a dream. Crazy dream.
Anything I wanted to know, any place I needed to go.

I don't do drugs, and I don't remember my dreams. So why do I keep pinching myself?! Probably because every conventional bone in my body tells me this can't be real. The Kansas City Royals - the same franchise that hadn't been to the postseason in 29 years (more than the days of my walking this earth)...the Kansas City Royals - the same franchise that lost 100 or more games in four out of five seasons in the early 2000's...the Kansas City Royals - who had been mired in a losing culture so thick and disorienting it was hard to separate the garden-variety shit from the bull kind...those Kansas City Royals have taken the 2014 playoffs by...storm is too mainstream...hurricane? ...tornado is perhaps more regionally appropriate? ...by the big red spot on Jupiter, since it all just seems so otherworldly?

Quite literally nothing about this makes any sense. A winning pedigree isn't the only thing the Royals are lacking. The 2014 Royals seemingly possess a number of deficiencies that would make them overwhelming underdogs against the rest of the playoff field. They don't have the lineup, yet they've scored more runs than any other team in the playoffs. They have a manager who's a lightning rod of questionable moves, yet his witch's brew has proved quite unsavory for his opposition. They don't hit homeruns, yet they are hitting homeruns. What in the actual eff is going on?!

All the while, the Royals continue to steal bases, bunt guys over, and play elite defense. These are the Royals we have all come to know and love but who are going through a bit of an identity crisis. Should we hit homeruns, or should we play small-ball? Or should we just do both? It's the best kind of crisis.

Coinciding with the power surge and playoff success, we've witnessed a spike in Royals charisma as well. Everyone seems to be falling in love with the excitement and energy that this team displays in the dugout and on the field. Even Alex Gordon - the lone stoic (and a hell of a stoic at that!) - found himself swinging a triumphant arm through the air when he found himself at third base after having cleared the bases on a broken bat blooper to right in Game 1 of the ALCS. These are the Royals after receiving a Vitamin B shot (a steroid analogy seemed distasteful). These are the Royals while dawning The Mask. It's beautiful and terrible to behold.

It's not just the way the Royals have been winning; it's how they've been winning. First of all, let's just remind ourselves that this 2014 Royals team - without any kind of postseason experience whatsoever - is undefeated through half of the games needed to win it all. That alone deserves a pause, followed by a what the eff. Though this team is prone to the hot streak, this is not your run-of-the-mill regular season streak, where your competition is peppered with losing teams. A postseason streak seems exponentially more difficult to sustain. Against the likes of the A's, Angels, and O's, you're not supposed to do this.

In reflecting upon the ride, let's return to the Wild Card game, which had enough what the eff cache to it to fill an entire playoff run. Down 7-3 in the bottom of the eighth with Jon Lester on the mound - the same Jon Lester who has not only historically owned the playoffs but also the Royals - the Royals were mathematically given a 3% chance of victory over the A's. Their record this 2014 postseason shouldn't be 6-0. It should be 0-1, as they had no business winning that game. But they fought back in the eighth and scored three runs, though Salvador Perez failed to capitalize on sacrificing the runner on third with one out to tie the game. They scored another in the ninth, though they subsequently failed to score in the next two innings after getting the leadoff man on base. After so many missed opportunities, only to see Oakland score in the twelfth, it would not have been shameful to lose heart...especially after Lorenzo Cain grounded out to start the bottom of the twelfth, and the Royals had only seen one extra base hit to that point in the game. But the unpredictable kept happening. Eric Hosmer hit a triple. Holy crap. Cristian Colon singled in Hosmer on a weak ball hit to Luke Donaldson that couldn't have been bunted any better. Holy crap! Colon, certainly not one of the Royals' speedier base runners, then proceeded to steal second on a pitch-out that was muffed by Oakland's catcher. HOLY CRAP! But then, buzzkill: up comes Salvador Perez, who to that point in the game had looked about as poor at the plate that one can possibly conceive of a professional baseball player looking. Knowing what we now know, of course this would happen: he reached out towards the same low-and-away slider that he had looked so poorly swinging at all game and managed to pull it down the line, inches away from Luke Donaldson's outstretched glove. HOLY SHIT! - a phrase that could not be more apropos, as the twelfth inning alone constituted the type of play that can only be described as an amalgamation of junk and divine providence.

That was just the Wild Card game and the first of four extra-inning playoff victories the Royals would win en-route to beginning this postseason 6-0. Just let that sentence sink in for a moment, as it is nothing short of ludicrous. The Royals have already become the only postseason team to win four games in extras. If I were a sports fiction novelist, I couldn't conceive of a story more magical or compelling than this. This is Rocky type shit. The song I've been hearing from TBS's post game commentators has remained the same the past several days. Pedro Martinez and Gary Sheffield - seasoned veterans and stars who have spent most of their lives around the game of baseball - have only been able to reflect upon this postseason run by the Royals with such insight as: I've never seen anything like this before. This has been a crazy dream indeed.

Hear my song. People won't you listen now? Sing along.
You don't know what you're missing now.
Any little song that you know,
Everything that's small has to grow.
And it has to grow!

Amid this magical run, the Royals have endeared themselves to the nation and become America's darling. All the compelling story lines are present: the agonizing playoff drought, the small-market team, the unprecedented playoff success. The Royals are the best underdog story in a generation and a half, and we all know how America loves a good underdog.

In addition to the numerous headliners that make this team a fun story, they're also a peculiarly fascinating and enjoyable team to watch. Kansas City plays a rather unconventional brand of baseball that has been lost in the haze of the steroid and moneyball eras of the sport. The Royals play small ball, which for non-baseball aficionados, is the phrase given to the style/strategy of play involving the manufacturing of runs via stolen bases, bunting, and timely hitting. It's called small ball because you have to execute so many small maneuvers in order to get that damn run across the plate. Needless to say, it's the more onerous path.

Modern baseball strategists and sabermetricians prickle at the mere mention of "small ball" because they have statistically proven that it's an inferior strategy. But what such "experts" might not understand is that small ball might indeed be the wiser alternative for a club that lacks the components with which to play to the homerun and extra base hit. Kansas City does not have a huge market; therefore they can't afford the payroll to sign the superstars of the game who generally possess the skills needed (power) to play towards the long ball. Remember that in the Wild Card game, the Royals only put together two extra-base hits in twelve innings. Neither of those were homeruns, and the second, a triple by Eric Hosmer, came in the twelfth. In hindsight, it would have been folly to leave all the runners they had on base stranded, waiting idly for a big hit to come. Instead of waiting, they made scoring opportunities come to them by stealing seven(!) bases - five of which came around to score. Without a small ball approach, the Royals would have scored about half of the runs they did and lost the game. They also lack a cozy ball park such as Baltimore's Camden Yards; therefore it's quite hard to even hit homeruns in cavernous Kauffman Stadium.

With such circumstances as these, it behooves an organization to value other, more unconventional traits in ball players, such as speed and defensive prowess. In other words, if the baseball gods give you lemons, make lemonade. General manager Dayton Moore and the Royals have made blended margaritas - and tasty ones at that. And while homeruns are perhaps the most exciting thing in baseball, there is a different kind of excitement we find with the speed and audacious base running that the Royals bring to the table. We as fans are on pins and needles seemingly every time a runner in blue gets on base. The rest of the nation is finally coming to understand why baseball in Kansas City has been so much fun to watch all season long. It's something that fans haven't truly experienced in many years, and it's refreshing.

The resurrection of small ball isn't the only trend the Royals have bucked this season. Yes, they're a particularly exciting team to watch, but they're also an excitable bunch. Baseball, above all the other sports, is known for the way in which its players carry themselves in a noble, reserved fashion. Within the confines of the fraternity, it's rather frowned upon to show raw emotion on the field. The Royals, however, are very emotional - once again with exception to Alex Gordon, who exhibits about as much emotion as someone in a catatonic state.

It all began when Dayton Moore traded for starting pitcher James Shields several years ago. He not only had acquired a much-needed ace of Kansas City's staff, but he also had instantaneously filled the vacancy of a vocal team leader. Ergo, with the ever-increasing success Kansas City has seen during Shields' short tenure with the team, it can be argued that James Shields single-handedly changed the losing culture of Kansas City's clubhouse. That is perhaps another blog in and of itself, but for the purpose of the point being made, James Shields wears his emotions on his sleeve. Shields doesn't shy away from the emotion with which he feels during the game; he instead harnesses it and uses it to his advantage. It has set precedent for some of the Royals' younger players such as Eric Hosmer and Mike Moustakas, also emotional players, to wear their emotions as well. Currently, the whole team seems to reflect the sentiment of the city it represents, in understanding the sheer gravitas of the situation. Every run scored and every run saved is of utmost significance to a city that has pined for postseason baseball for thirty years, and in such moments the Royals dugout embodies in perfect unison the excitement and joy that transpires in every Kansas City home. The spirit with which the Royals play baseball resembles the beauty of the game when we played it as kids, before money and fame adulterated it. They've rediscovered that spark and enthusiasm that only comes when you play the game for something bigger than yourself.

The Royals' spirit is contagious. Their song, which started small, has grown and continues to grow. And unless you're from St. Louis, Maryland, or Northern California, I invite you to join the many of us who are now singing along.

California sunlight, sweet Calcutta rain,
Honolulu Starbright - the song remains the same.

From the sun and heat of Southern California, to the chilly rain in Baltimore...night and day games alike, the song remains the same for the Royals. They've played the small market moneyball gold standard in Billy Beane's A's. They've played (and swept) the big market Angels, whose lineup features some of the best players in the world. They've now gone two games head to head with what is considered one of the game's top managers in Buck Showalter. The song, however, remains the same.

Sing out Hare Hare, dance the Hoochie Koo.
City lights are oh so bright, as we go sliding...sliding...sliding through.

This last stanza is going to be fun. Thank you, Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. Little did you know you were portending the 2014 Royals...

The Royals are singing out Hare Hare on the basepaths, which I will remind you is a quick rabbit. If you don't know what the Hoochie Koo is, just watch the aftermath of Jarrod Dyson's theft of third base in the ninth inning of the Wild Card game. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-YdFiUES8o In front of sellout postseason crowds, the city lights have become oh so bright. And is there any question as to what sliding, sliding, sliding through means?? If you prefer not to follow along with my literal translation, allow the trippy lyrics to reflect just how gnarly and fantastic this journey has been.

This 2014 playoffs is more than a dream for Kansas City. It's an elixir. It's a healing balm that has been rubbed into wounds and scars of the past twenty nine years. These last several weeks have changed the posture of a city from crippled to upright. If you could bottle up the equalizing force of karma from the past twenty nine years and unleash it on one postseason, it would probably look something like what we're seeing.

With each exciting and dramatic victory that ensues, the song remains the same for these unlikely Fall Classic heroes. But in the grand scheme of Kansas City Royals baseball, this song is so beautifully different. Keep dreaming, Kansas City. No city deserves it more. May we be singing for another six games...

The Case for Kansas City

As an audacious Royals fan, you are first and foremost an apologetic. And over the last thirty years, it's taken a more talented rhetorician to convince someone of the viability of a winning Royals ball club than the existence of a loving God in a hurting world. In fact, many Royals fans have perhaps abandoned their religious beliefs due to the pain they've endured for the past one and a half generations. Why God, have you forsaken Kansas City?? 

God has not forsaken Kansas City, Royals fans. We've just been roaming the desert. God has been gracious enough, in fact, to lift the veil a full decade before He did the Israelites. There has been manna given us throughout this period of wandering - Johnny Damon, Carlos Beltran, and Zack Greinke, but it's always been fleeting nourishment before we saw our champions depart. And besides, the pride a fan can muster off one player's accomplishments hardly compares with the prevailing joy that ushers in with the success of the team. That's why this season feels so different.

Successful teams are usually propelled by star power in some respect. Detroit has Miggy. Seattle has Felix. Pittsburgh has McCutchen. The Los Angeles teams claim Kershaw, Puig, Kemp, Trout, and Pujols to name a few. I'd be willing to say that every team with viable hopes of actually making the playoffs can point to at least one major league star on the roster. But not the Royals; they are the anomaly. Sure there is James Shields, who you could argue is a bonafide number one starter. But I'd contend he is not a star. He wasn't even the best pitcher on his old Tampa Bay team, which had Cy-Young winner David Price. There's Greg Holland, one of the best kept dominant closer secrets in Major League Baseball, but he's not a star either. For who as a reliever can be called a star in the aftermath of the careers of Mariano Rivera and Trevor Hoffman? We have Salvador Perez, a burgeoning young catcher with childlike charisma, adroit understanding of managing pitchers far beyond his years, a cannon for an arm, and a decent amount of pop at the plate, but he's not a star...yet. No, the 2014 Kansas City Royals are a team comprised of contributors. Despite this, they have managed to swim upstream to this point in the season and lead their division by one and a half games. 

So how is this happening? We know full well the Royals don't win games by out-slugging their opposition. With only 488 runs scored this season, Kansas City ranks dead last in their division. Every other team has scored 500 or more. It's not a newsflash: the Kansas City Royals win games with phenomenal pitching. Their starting rotation has been reliably stingy all year, and their 7th, 8th, and 9th inning relievers are the envy of the league. If the Royals take a lead into the 7th, it's nearly a foregone conclusion that they will win. The magic arbitrary number is four, as in four runs. If the Royals can put four runs on the board, they tend to win. If they put seven on the board like they did several days ago against Oakland, you may as well go to the bookies. The Royals' phenomenal pitching is common knowledge. What I'd like to discuss is the lineup and how this seemingly poor offense has managed to provide enough runs for the team to be sitting at 13 games over .500 through mid-August. 

As most could imagine, a lot has gone right for Kansas City this season, most of which has to do with pitching. But let me remind everyone that a lot has not exactly gone according to plan. A glaring hole in this Kansas City offense is a lack of power from those who were supposed to provide it. Billy Butler, who hit 29 dingers just two seasons ago, has just 7 to this point. Mike Moustakas and Eric Hosmer, who were supposed to be the young players who evolved into offensive anchors, have hit just 14 and 6 homeruns so far. So in a combined 360 games played - well over two full seasons, the supposed source of Kansas City's power has hit a cumulative 27 homeruns. What's worse, the ineptitude of these players as it concerns getting that damn little white ball over the wall doesn't even account for Billy Butler's liability on the basepaths, Hosmer's horrific plate discipline, and Moustakas' struggles to stay above the Mendoza line. Taking that into account, it's damn near miraculous that the Royals have won and won often. 

But while the Royals' lineup may not collectively possess as much vim as Yoenis Cespedes has in his bat alone, they do have other more subtle benefits to their offensive game. First and foremost, the Royals generally speaking have speed. 108 stolen bases trails only the Los Angeles Dodgers, who have 111 (Dee Gordon claiming half of those...seriously). The Royals' 79% success rate is actually considerably better than the Dodgers and one of the best in the league. Unlike the Dodgers, the Royals enjoy many base thieves. Of their 108, Jarrod Dyson has 27, Alcides Escobar has 24, Lorenzo Cain 18, and Nori Aoki 13.

Besides the hard evidence of speed translating into stolen bases, there is much more that speed goes towards impacting the game of baseball that we can't exactly measure, prompting the umbrella phrase coined by Kansas City's own Jarrod Dyson, That's what speed do. Speed provides a mental edge in baseball. About half of Ned Yost's lineup is a viable threat to steal, which can't be very comforting to opposing pitchers. Speed provides flexibility. If Yost wants a runner in scoring position, he can be confident in simply taking it. Speed provides efficacy. The Royals run the base paths well. Alcides Escobar went from first to home on a single by Billy Butler with two outs in the seventh inning of Thursday's game against Oakland. Not too many players can do that. You see, speed is not a particularly valued commodity on teams like Oakland and Boston, which value the almighty homerun. If that's what you're waiting for, then by all means load up the bases with fatties and wait for the longball (Billy Butler to Oakland?). But for a team such as the Royals, which wins the low-scoring 1-run and 2-run games largely by manufacturing runs, speed is invaluable, just as pitching is, just as an impermeable bullpen is. Speed do a lot for Kansas City.

The Royals' hitters aren't particularly intimidating when isolating each of them by themselves. The highest batting average on the team is Lorenzo Cain at .299, which is not overwhelmingly impressive. But the Royals bat .263 as a team, which ranks 3rd overall in the majors. In fact, the only everyday player whose average is under even .257 is Moustakas, and he is a major outlier at .203. The Royals don't generally speaking get their big innings off of homeruns. They get them from streaming together hit after hit after hit. It's how they generated a five-run seventh off of Oakland two days ago, and it's how they generated their 5-run fourth off Nolasco and the Twins yesterday. Everyone in this lineup can hit. Hell, they scored all five runs before Nolasco was even able to record one out, and it's only because of Jarrod Dyson and Nori Aoki's inability to sacrifice Alcides Escobar at third that they didn't score 6 runs that inning. In fact, inability to convert all four of the Royals' sacrifice opportunities is the reason they only scored 6 and not 10 in the game. But the reason why the Royals did break open an enormous 5-run inning is solely because everyone can contribute - and they did. The Royals can hit, and they can run.

In the end, the Royals' style of play is rare in today's game. They pitch, play great defense, and rely on timely hitting and speed to generate just enough runs before handing the game over to superb bullpen arms that shut, no slam the door. You might call it throwback, old-school baseball. You might call it an antiquated and outdated philosophy. But it's working. And though it's the difficult way to win, as opposed to hitting three jacks every day - kind of like a football team choosing to go after the unstoppable defense rather than the star quarterback - like football, it's a formula that works. And perhaps like football, it's ultimately the better way to go because the Royals aren't relying on any one player to hoist the team on their back and lead them to glory. They lost Luke Hochevar, and Wade Davis stepped in (and proved better). They lost Hosmer, and Billy Butler stepped in and began to hit like Billy Butler (and the Royals have been better, much better). They lost Jeff Francoeur, and...well, anyone was pretty much better than him.

The point is that the Royals are a good team in the truest sense of what the word is supposed to signify. Sometimes the better team is not the one with the best players. Instead, it's the one with a whole bunch of role players who consistently do what's required of them. That is, after all, what brings out the best in a team. When they look around at each other after a victory, with no room for selfish pride because everyone contributed, they think we did this. I hope that they can exchange those glances and have those thoughts well on into October. I can dream.

Amendment: As an audacious Royals fan, you are first and foremost a dreamer. And for those who aren't dreaming with me right now, I feel sorry for you. Because this is fun. I rest my case.

From Russia, With Love

It’s been several days, and I have been forced to notice a small, ring-shaped hole in my life. I am personally reminded at every Olympics how the games for me resemble a relationship in an incubator. For two weeks it’s nearly complete immersion. First comes the opening ceremony - I meet the country hosting the games and its many competitors. We get acquainted. There’s a spark. We’re both excited about the possibilities. Then, the games begin. They sweep you off your feet (especially when the United States takes the very first gold). We get more and more serious as the days ensue. Dates are implied. Every night, eight o’clock. Sometimes we’re up all night to get lucky. Sometimes things seem that they could not be any better; other times, we fight, and despite my verbal abuse, the Olympics always gets her way. Drama mounts towards the end, as the medal count seesaws. We ask each other to put everything we have into this, knowing the relationship’s terminal state. Then, when the closing ceremony comes, we regretfully say our goodbyes, and we prepare to grieve what we knew could not last (though she said she’d be back in a couple years…).

This year, in seeking catharsis, I wanted to compile a list of some of the memories. Just as in any relationship, there are many good ones, a few bad, and some that we remain ambivalent towards. But in the end, it serves us in our grief to create a space of loving memory for the lost in being able to appreciate the time we had together. I hope these memories can assist you with your own grieving process.

Failure

Let’s start with the bad. Sometimes, initially after the breakup, it is helpful to be able to sit with a good friend and vent about all the things that make your ex a terrible person. Let’s take a look at some of the failures of the 2014 Winter Olympics.

Sochi

Sochi in and of itself was a bit of a failure, as the infrastructure didn’t quite come together in the end. Reports of open-concept public restrooms, pee-colored water, and disastrously long waiting periods in the lines of the vendors were just a few of the criticisms that made yuppy Westerners cringe.

Insignia Fail

Four rings instead of five...the firing squad could be heard echoing off the mountains that night.

Bob Costas/Matt Lauer

Costas is lucky Rick was not in Sochi.

Initially it was just a humorous puffy left eye that was trending on Twitter. A few days later, the NBC medical staff was forced to conduct a full-body examination, checking for any bite marks or large chunks of skin and muscle that had been ripped off, in case Costas was in fact making the slow transition to undead. Costas bravely persisted with several evenings of self-deprecating reporting, but he eventually was forced to pass the reigns to Matt Lauer. Lauer may be a kind and winsome face, but there’s a reason why he is on The Today Show and not covering high-profile sporting events. Zombie Bob Costas was suddenly missed.

Shaun White and Company

Unhand Flying Tomato, hipster Shaun White!

Many countries have their shtick. In the Winter Olympics, Russia has figure skating; Canada has hockey; Switzerland and Austria have downhill skiing; the Netherlands has speed skating; the Scandinavian countries have cross country skiing; Germany has luge; and the United States has snowboarding halfpipe. Since its inception at the Nagano games in 1998, the United States had taken eight of the twelve medals in the halfpipe, including three of the four golds and a sweep of the event in Salt Lake City in 2002. But this year at Sochi, Americans failed to make the podium. Three made it to the finals, but none, including favorite Shaun White, medaled.

Hockey

In the 2010 Vancouver games, the men’s gold medal game ended with an epic overtime goal by Sidney Crosby, putting Canada over the United States 3-2. The women suffered a similar fate, losing to Canada 2-0 in the finals. Both losses for the Americans left our nation largely in want. This year’s Olympics seemed poised for both US teams to claim their revenge. The men’s team was dominant in the games leading up to the semis, while the Canadian men in comparison seemed a bit lethargic. But when it came time to play, it was clear that the Canucks were just...better. With a suffocating defensive effort, one goal was all the Canadians needed to steamroll the American team in a shutout. Demoralized, our men would go on to lay an egg against Finland, being shutout again in a 5-0 loss. Even more gut-wrenching than the men’s tournament disappointment was the way in which our women’s team lost. Up 2-0 against the Canadians with less than four minutes in the gold medal game, Canada would go on to unleash a scoring barrage against the Americans - two goals within two and a half minutes and the winning score in sudden-death overtime. It was nothing less than shocking…like a swift kick to the groin. Canada...my neighbor to the north...I asked for your tunic, and instead you took mine and the shirt off my back.

Revenge - a dish best not served?

National Anthem

I saw way too many Americans stumbling through the words to the Star Spangled Banner. This wicked and perverse generation! Why do we not know the words to our own national anthem, played or sung nearly ubiquitously before any large event? Better still, why are our athletes going into the Olympics not thinking ahead to the moment when they may be standing on the highest podium, listening to their country’s anthem being played? You’d think at the very least they’d cram for it after winning an event. Still, if you don’t know the words, there remains a simple solution: don’t sing. As a viable alternative, close your eyes and act as if you are going through an intense spiritual moment. It may look even more reverent than if you were singing.

Ambivalence

I had mixed feelings towards these things…

Ice Dancing

Charlie White and Meryl Davis won ice dancing gold! Whoo!! ...what is this sport?? Admittedly, I’m not big on dancing. You will probably never see Swedish people in this event. Moving our limbs in perfect harmony with music was never our strong suit, and because people sucked at it, they declared it a sin. I tried to watch this event, and I must admit I just don’t really understand how any of these couples distinguish themselves from the others. They all do the exact same routines, and to an untrained eye such as myself, they all appear as if they don’t screw up. Figure skating at least has a prevailing technical element to it. The jumps are extremely difficult, and it’s clear when something goes awry there. With ice dancing, I find myself scrutinizing the synchronicity of the dancers’ twizzles. ...twizzles. There also seems to be absolutely no element of surprise or chance of upset in this event, making it incredibly non-compelling. Charlie White and Meryl Davis were the frontrunners coming in, with Canada not too far behind, and everyone else light years in back of them. And low and behold, that’s exactly how it played out. It’s women’s NCAA basketball all over again. It seems like reputation drives the results of ice dancing more than any other Olympic event. I have no clue as to why our ice dancers were better than the rest of the field. Was it White’s flowing blond locks?

I mean...I guess. 

US Women’s Figure Skaters

Gracie Gold…

...and Ashley Wagner.

Scandal

I want to highlight two scandals of the 2014 Winter Olympics, both involving Russia and South Korea. Coincidence? Read on and decide for yourself.

Viktor Ahn

...or is it Ahn Hyun-soo? With four more medals in Sochi, Ahn has become the highest decorated short-track skater (objectively the best Olympic event, summer or winter) in Olympic history. American Apolo Ohno is the only other competitor to reach eight medals, but there is no question Ahn represents the gold standard of the sport. Ohno won his eight - two gold, two silver, and four bronze - over the course of three Olympics (2002, 2006, and 2010). Viktor Ahn has won eight - six gold and two bronze - in only two Olympics (2006 and 2014). Ahn missed the Vancouver games due to injury.

Huh?

So what is so scandalous about that? Ahn competed for South Korea in the Torino games as Ahn Hyun-soo, but he competed for Russia in Sochi as Viktor Ahn. Apparently he had a falling out with his country and team in between those eight years (possibly having to do with not being able to compete in Torino). After training in Russia and gaining citizenship as a Russian, Ahn decided to compete for Russia and proceeded to win four medals (three gold) for the home nation in 2014. Was this simply an example of spiteful defection, or is there corruption looming behind all of this?

Yuna Kim

You will scarcely find anything but gold on Yuna Kim’s career figure skating resume. If you wikipedia her, you will find fifteen golds, six silvers, and two bronze. In the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, Kim shattered Olympic records and won gold by an obscene margin of twenty-three points. Though her technical program was not as difficult in Sochi, Kim still skated beautifully, seemingly to perfection. Despite this, Kim lost the gold in favor of Russian skater Adelina Sotnikova. Sotnikova’s routine did include a more difficult program than Kim’s, but she stumbled on one of her jumps in the free skate, and by all accounts her artistry does not hold a candle next to the sublime interpretation that Yuna brings to her skating.

Yuna Kim deserved better

What makes matters truly shady in this is that figure skating, a sport that has historically been maligned in being rife with corruption, still seems to have woven into its system an inordinate potential for judges to doctor the books. Within the rules of figure skating, judges are chosen from a pool of thirteen countries, with eight judges only working either the short program or the free skate. In Sochi, judges from the USA, Great Britain, Sweden, and South Korea who had worked the short program were replaced by other judges, notably a Ukrainian (formerly of the Soviet Union) who had been kicked out of judging for a year from trying to fix the ice dancing competition in Nagano, and a Russian judge who is married to the Russian federation president. This doesn’t stink...it reeks of bias. On top of all of this, the judges’ scores are to remain anonymous, conveniently doing away with any kind of accountability for the way these judges individually decide the skaters’ fates. How figure skating continues to operate under this kind of blatant neglect for sense is as mystifying as it is shameful.

To review, both of these scandals witnessed the pirating of gold medals from the future host country of the Winter Olympics, South Korea, in favor of the current host, Russia. I’m not one for conspiracy theories; this may be complete coincidence. But even I have to admit this looks like a big eff you! from the Ruskis.

Glory

But much of the 2014 Winter Olympics was indeed glorious. This is how I will choose to preserve the memory of these games…

Sochi

Despite Sochi’s inadequacies, which I can blame the Russian government for, the Sochi landscape was breathtaking, of which I can credit God. Picturesque does not seem to do justice to much of what I saw. To a Swedish American prodigal residing in Southern California, seeing a camera pan across miles of snow-crested conifers that decorate a majestic mountainous landscape has a pied piper effect in calling one Home.

Skiing Slopestyle

In the event’s Olympic debut, Americans Joss Christensen, Gus Kenworthy, and Nicholas Goepper swept the podium, setting a standard for perhaps a new Olympic event which America can try to distinguish itself in.

Security

You’d have to be an exceptionally stupid terrorist to terrorize Russia, especially after the ringleader of the ring fiasco was made an example of. Still, no explosion is a huge cause for celebration. Kudos to Russian security! *I find it prudent to note here that no one was actually murdered for a failure in the rings display...to my knowledge...

Closing Ceremony (Olympic Spirit)

The Closing Ceremony on Sunday night was nothing short of spectacular. The overwhelming beauty of Russian culture was highlighted in its art, garb, music, and dance (ballet). Russian culture is incredibly unique in the themes that it shouts. A people who have toiled one of the harshest landscapes in the world, endured the political regimes of the czars, Stalin, and Gorbachev, thwarted the invasion efforts of two of the world’s most powerful dictators (Napoleon and Hitler), and who put up with communism for the better part of the 1900s have managed to seamlessly weave both agony and hope into the comprehensiveness of their culture. It is a culture that contains nearly tangible expressions of yearning so powerful that it can only originate somewhere very deep within the souls of those who create it.

My area of study has only brought me to extensively delve into one facet of Russian culture - its music. In this area, I can safely say that of all the music I have studied, none is as uniquely evocative as that which Russians have produced. Composers of incomparable skill and passion - Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, Stravinsky, and Shostakovich, among others - have all contributed numerous pieces that have more than inspired me. That is all to say that the Closing Ceremony was marvelous in showing the world the abridged demonstration of the beauty of Russia. The transition to South Korea was extremely tasteful and gave us a sneak preview of a land in stark contrast to the host country (though they are practically neighbors) - something as equally beautiful and mesmerizing, though altogether entirely different. 

Chris Collinsworth said at the close of the ceremony that with every Olympics, the world shrinks just a little bit in size. These windows into the people of our world represent the true beauty found in the Olympics. There are elements that far transcend the mere act of athletes from around the world coming together to compete against each other. That is only the alibi. The Olympic games are an excuse for countries of the world to gather together, be in awe of, and celebrate one another. We didn’t have to be in Sochi for that to occur. The Olympics are a reminder that every person in the world has a story to tell that reaches back long before their birth, and for that story to be shared and listened to is an incredible blessing.

So as that giant fluffy bear cried a single tear while extinguishing the Olympic flame, many of us felt the emotion of the moment well up inside of us as well. It was more than just nostalgia for remembering the journey of the two-week relationship we had just invested in. It was a tear shed because we’re all better people for having experienced it together. It was a tear shed because it only comes around once every two years. If you could put the tear into a pensieve, you would find that the sum of those memories is greater than its parts, and that beautiful product of sentiment is too great for the body not to respond in unison with the spirit.

Thank you, Sochi. Thank you, Russia. Thank you, world. It’s been a beautiful two weeks; indeed, an oddly beautiful harem.

Viva Rio!