-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.
