Rick Osentoski-US PRESSWIRE

I remember reading Joe Posnanski’s article that seemed to confront Allard Baird with the reality of Jeremy Affeldt first making the KC Royals in 2002.  I had listened to his Spring Training debut on the radio and was fascinated by the hard-throwing left-hander with a sweeping curve.  I quickly became a fan.

I remember the fingernail-blister problems that developed in his rookie season.  I remember listening to all the post-game questions and newspaper commentary about ridiculous solutions for the problem.

I remember wanting Affeldt to be the Opening Day starter in 2003, and couldn’t believe that Pena decided on Runelvys Hernandez on the basis of a coin toss.

I remember going to a game against the Yankees for my birthday and watching Affeldt pitch a couple of innings out of the bullpen relieving Kevin Appier.  The Royals won the game by the historic score of 11 – 0.

Affeldt was traded by the Royals to Colorado, where he got his first World Series experience, and then to Cincinnati.  Affeldt experienced the trials of injury and the ups and downs of a major league career before landing in San Francisco.

In 2009, Affeldt was awarded the Set-Up Man of the Year Award and won the World Series with the Giants the following season.  He has now started his own non-profit organization called Generation Alive and engages younger fans in helping to feed the hungry and provide clean water for people around the world.

Last summer, as part of the Blue Crew package, my daughters received a voucher to go take a tour of the stadium.  We picked a random day when the team was out of town and ended up being the only people in the last tour.  The woman giving us the tour shared numerous stories about the inner-workings of the stadium as well as experiences she had had with players over the years.  We sat in locker rooms and dugouts and in the interview room.  We saw everything. Trevor Vance even invited the girls to step on the sacred grass.  At the end of the tour, there was a box of autographed baseballs, and the tour conductor let my daughters each pick one ball.  Both girls chose a ball with Affeldt’s autograph.

“Dad, do you remember anything about Jeremy Affeldt?” my oldest asked.

We stopped at Krispy Kreme and, while eating fresh doughnuts, spent time remembering together.

The optimist-dreamer part of me still thinks that we can play the “remembering” game later this season.

“Do you remember (fill-in-the-blank’s) injury?”

“Do you remember when they lost 12 in a row?”

“Do you remember when Duffy was removed from the game?”

“Do you remember when Perez joined the team?”

“Do you remember…?”

We’ll look back and remember all the struggles and trials the Royals went through as they learned to play together while celebrating their push to get into the post-season.

Denny Medley-US PRESSWIRE

It was the start of interleague play and the Royals were hosting the Cardinals.  As soon as we arrived at the stadium, I ran into an old family friend, Doug.  Doug asked me what I knew about this young rookie, Albert Pujols.  My eyes glazed over in a blank stare.  The entire time my wife and I were inTexas, I was relatively ignorant of the happenings of the baseball world.  I did go watch the Royals play the Rangers with some friends on two separate occasions.  The Royals won both games.

Doug continued, “He’s only a rookie, but I’m telling you, pay attention to him.  He’s going to be great.”  As if on cue, Pujols singled to centerfield.  In his second at-bat, Pujols singled to left and doubled to right a couple innings later.  I was immediately impressed.

The game as a whole was a lot of fun.  We formed new friendships and had a wonderful time at the stadium on a beautiful spring eve.

At the end of nine innings, the game was tied.  For multiple innings, the game continued to plod along, with more and more church members leaving after every completed frame.  Finally, in the bottom of the 13^th inning, Mike Sweeney hit a massive homerun to left-center, leading the Royals to victory.  I took it as a sign of good things to come.

Every year, the church organized a night at the K.  Sometimes we’d even go so far as to coordinate a tailgating party as well.  I was much more interested in batting practice than tailgating, as usual, and went inside the stadium early with my friend Andy.  As we were strolling around watching the pre-game practice, an usher approached us asking if we’d like to win the Seat Upgrade for that night’s game.

“How many seats are available?” we asked.  When we discovered that only two people could win, we politely turned down the offer.  Baseball was meant to be shared with friends.

There was one year when a horrible miscommunication happened.  When ordering our seats for the August game, we requested to be on the third base side so that we would be in the shade upon arrival.  Instead, we got seats in the first base side and absolutely roasted for the first four innings of the game.  Thankfully, the Royals won that hot and humid game.

Last night, the church wanted to treat me to something special as a “going-away” gift.  A large group of people met in the church parking lot and carpooled to the K.  We entered into the stadium through Gate C and were escorted to the .390 Bar & Grill.  I had never before set foot in the glass-enclosed lounge, decorated with pictures of all the Royal greats, every seat with a fantastic view of the field.  The church had arranged for a buffet of bar-be-que and chicken tenders, fries, cheesy corn, and cupcakes.  We stuffed ourselves while watching the Orioles take batting practice.

My daughter, who was only months old when we moved from Texas, is now a pre-teen and asked me to take her down to watch Felipe Paulino warm up in the bullpen.  She’s learned quickly.  While watching Paulino pound fastballs, we visited with my friend who ushers and maintains crowd-control in the left-field seats.  He told us the story of the idiot-guy who jumped into the fountains last week, and how they could never find the baseball he retrieved, which was supposed to be reclaimed by the club.  After Paulino’s warm-ups, we shouted greetings to the remainder of the boys in the bullpen and joined our friends in our seats for the evening by the left-field fountains.

The game absolutely flew by, until the eighth inning, when Baltimore cut the lead in half.  What I really want to be writing right now is how Alex Gordon’s double in the bottom of the eighth was just the run the Royals’ needed to secure a win after Broxton gave up a solo home run to Wilson Betemit in the ninth.  What I really want to write is about how Gordo is one of the many faces that are leading the Royals forward into a new era.  But, in my opinion, the ump blew the call on the play at the plate and I can’t write those words.  The game would go, of course, to extra innings.

We stayed until the 13^th inning was completed.  At that point, my youngest daughter was exhausted and needed to go home to bed.  There were tears in her eyes as she asked, “Why are we leaving?  Can’t we stay just a little longer?  But the game’s not over.”  Her mom and I knew it was time to go.  It wasn’t easy leaving the K last night.  It wasn’t easy saying good-bye.

In two weeks, we’ll be moving toSpringfield.  We have had a terrific decade here at the church and inKansas City.  There will be tears when we start heading south and a whole bunch of questions about why we’re moving and maybe we should stay just a little longer and how there’s still some game left to be played.  It is so hard to say good-bye to friends who love you like family and who go out of their way to plan an amazing evening just for you.  It is so hard to say good-bye as the “what-ifs” bounce around and the “only-ifs” respond.  It is so hard to say good-bye knowing the next text message or email might be an extra ticket to today’s game.

When all was said and done, the Royals lost the game at my going-away party, some six innings past the regulation nine, and it left a melancholy-taste deep in my soul.  But even if they had won, it wouldn’t make saying good-bye any easier.  The good news after last night’s game was not the final score, but the friends who went out of their way to share one more evening at the K with me.  So as the #OurTime season continues, maybe SungWoo Lee could teach me and my family a thing or two about being long-distance fans.

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*For those of you who don’t know what Polk points are, consider yourself blessed, but if you’re curious, click here.   

In this day and culture where technology makes everything possible, I’m ridiculously way behind the times.  I don’t have a smart phone, which, as of this week, now places me in the minority of American citizens.  I don’t have cable or satellite or Direct TV.  And as of last week, I don’t even have a functional TV as my digital receiver blew up.  All of these decisions—except for the receiver—are intentional.  Were I to completely buy into all that technology has to offer, no one would ever see me again.

I could easily watch movie after movie, time and time again, getting caught up into the plot and character development while learning how to tell a good story.  I would scroll through the listings to find which MLB teams were playing and then live tweet throughout the day about all kinds of games.  My phone would be the recipient of the majority of my eye contact during Royals’ games, as I would be attached to Gameday whenever possible.

I know myself and I know what is good for myself and the story I’m trying to write with my life.  What is good for me is to get away from screens and to spend time with real people who don’t know what BABIP stands for or aren’t in a funk because Royals’ starting pitchers haven’t been able to qualify for a win for the last two weeks (very slight exaggeration).

Yet I also know that baseball engages and inspires me to live a better story, to get back up one more time, to hold on to the hope of tomorrow’s game, and to talk with the stranger behind me in line and end up watching a few innings from his suite.

So, I’m trying to find the balance.  I’m trying to live and share life with others.  I’m trying to be a good husband and dad.  And I’m trying to not miss a single inning of Royals baseball.  Thankfully, my wife and social coordinator is very gracious and understanding of my obsession.  Sometimes, however, life happens while the Royals are playing.

Sunday, the Royals played the Yankees.  My oldest daughter’s piano recital was at the same time as the game.  Once I walked away from my car, I would be clueless about the story of the game.  I texted Mark first.  He responded a couple of times, until the Yankees went all Yankee against us and blew up the score.  After forty-five minutes of silence, I tried texting Mike Engel who always knows what’s going on.  But once Luke Hochevar experienced another mental-mound-meltdown, he too lost interest and needed a break.  Besides, he had bets to make with his woman about the upcoming Royals and Red Sox series.

I kinda felt guilty, like I was supposed to learn a lesson that there’s more to life than baseball.  As I was trying to learn that lesson, I was listening to beautiful music that was shaping the minds of the next generation while sitting with my family in a beautiful church.  It was the day we are supposed to slow down and breathe.  And as I’m thinking these thoughts my oldest daughter, the one who would be at the keyboard in another few minutes, wrote me a note.  “Dad, what’s the score?”  Validation.  I persisted in texting only to learn that the Royals were significantly behind.  My daughter rolled her eyes in frustration.  “I don’t like the Yankees either,” she wrote.  I must be doing something right, I thought to myself.

Fast forward to Tuesday night, Royals vs. Red Sox game number two.  My daughters are getting ready for bed and I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching the outcome of the game on my laptop.  My oldest daughter asks me to tuck her in and say bedtime prayers.  At this point, the Royals were losing 4 – 3.  We talked about the highs and lows of the day, pray, and as I’m leaving she calls out, “Dad, come back in a few minutes and tell me the score.”

Sometimes, my oldest daughter has trouble falling to sleep.  Such was the case Tuesday night.  In the top of the seventh, I peeked in and heard her whisper, “Any change?”

“Sorry kiddo, we’re still losing.”  She sighed and asked to be kept in the loop.

When Billy’s bomb landed in the fountains an inning later, I was convinced she was already asleep, until she walked down the hall to get a drink of water.  She returned to bed without saying anything.  Broxton worked a quick ninth and I turned off the computer to go read.  I stepped into her room and quietly whispered, “Billy homered.  Royals won.”  She smiled in response and was gently snoring a few minutes later.

On Wednesday night, I met SungWoo Lee.  Lee is better known by his handle “@Koreanfan_KC.”  He tweeted that he was trying to keep up with the game while at work, a sentiment I completely understood.  We messaged back and forth, and I learned that he started watching baseball on the Armed Forces Network for the express purpose of learning English.  He chose the Royals because he likes to cheer for the underdog and, well, they have been the underdog for a really, really long time.  Now, thanks to MLB-TV, he is able to keep updated on Royals action and learn English some 14 time zones away.

Huh.  How about that?  Baseball and technology working together to make the world a better place.  Simply amazing.

Baseball has been a significant part of my life for the last thirty plus years.  I’m trying to keep up with the times as a fan and learn the new ways to follow and support the team—tweeting during games, blogging my obsessive craziness, even writing a book about the boys in blue.  However, what’s more important to me than keeping up with the latest in technology is sharing life and stories with friends along the way.  And now I’ve got a new friend in South Korea, and that is better than any advance in technology.

The Changing of the Guard: Mandatory Credit: Denny Medley-US PRESSWIRE

For many years now, whenever the east coast teams have come to town, I have diligently and faithfully attended at least one of the games between the Royals and the “Team Who Must Not Be Named.”  I have seen the line-ups that money can buy and goaded those who dared to enter the K wearing pinstripes.  I have watched the Bronx Bombers live up to their names, inflating ERAs and padding statistics.  And every year, I have this feeling that we’re just not as good as “those guys.”

Last year, I took a friend of mine, Kaleb, to the game.  Kaleb is a huge fan of Mariano Rivera.  At last year’s game, we watched Rivera make short order of the Royals in the ninth inning to secure one more save as he quickly approached Trevor Hoffman’s record.  This year, Kaleb wore his “Rivera—42” shirt to the game hoping to inspire similar results.

Brett and I have talked for weeks about taking Kaleb to tonight’s game.  Brett, who creates art professionally for Urban Outfitters on the Plaza, conspires with me to create art and writing projects.  Some of Brett’s best handiwork (in my opinion) is the cover he did for the Royals’ book I’ve been working on.  Kaleb and I met Brett at Chick-fil-A where we quickly ate and carpooled to watch the first game in the series against the beasts from the east.  As is our norm, we arrived at the stadium as soon as the doors opened and headed straight for the Pepsi Party Porch in right field.  Brett was quickly rewarded with a batting practice home run ball as a cheap souvenir.  We called out to Raul Ibanez and welcomed him home.  Ibanez acknowledged our greeting with a wave and a smile.  And then, appearing out of seemingly thin air, there was Rivera.

A fan of the “Evil Empire” immediately reminded me about River’s pending retirement, and that Rivera had been talking to management about playing at least an inning in the outfield.  It seems Rivera not only stays in shape chasing down fly balls in batting practice, but wants the chance to have his own “outfield experience.”  So, I was told, Rivera used batting practice as a time to “train” in hopes of getting into a game as a reserve outfielder.  We watched Rivera run from foul pole to foul pole, catching flies and throwing them back in to second base.  A contagious smile spread across his face.

And then, on a deep drive to left-center, the unimaginable occurred.  Rivera gave chase and jumped, landed awkwardly, and immediately fell to the ground.  Later reports would confirm what I immediately knew in my heart—torn ACL.

I, too, have experienced the joy and pleasure of tearing an ACL in a “freak” accident years ago and remember the burning pain.  With surgery and therapy, it took me a full year to return to “normal.”  Given that timeline, I fear that Rivera’s career may have ended on the warning track at the K.

The incident created space for conversation between fans of both teams.  It seemed that everyone in the stadium like Rivera, regardless of which team they supported.  No one wanted his career to end this way.  One man said, “I wanted to see him pitch tonight and watch our boys get a chance to beat the best.  I think we could take him this year.”

On this spring evening, change was in the air.  The boys of summer looked old compared to the young boys in blue.  We tried to calculate the average ages of the starting lineups, and had the Royals younger as a team by some six or seven years.  Steve Physioc tweeted, “@Royals 4 starting infielders have 7 years of #MLBexperience.  #Yankees have 50. #KC #ourtime will come.”  And youth led the way for the Royals.

Danny Duffy, whose age matches his uniform number of 23, struck out six and only allowed two runs in his six innings pitched.

Mike Moustakas, also 23, lead the way with a 420-foot home run to dead center in the bottom of the second inning, and plated two more in the fifth, giving the Royals a 4 – 1 lead at that time.

The young infield that Physioc noted turned an around the horn double play in the top of the fourth and out-hustled their opponents all night.  (Alex Rodriguez couldn’t get to a foul pop-up off the bat of Alex Gordon.  I bet money Moose would have made that play.)

“Breaks” and “luck” that money has bought for seasons finally fell in favor of the Royals.

The ninth inning serves as the perfect summary to the night.

The Royals were leading by a run and called for Jonathan Broxton to close the game.  Jeter, Granderson, and Teixeira were the scheduled hitters for “The Others.”  Derek Jeter did his best to spur on his teammates, fouling off three fastballs before getting his fourth hit of the night, a single to right field, boosting his average above the sacred .400 mark.  Curtis Granderson followed with a walk as the umpire appeared to temporarily lose track of the strike zone.

This was the point in the game when every Royals fan began to tremble.  We could read the signs.  We knew that, somehow, “luck” always favored the more expensive team.

Mark Teixeira ripped a ball and—miraculously—Chris Getz, Alcides Escobar, and Eric Hosmer turned one of the most brilliant double plays I have ever witnessed in person.

With the tying run now on third, Alex Rodriguez stepped up to the plate.  The fan in the navy shirt in front of me said, “It’s time to show these Midwest boys how it’s done.”  A-Rod fouled off the first pitch.  Strike one.  Everyone in the stadium was standing, screaming, clapping, and cheering.

The second pitch was a called strike, and A-Rod turned to argue with the ump.

If any Royals player had dared to do what A-Rod did, they would have been ejected immediately.  In fact, after each of the next six pitches, A-Rod either glanced or glared at the ump.  A-Rod tried to upstage the ump and worked the count full.  On the ninth pitch of the at-bat, A-Rod hit a dribbler of a ball toward third base.  Mike Moustakas charged hard to barehand the ball and throw on the run, beating A-Rod by half a step at first.

The Royals won.

Kaleb shook his head and smiled, “Deep inside of me, there is a Royals fan that is saying, ‘That was incredible.’”

“In order to be the best, you have to beat the best” the old saying goes.  Last night we caught a glimpse that maybe “Our Time” is closer than we think.

Thanks for visiting Kings of Kauffman. You can stay current on all the Kings of Kauffman content and news by following us on Twitter, Facebook, or by way of our RSS feed.  You can also send your questions to our mailbag at KoKMailbag@gmail.com.

Mandatory Credit: David Richard-US PRESSWIRE

Baseball players are a superstitious lot.  There are some superstitions that almost everyone follows, and there are some that are bizarrely unique.  For those of us who watched Tuesday’s game on TV, we witnessed Alcides Escobar wearing Yuniesky Betancourt’s shoes.  Escobar did have a hit in the game, keeping his average above .300, but the Royals still lost the game.

Some superstitions start at a young age.  Starting in little league, no one dares to step on the chalk foul line on the way on or off the field.  Maybe this is in line with “step-on-a-crack-break-your-mother’s-back” type of thinking.  However, there is always that one guy on the team who always steps on the chalk.  I have yet to observe who the Royals’ line-steppers are.  Maybe they need to work harder at converting others.

Another common superstition is not talking about a no-hitter for fear of jinxing it.  This subject was actually broached on the Royals’ Twitter time-line last week, about five minutes before Luke Hochevar surrendered his first hit of the game.  Rookie mistake.

Baseball players are people of routines and when they find a routine that works—whether it includes shirts, bats, and hats—they stick with it.  (Remember Roy Hobbs and his bat Wonderboy?)  Some players have lucky undershirts or a favorite place to sit on the bench.  Rumor has it Alex Gordon wore the same hat all season last year.  (Maybe he needs to find it for this season?)  These behaviors of routine are then transferred onto the diamond, as players us them to help focus and duplicate previous successful endeavors.

One of my personal favorite superstitions, the rally hat, started with the players and has passed on to us fans.  A rally hat is any hat worn inside-out, upside-down, with the bill pointed to heaven or to the guy behind you or in a multitude of other ways.  (A Royals rally hat is not to be confused with anything that the “royals” from the other side of the ocean wear on their heads.)  Come late innings, the losing team almost always breaks out some kind of rally cap to inspire on-the-field success.

Many players also have their own unique superstitions.

I have heard that when Reggie Jackson signed with the Angels after having multiple successful seasons with the Yankees, that he took his batting helmet with him, having  an Angels’ logo painted over the Yankees logo.

Satchel Paige reportedly had his pitching arm rubbed down with axle grease before every outing.  He believed it helped him to pitch nine innings every time.

Wade Boggs might take the cake as one of the most superstitious players of all time.  He ate chicken before every game and later published a cookbook of all of his chicken recipes.  He woke up at the same time every day (I wonder how that works in different time zones) and always took 150 ground balls during infield practice.  He drew a Hebrew word in the batter’s box meaning “life” before each at bat and would always smooth the dirt in front of him with his left foot while standing at third base.

With the Royals’ losing streak approaching epidemic proportions, many fans have tried to break the slump employing their own superstitions, and I am no exception.  For one game, I tried to comment on everything on Twitter.  The next game, I had a Twitter fast.  (Michael Engel was supposed to join me, but he broke in the seventh inning.  Weak.)  I have participated in L’il Frenchy’s “wear-a-different-Royals-shirt-everyday” and am starting to get strange looks.  I overheard one fan, who is an avid collector of Royals’ autographs, is spending time rearranging his autographed baseballs, trying to find the “right combination.”

What all of this comes down to is simple: we desperately want a win. 

I cannot help but look at the beginning of this season through the lens of Story.  According to best-selling author Donald Miller, a story is simply “a character who wants something and overcomes conflict to get it.”  At the beginning of every story, we are introduced to the protagonist, the leading character.  The first chapters of a book or first scenes of a movie show us the goodness in the character, enabling us to become emotionally attached to this character’s success.  Following the introduction to the character, we catch a glimpse of what it is that the character desires as well as the obstacles that the character must overcome in order to succeed.  The greater the desired object of the character, the more resistance he will face, the more demanding the obstacles he will have to overcome.

Let’s revisit the first few chapters of this year’s Royals story.

In the off-season, Salvador Perez, Alcides Escobar, and Alex Gordon all signed contract extensions.  The slogan of “Our Time” is adopted for the 2012 season.  Even in the middle of football season, people are talking Royals baseball.  The fan base is truly excited, believing that we’ll be surprised and rewarded on the field.

The obstacles start occurring even before the season officially starts.  Manny Pina and Salvador Perez both go down with knee injuries.  Joakim Soria is out for the season with his second Tommy John surgery.  Felipe Paulino has a strained forearm.  Blake Wood has an irritated ulnar nerve.

The season starts, and we quickly fall in love with our character.  The first time through the rotation, the Royals starting pitching is the best in the majors.  Lorenzo Cain impresses us in the field and at the plate.  The Royals’ win their first series against the Angels and come home from their first road trip at .500.  We see the potential.  We believe—Nosotros Creemos.

Round two of the obstacles:  Lorenzo Cain gets injured.  And, as of this writing, a 12-game losing streak.  No wins at home.  Zero statistical luck.  Double plays (and a triple play!) mean that there are runners on base and hard hit baseballs.  They just happen to be hit right at people.  Phenomenal reliever Greg Holland is placed on the disabled list with a stress reaction in his rib cage.  Moments ago, it was released that Cain experienced a “minor setback” in his rehab assignment, further delaying his return to the team.

Once the obstacles start coming, they will not stop until the want of the character is satisfied.  (Think “Lord of the Rings” or “Star Wars” or any good movie.)  This is the critical time for character development.  We learn how the character reacts when nothing goes according to plan, when the worst-case scenario becomes a reality.  In the middle of the pain of the struggle, the character is tested to see if he truly has what it takes to press on and continue to pursue his dream, even without any positive reinforcement.  Will he cave in to resistance or persevere through it?  This is the ultimate question.

If I were in charge of writing the story of this year’s Royals, it would go like this:

Slowly, the Royals will start winning, and slowly the players will return to the team healthy.  By the All-Star break, Cain, Paulino, Holland, and Giavotella will all be in KC and contributing to the team’s success.  The Royals will be in third place in their division, still under .500, but only by a few games.  After the All-Star break, the Royals catch fire, becoming the hottest team in all of baseball.  Perez will return to the lineup to guide the pitching staff into consistent and brilliant performances.  The team that walked through the valleys in April will be able to do no wrong.  And for the first time in decades, the Royals make it into the postseason.

The last time the Royals were in the postseason, I lived in Springfield.  In just a few weeks, I’ll be moving my family back toSpringfieldso my daughters can spend more time with their grandparents.  I’ll willingly join the ranks of the displaced Royals’ fans if this will help the Royals tell a better story this season.

For now, I’ve got my shirt on inside-out, the bill of my hat pointed to heaven, and my autographs arranged in the order of today’s lineup.  It can’t hurt.

Thanks for visiting Kings of Kauffman. You can stay current on all the Kings of Kauffman content and news by following us on Twitter, Facebook, or by way of our RSS feed.  You can also send your questions to our mailbag at KoKMailbag@gmail.com.

Mandatory Credit: Peter G. Aiken-US PRESSWIRE

I wasn’t supposed to go to the game.  I had many words to write to meet my deadline and had planned on writing a couple thousand words while toggling back and forth watching the game on Gameday—a free but torturously slow way to watch any game.  However, my friend, Mark, burned up the battery on my cell phone texting me throughout the day, hoping to convince me to join him at the stadium.  Finally, at 4:00, I gave in; I could no longer say no.

I pulled into the stadium shortly after 5:00.  There was a small crowd gathering around Gate A, preparing to partake of the Outfield Experience.  I hoped to join them shortly.  I’m not a big tailgater; I’d rather be inside the gates, walking the hallowed ground, listening to stories and meeting friends who share a love of the game and the boys in blue.  While I waited in line to purchase my seven-dollar Hy-Vee ticket I texted Mark to see when he would arrive.  No response.  So, I started visiting with the man standing behind me.  I learned that he is a construction worker for Kenco, the company who recently remodeled various bars throughout the K.  He told me that he was buying tickets for another time, that his company had seats in a suite.  I replied, “Wish I could join you.  I’ve never been in a suite.”  His wife took down my name and number and said that they would call me if they had an extra ticket.  I laughed and said that I’d see them in a couple of innings as I ran off to Gate A.

The Tigers were taking batting practice when I entered the stadium.  Miguel Cabrera and Prince Fielder were both hitting towering homeruns, distributing batting practice souvenirs all over the stadium.  On the Party Porch, there were a dozen kids screaming for every ball hit remotely close to the warning track.  I quickly tired of their persistent pleas and strolled towards the Royals bullpen.

I love hanging out by the Royals bullpen before a game.  For the last six years, one man has diligently prepped and maintained the mound and bullpen area.  He and I have talked on numerous occasions, though we’ve never exchanged names.  The mound needed an extra bag of crushed clay due to the recent rains and excessive use over the weekend.  Two batting practice homeruns came incredibly close to hitting him; he didn’t even flinch.  Steve Foster, the bullpen coach, entered the pen as we were talking and asked the mound artist to play catch.  When Foster walked near me I inquired, “You breaking in a new glove?”

“A new glove and a new prescription,” he replied.  “Tough combination.”  The mound artist threw knuckleballs and curveballs and the two grown men laughed and conversed while having a catch.  Foster looked and me and motioned that he intended to throw me their ball.  “Will you see it all the way?”

I looked up.  The sun was unblocked, hitting me full face, full force.  “No worries,” I retorted.

Foster threw the ball the length of the pen, only to have it fall a few feet short and clang off the metal bars.  I got lucky.  I completely lost it in the sun.  Couldn’t see it at all.  I saw sun-spots for the next thirty minutes.  Foster jogged over and tossed the ball a second time, this time successfully, and we talked a few more minutes.  I turned to see Humberto Quintero and Danny Duffy warming up in left-field.  Duffy sprinted out to centerfield at the same time Justin Verlander ran out there.  The two men were less than ten feet apart.  They didn’t even exchange glances.  Just like two boxers before a title match.

After a few minutes of throwing on the field, Duffy and Q entered the pen and immediately set to work.  Duffy was intensely focused, until Eiland cracked a joke and made him laugh.  I’m peeking into his glove looking at how he holds his change-up and curveball when the usher asked me to clear the aisle for the game.  I watched one more pitch and started the long walk towards the upper deck.  I called Mark and left a voicemail, beginning to wonder if he’s still coming to the game.

Walking by the left-field foul pole, I spotted a familiar face.  Last season, my friend and I attempted to move into the left-field foul pole seats in the middle of a game.  The game was the week before Easter and the temperature hovered around freezing.  Even though no one else was seated in the entire section, my friend and I boldly and nonchalantly strolled to the front row, close enough to talk to Gordo.  After one pitch, the usher walked down the aisle and asked to see our tickets.  We were busted.  As we left, we were cheered on by some fans seated near the bullpen, “He let you guys stay the longest!  Way to go!”

So, I shared this story with the usher.  He nodded as if he remembered, “Well, a man’s got a job to do.  Hope there’s no hard feelings.”  We both laughed and shook hands.  No hard feelings here.

I continued strolling towards my seat when the call to stop and honor the national anthem came over the speakers.  I took off my hat and started to sing along when I noticed a man standing a few rows in front of me with a custom-made jersey that said, “Hogan—73.”

Hogan is my mom’s maiden name.  After the anthem, I walked down and introduced myself to see if we had any common kin.  We couldn’t make a real connection.  His family is Chicago-based; mine is in Cape Girardeau.  We laughed and parted ways.

I climbed up to my seat in time for the first pitch and texted Mark again to check in.  Nothing.  While I texted, Duffy surrendered a lead-off homerun to Austin Jackson.  Oh boy.  A single and a walk followed and it was hard to hold on to hope.  Prince Fielder stepped up to the plate.  Prince Fielder who splashed homeruns in batting practice.  Except this Prince Fielder promptly grounded out into a double play.  Deep sigh of relief.     

Alex Gordon was hitting lead-off, the place where his name should be written in Sharpie on line-up cards from now until 2016.  He doubled and tied the game a few minutes later and everything was right with the world.

In the bottom of the second inning my cell phone rang.  I figured it to be Mark and answered without looking.  It was the construction guy from the ticket line.  “You still wanna come to the suite?  I’ll meet you at the upper-deck elevator in a minute.”  I ran.

I’ve only seen the suites from the outside.  Crossing over the threshold was like entering Narnia.  The food was abundant and free.  The seats were plush.  There were two large screens with the game on in case I wanted to sit in a recliner and listen to Hudler.

I grabbed a Dr Pepper and a hot dog and sat down outside.  For a few minutes, I visited with the owner of Kenco, who also owns the Sheridan’s Custard in the outfield.  His daughter informed me that custard would be delivered in a few innings.  As I settled into my seat convinced that I was closer to heaven than I have ever been, my phone alerted me to an incoming text.  It was Mark.  “Dude, I’m here, in 241.  These seats are awesome.”

I texted back, “In a suite.”

The only reason I came to the game was because Mark convinced me to go.  In the fourth inning, I said good-bye to my suite friends, grabbed a Dr Pepper to go, and joined Mark and his Tiger-loving nephew, Jake, in the first-base seats.

As soon as I called out his name Mark responded, “What are you doing here?  Why aren’t you still in that suite?!?!”

“Because ball games are supposed to be shared with friends.”

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

The rest of the evening is a blur as we watched the brilliance of Verlander and Duffy on the mound.  We shouted at the top of our lungs when Gordo displayed his gold-glove brilliance and high-fived strangers when Frenchy recorded an assist at third.  I saw KC Royalman and introduced myself.  He accepted full responsibility for Inge’s homerun as nature called.  L’il Frenchy bounded by me eating a hotdog and gave me a smile and a high five.

Mark, Jake, and I stood for the entirety of the ninth inning, trying to will the Royals to victory through our applause and shouts.  We watched in awe as Verlander threw half a million pitches in the ninth inning to record the complete game victory.

All in all, it was just another night at the K.

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I have spent the last year writing a book on the intersection of baseball and faith following the Royals.  With a little luck, the book will be a tangible piece of American baseball culture within the next month.  Part of the book-making process is enduring the tedium of multiple rounds of editing (read, “Getting rid of millions of commas.”).  In January, I submitted my manuscript to Mike the Editor, to help me share the stories and lessons baseball teaches us.

Mike the Editor lives in California and he loves baseball almost as much as I do.  His son is a left-handed pitcher for one of the top-ranked high school teams in the state which means that Mike still has someone who wants to play catch with him regularly.  Through working with the manuscript, Mike has developed a special fondness for the boys in blue.  Unless they are playing the Angels.  Mike loves the Angels.  The same Angels that now have Pujols.  The same Angels that are favored to win every game for the rest of the year.  The same Angels who hosted the Royals for the first three games of this season.

One day during Spring Training, Mike and I were working on the manuscript when we noticed that the Angels and Royals played each other the next day.  I made a snarky comment about placing a bet on the game — the loser buys the winner a book.  I felt guilty when the Royals took a huge early lead in a “meaningless” spring game and texted that we should postpone the actual bet until the opening series.  Little did I know that the Angels would come back to win.  I shipped him a book.

When Opening Day finally came Mike the Editor and I tweeted and texted and emailed while Chen battled Weaver.  I was glued to Gameday and a borrowed radio.  I had been asked to sing and play guitar for a Holy Week midnight service and had to set up before the game ended.  Mike continued texting updates to me.  As I set up my microphone, adjusted the stand, and tuned my guitar, I received a horrible series of texts.

Bottom 8.  Morales singles.  One out.

Trumbo singles.

Iannetta singles.  Bases loaded.  Still one out.

Pitching change.  Holland in.

At this point, I breathed a sigh of relief.  I knew the numbers on Greg Holland from last season, only allowing two inherited runners to score.  Only two.  All season.  Just two.

Infield single.  1 – 0.  Bases still loaded.

Triple.  4 – 0. 

Strike out.  Pujols IBB.  Hunter single.  5 – 0. 

My heart sank.  However, I was now in the appropriate mood to play guitar and sing at a Good Friday service.  If the Angels won on Saturday, Mike would be receiving a second book.

Thankfully, Saturday was a different story.  Luke Hochevar continued to pitch like he did all spring and the second half of last season.  I’m still thinking this is his Cy Young year of 20 wins.  The Royals jumped out to an early lead and held off a couple of small rallies at the end of the game.  The bet and the winner of the book would be decided on Easter Sunday.

Easter Sunday meant more guitar playing and singing followed by lunch at a friend’s house.  We ate ham and brownies and celebrated a birthday.  We hid eggs and played Madden and had cardboard-tube sword fights.  The game finally started and it seemed that the Royals were barely holding on when the “miracle” (uhm, very loose application of the definition) occurred—Eric Hosmer hit a bomb in the 5^th inning, solidifying the victory.

Mike the Editor was very gracious and complimentary as the Royals took the series 2 – 1.  He praised our starting pitching (who would’ve guessed!) and harassed me for Gordo’s performance at the plate.  I told him that I wasn’t worried about Gordo and was simply thrilled that we kept Pujols in the ballpark.  I wanted to say something about Gordo’s first assist involving Pujols at the plate, but decided to bite my tongue.  I want a good book, not Barbie Fairytopia or Twilight or something on the sale table outside Borders or Barnes & Noble.

One of the most important things I learned writing my book last summer was this: Baseball helps us make new friends.  Thanks to baseball and the bookmaking process I’ve made a new friend in Mike the Editor.  When the Halos come to town, I’ll suggest the bet once again and hope that we don’t have to face Weaver.  By then, I’ll have my own book about baseball and a new friend for life.

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Mandatory Credit: Denny Medley-US PRESSWIRE

Twas the night before Opening Day, when all through the house

Every creature wore powder blue, even my computer mouse.

My stockings were pulled high, all the way to my knees

In honor of players from the last century.

My children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While condiments for hot dogs raced through their heads.

I laid out my ball glove, my jersey, and cap,

And walked off to bed in hopes of a nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

I ran down the hall to see what was the matter.

The dog was a-howling, my crazy canine

Was barking at the appearance of the famed KC nine.

There was Gordo whose gold glove sparkled so bright

And swift-footed Cain, running faster than light.

Hosmer was grinning, his joy unrehearsed

Teasing Country Breakfast ‘bout holding down first.

Frenchy was signing L’il Frenchy’s new hat

While Moose slathered pine tar on a Brett Brothers bat.

Pena was decked out in gear head-to-toe

And Escobar and Getz invited me to come throw.

I threw on my jersey with number 20 on back

Flipped on the light switch and joined the pack

I crossed o’er the threshold when what should appear

But a huge field of dreams with a crowd shouting cheers.

The lights were a-humming, the grass was fresh cut

The chalk lines were drawn and vendors selling peanuts.

I turned and I saw posed on dugout’s top stair,

Seitzer and Eiland and Yost were all there.

The boys took the field while I strolled to the mound

My heart was full-pounding, I heard not one single sound.

The new cowhide was mudded and on the rosin bag laid

The umpires stood ready to call the game as it played.

Then I heard through the speakers Mike McCarthy call out,

“Tonight’s very first pitch, Ethan Bryan will throw out.”

Pena mock-flashed some signs, I reared back and let fly

The ump called it a strike as Bruce Chen stood by my side.

“Good toss, rookie,” he whispered as he walked up the hill

While telling me jokes he started his warm-up drills.

The stadium then silenced, you could’ve heard a pin fall

When the umpire pointed and shouted, “Play ball!”

There were homers by Hosmer and Gordo and Moose

Getz and Eski were flawless, Country Breakfast cut loose

Oh the famed KC boys played their best on that night

On that fanciful field under heaven’s moonlight

And every year on the eve of Opening Day

I remember watching the famed boys in blue play

Cross the threshold of my rental house door

On a field that I’d never, never seen before.

And I hold on to wonder, every game I attend

Was it just my imagination in a world of pretend

Until I saw Seitzer, who pointed my way

Motioned like he had something important to say.

“There are dreams that are given at a very young age

To musicians and poets and the dancers on stage

To those who will see with the eyes of their soul

These dreams are whispered to dare to let go.

“To chase after dreams, to hope Our Time is now

To suspend disbelief, to not worry how

To remember with awe and childlike delight

Your first baseball game on a mid-summer’s night

“The call for the fan, for the tried and the true

Is to keep dreaming dreams for the good boys in blue.”

So on Opening Day, when the ump shouts “Play ball”

I dream that this year is when we’ll rise above all.

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Mar. 15, 2012; Glendale, AZ, USA; Kansas City Royals first baseman Billy Butler (16) attempts to catch a foul ball during the third inning against the Los Angeles Dodgers at Camelback Ranch. Mandatory Credit: Matt Kartozian-US PRESSWIRE

The foul ball is the sacred relic of any major league baseball game.

According to the Stub Hub commercial on the radio, as a knowledgeable Royals’ fan, I know exactly where to sit in order to catch a foul ball.  But to this day, despite the numerous games I have attended with the very hopes of catching a foul ball, I have never caught one.

I grew in my passion as a fan of the Royals listening to the games on the radio in Springfield, Missouri.  At one point, I could practically carry on a conversation with Hall of Fame Broadcaster Denny Matthews, knowing what information he’d give out next.  Numerous times throughout the season, Denny would comment on a fan’s catch of a foul ball.

“He brought his glove to the stadium tonight and showed us he knew how to use it.”

Or…

“The fans are really cheering a great catch made on that foul ball.”

Or…

“That poor guy had no idea how to react to that foul ball.”

One of my friends compares the battle for a foul ball to a fish feeding frenzy at a children’s zoo pond.  Every time a ball enters the stands, he says, “Feed the fish, but keep some hungry.  They’ll come back again.”  As the game progresses, he simply retorts, “Feedin’ fish.”

According to major league statistics, there are an average of 60 to 70 baseballs used in every game.  Many of these become “free” souvenirs to the fortunate fan.  (At one game I attended last season I actually tried to count how many balls were used.  There were five used in the top half of the first inning.  Alex Gordon led off the bottom of the first with a home run and I forgot to keep counting afterwards.)

In the blessed summer of 2003, I went to a Saturday night ballgame with some friends.  We had seats in the first row of the upper deck, where the railing forces you to keep changing positions based on the location of the action on the field.  The Royals had a comfortable lead in the later innings, and as the sun began to set, my friend propped up his feet on the railing.

“Do you think I could move my feet fast enough to catch a foul ball if one comes our way?” he asked me.

No sooner had he asked the question than we discovered the answer.  Raul Ibanez (who is now a Yankee—another one bites the dust) was at the plate.  The very next pitch was a bit inside and Ibanez made a defensive check-swing, more by accident than intention.  The ball rocketed in our direction.

I always think of foul balls as lazy, high pop flies—supposedly relatively easy to catch.  I forget about the blistering line drives pulled into the lower decks or the glancing check-swing ricochets that send people scattering for any semblance of protection.

I did not have any time to think.  Instinctively, I reached forward with my glove-less left hand and proudly bare-handed the treasure.

Until.

The momentum from the ball pushed my hand back against the rail and my hand involuntarily released the hallowed cowhide into the seats below.  My heart broke.  My friend turned to me and said, “Huh, I guess the answer’s no.”

I’ve always wondered how Denny called that foul ball, because I did, in fact, catch it.  Had it been hit a few inches higher or lower, that ball would currently be displayed in my Royals sanctuary at home.

The next day I was playing guitar at church and noticed that my left hand had two bruises.  There was a bruise along the meat of the hand where I had caught the ball and a second bruise across my knuckles where my hand was pinned against the rail.

So, Stub Hub commercial-maker, I don’t really know where to sit to catch a foul ball at the K.  But if you’ve got any advice, I’ll be sure to take my glove next time.

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My friend Mark surprised and spoiled me, taking me for a two-day vacation to Surprise,Arizona.  From our first take-off to our final landing, the entire trip was phenomenal.  For the first time in my life, I wasn’t strip-searched, poked, or prodded passing through security in the airport.  Both of our flights actually arrived early.  The weather in Arizona was perfect.  There is no possible way to fully share my experiences at Spring Training.  However, here are some highlights from that 48-hour pilgrimage:

*Being in the right place at the right time out of pure ignorance and getting the opportunity to witness the PCL Champion ring ceremony.

*Having conversations with Dick Kaegel, Toby Cook, and Bob Dutton.

Kaegel, “There’s always a good story to find out here.”

Cook, “I got this job because I was a TV anchor who emcee’d a Royals’ Charities event and got a serendipitous call from Mr. Glass.  How can you ever plan that?”

Cook’s son, “I want to be the GM of the Royals when I grow up.”

Dutton, “Right now, we’re looking at a .500 team.  With a little luck on the pitching mound, some good things could happen this year.”

*Getting pictures with Duffy, Hosmer, Moustakas, Wathan, and Brett.

*The sound of wooden bats echoing all over the complex.

*George Brett giving hitting lessons to Wil Myers.

Brett and Myers were working on balance.  Brett took his stance like he was getting ready to field a ground ball and then picked up his bat, demonstrating the importance of remaining balanced throughout the swing.

*Omaha manager Mike Jirschele hitting blistering backhands to Billy Butler at first base.

*Calling out to Aaron Crow with “M-I-Z” and having him respond “Z-O-U, baby!”

*Conversations with Kevin Seitzer, one of my childhood heroes.

*Watching Seitzer’s “extra-batting practice game.”  On day one, Seitzer pulled Billy Butler, Johnny Giavotella, Lorenzo Cain, and Yuniesky Betancourt aside to play the game.  The rules were simple: five swings to hit the ball to the opposite field with power.  One point for a single; two points for a gap shot that rolled to the fence; three points for a ball that landed on the warning track; four points for a home run.  Anything pulled, hit too high, or that could potentially be fielded by the most amazing infield ever was an out.  After ten rounds, Gia and Yuni tied for the victory, one point ahead of Cain andButler.  I called out to Cain as he was leaving the field, “That’s a great number you’re wearing for your position.”

He smiled and responded, “You better believe it.”

On the next day, the players were paired up for the game—Hosmer and Jarrod Dyson against Mitch Maier and Clint Robinson.  The wind was blowing out slightly; Hosmer and Maier were hitting bombs.  Hosmer once scored 10 points in 5 swings.  On the following at-bat, Maier scored 11.  Dyson proved to be the critical difference, helping solidify the victory in his final at-bat.  As they gathered the balls on the field, thanking Seitzer for the time, Dyson called out, “Me and Hosmer take on anyone, Seitz, anyone.  We are unstoppable.”

I called out to Dyson and told him that he was in my Royals book from last year.  “Lemme guess,” he said, “it was the game when I scored on the pop-out to the shortstop.”

“You got it, dude.”

“I gotta use my speed every chance I get.”

*Meeting Elliott and his family.  (See that story here.)

*Watching an outfield-assist game.  The players were Gordon, Maier, Cain, and Francoeur.  Each player got two throws to each base.  Points were awarded on the “friendliness” of the hop and the accuracy.  Gordon took a quick and impressive lead.  Frenchy could potentially catch him if his final throw to home plate was perfect.  Frenchy released a cannon-like throw that short-hopped Perez and tailed up the third-base line.  He the cussed loudly and conceded the victory to Gordo.  Then he demanded a one-throw rematch later that day.

During that day’s game, Alex recorded his first assist of the season on a play at the plate.  I bet that’s the throw he submitted for the rematch.

*Hosmer’s ridiculous defensive plays at first base—one of them made ESPN.

*Witnessing Gordon’s second home run of the spring.

*Meeting Darren and Tyler, Bob McClure’s nephews. Tyler will be one of the ball boys for the 2012 All-Star Game.

*Driving by Luke Air Force Base and watching the jets practice “touch-and-go’s.”

*As we were walking into the stadium, David Glass was walking right behind me.  I slowed down for a minute and said, “Mr. Glass, thanks so much for the gift of baseball in KC.”

He looked at me, nodded, smiled, and replied, “You’re welcome, son.  So good to see you out here supporting the team.”

*On the way back to the airport, I ate my first In-N-Out Burger—it was incredible.  Someone really needs to bring that franchise to KC.

I know that numerous KoK readers have also made the sacred pilgrimage to Surprise.  What are some of your highlights?

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Elliott, Moose, and Hosmer

Spring Training baseball is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

My friend Mark and I traveled to Surprise,Arizona in hopes of watching a couple of games and maybe getting a couple of autographs.  We were completely unprepared for the amazing experience that awaited us.

For two days, we watched batting practice, situational drills, and throwing games.  We saw Kevin Seitzer pitching extra batting practice and making a game of it—Eric Hosmer and Jarrod Dyson beat Mitch Maier and Clint Robinson by one point.  We saw the outfielders practicing their throws to every base—Alex Gordon beat Jeff Francoeur in that game.  Frenchy demanded a one-throw rematch.  Danny Duffy threw a bullpen session and looked phenomenal.  Johnny Giavotella and Billy Butler spent hours fielding rocket shot ground balls.  But one of my favorite memories from Spring Training 2012 is Elliott.

Wherever Elliott went, he was surrounded by ballplayers.  The six-year-old blonde-haired kindergartner from St. Joseph knew the names and numbers of everyone and wasn’t afraid to ask the hard questions.  When introduced to Bubba Starling, Elliott asked, “Bubba, when will you be in the majors?”

Bubba smiled and laughed, “I don’t know yet, Elliott, I just don’t know.”

On Monday, before warm-ups, the players gathered around Elliott and started quizzing him on who wore what number.  Elliott answered every one correctly.  One of the players even responded, “I didn’t know he wore that number.”  (Elliott has always been a numbers guy.  His dad used to let Elliott stay up late watching the games on TV while using various scenarios to teach him math skills—a brilliant parenting strategy.)

Elliott got the opportunity to step on the field during batting practice, watching Seitzer help the players make their adjustments.  Moustakas and Hosmer and Gordon all spent some time with him in between swings.  Jason Kendall gave Elliott a fungo bat to practice his own swings.  Gordo watched Elliott swinging and commented, “The kid’s a natural.”

I spent a few minutes visiting with Scott, Elliott’s dad, and learned a little more.  Elliott has loved baseball from the age of 2.  Most evenings after dinner, Scott and Elliott would watch the Royals on TV and play ball on a makeshift diamond in their living room.  Elliott was a couple of months shy of turning three when he attended his first game.  At the game, he knew all the names and the numbers of the entire roster.  However, the numbers were too large for his vocabulary.  Instead of saying, “Twenty-five,” Elliott would say, “Two and five.”

Since that day, it’s been nothing but Royals baseball for Elliott.  He has participated in a couple of summer baseball camps sponsored by the Royals in 2010 and 2011.  He practiced his throwing and hitting while making friends with Bruce Chen, Chris Getz, Tim Collins, and Nate Adcock.  He amazed all of them by quoting their statistics from the week and quickly won their admiration.

One of Elliott’s highlights from Spring Training was visiting the locker room.  He was the center of attention.  From the players to the front office staff, everyone overwhelmed Elliott and his family with kindness and compassion (and pictures and autographs, too).

Elliott, you see, has spina bifida.  On March 1, he underwent his twelfth surgery, a VP shunt revision.  Elliott focused on the important things going into the surgery, telling anyone who would listen, “I’m feeling brave today.  My cousins are gonna come visit and I’m going to Spring Training next week.”

Elliott stayed for the duration of Monday’s game which the Royals lost 2 – 1.  On the way out of the stadium, Elliott spotted his favorite player, Alex Gordon.  Gordo high-fived Elliott and spent a few quality minutes with him.  It was the perfect ending to a perfect Spring Training experience.

Two days after returning home from Arizona, Elliott is playing baseball on the Wii and waiting for the start of the regular season.  He’s already making plans to head back to Surprise next year.

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Mandatory Credit: Peter G. Aiken-US PRESSWIRE

A couple of years ago a friend told me that I, as a musician, really needed to watch Walk the Line.  I watched the movie and was thoroughly impressed by the music and the story.  Less than a week after watching the movie I received an email from Jerry inviting me to sing for the minimal security prisoners at Lansing Correctional Facility.  I don’t think I would have accepted the invitation had I not recently seen the movie.

I asked Jerry what songs I should play, what stories were appropriate to share.  He told me, “Go with your heart.  Whatever you are passionate about, the men will appreciate.”

At that time I was working on an anthem about the Royals for Rustin Dodd’s contest in the KC Star.  I decided the debut performance of The Boys in Blue should be at Lansing.

Brett* the artist, one of my best friends, met me at Chick-fil-A for moral support.  He had agreed to accompany me toLansing.  Eating waffle fries and the best chicken sandwich in the world, we teased about stopping by the K on the way home as the Royals were in town.

*Yes, Brett was named after George Brett and is also a devoted Royals fan. 

Pulling into the parking lot, we were both a little nervous and had no idea what to expect.  The scene was straight out of a Hollywoodmovie — fences and razor wire and large men playing ball and working out and using all the words one would expect in any R-rated movie.  Brett and I walked through a fenced tunnel toward the facility.  I immediately imagined psychotic men rushing over to the fence and screaming obscenities at us.  What in the world am I doing here?  I wondered if I could run faster than Brett while carrying my guitar.   

We were greeted at the “welcome center” with probing wands and a thorough searching of all of our possessions.  Jerry entered a few minutes later wearing a Nebraska Cornhuskers polo shirt and we bantered for a few minutes about collegiate football and basketball.

Jerry walked us to the auditorium where two inmates, both younger than me, were already at work setting up the sound system and the projector.  Within minutes, Brett and I helped with setting up chairs, testing mikes, and getting ready for the concert.  We arrived early enough to be able to visit before the show started.  The two young men were both gracious and generous.  One said, “We want to take really good care of you so you’ll be sure to come back and see us again.”

I replied, “Let’s visit when I get done singing.  If you still want me to come back after I’m finished, then we can talk.”

Fifty or so inmates had arrived when Jerry nodded at me to start singing.  I fumbled with my notes and sheepishly introduced myself.

“So, I recently wrote a song about the Royals and I’ve never had the chance to perform it live.  I thought it might be a good song to kickoff the evening.”  And I sang this song:

Born in the summer of 1969

Taking down the Twinkies in a little overtime

Denny’s on the radio, and the rookie in Lou

We’re the Boys in Blue

Splittorff and Cookie and the mighty A.O.

Freddy and Big John on the Astroturf show

Fighting them Yankees, trying to break through

We are the Boys in Blue

Born in the summer of 1969

Taking down the Twinkies in a little overtime

Denny’s on the radio, and the rookie in Lou

We’re the Boys in Blue

Playing Philly in the cool autumn eve

Thanking the Willies for our first victory

Beat them Yankees, got something to prove

We are the Boys in Blue

From the heart of K.C.

White, Brett, Quiz and the Duke

Left a great legacy

And a trophy in blue

We have known the Bo

And a Saberhagen too

Monty’s in the zone

When Cone bids adieu

Now we’re banking on Billy

And Soria’s flames

Got a wild Moose a-comin’

Better get to the K

Born in the summer of 1969

Killed a Goose with some pine tar and the Cards in ‘85

Denny’s still on the radio,

We’ve got nothing to lose

We’re the Boys in Blue

I sang and shared stories for an hour.  After I finished, numerous men approached me to shake my hand and visit.  One man said, “Loved that Royals song.  Listen to them every chance I get.”  Another man said, “Listen here, I’m a Yankees fan and I’ll always be a Yankees fan.  But your song about the Royals, that was good stuff.  Thanks for sharing it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Since that night, I’ve sang that song in several venues; each time I’ve felt that it just wasn’t quite finished.  A few weeks ago, I was taking a break from writing when I learned the motto for the 2012 season—Our Time.  Immediately, I knew the changes that needed to be made.

Now the last two stanzas read:

Now we’re Banking on Billy

And Soria’s flames

Gordo, Hosmer, and Moose

Are leading the way

Born in the summer of 1969

Killed a Goose with some pine tar and the Cards in ‘85

Denny’s still on the radio

Now it’s Our Time to prove

We’re the Boys in Blue

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Last fall, one of those young men that I met on that night was released and returned home.  Last night, he texted me and said, “Was just thinking about you and that Royals’ song.  I bet this year is Our Time.”

I sure hope so.

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February 27, 2012; Port St Lucie, FL, USA; A general view of a baseball during spring training workouts at Digital Domain Park. Mandatory Credit: Brad Barr-US PRESSWIRE

Some people take a little bit longer to understand things than others.  Maybe they are like the people who disrupt the baseball game by walking through the field because they can’t see the players.  Maybe they’ve never chased a crazy dream or thought in their life.  Or maybe they just aren’t sports fans.  Regardless, some people just require a little more of a detailed explanation.

I think that she was one of “those” kinds of people.  At least, that was the impression I got when she asked, “What’s the big deal about baseball?  Aren’t you just wasting your time with kids’ games when there are more important things you could be doing?  You are fully aware of the grave injustices around the world—from trafficking to poverty to orphans—and yet silly baseball consumes you.  Why baseball?”

Me, I take a long time to find my answer to a question.  One time a friend asked for some advice regarding a particularly odd and precarious situation.  It took me more than a week to get back to him.  My first response to the question-asking-female was a random blathering about going to a game with Mom and Dad and dreaming of playing ball for the Royals for the majority of my childhood.  I want a second chance to answer that question.

Buck O’Neil said it best, “Nothing better than baseball for kids.  Teaches them all the lessons.”

To this day, I can see the faces of every one of my baseball coaches, from second grade through high school, even though a few names have been lost in the trenches of my memory.  Those coaches gave of their time and themselves trying to get my feet in position to turn a double play or think through a series of pitches beforehand.  The following are some of the lessons that come through the hours spent with these coaches.

Baseball is a game of character.  In baseball there are ample opportunities to cheat, whether it’s doctoring the ball as a pitcher or placing too much pine tar on the bat.  We now live in the steroid era, where players are tempted to supplement their natural abilities through illegal means.  The question becomes, do you do anything just to win, or do you abide by the rules?  What do you do when no one else is looking?  If you could get away with it, would you do it?  Mike Sweeney and Jeremy Affeldt are just two of the guys who come to mind immediately as players who understand that, because of their abilities, they are role models.  They live and play with intensity and with character, setting a good example for the next generation.

Baseball is a game defined by failure.  No one has perfect seasons.  You will strike out.  You will commit an error.  You will lose games.  Umpires will blow a call.  How do you react when you face failure?  Do you allow failure to define who you are, or do you choose to try again?  Failure is just an opportunity to learn, to make an adjustment.  Some players inherently understand that, quickly seeking the wisdom and guidance of older players and coaches.  Some players try to go at it all alone and end up isolating themselves from the very ones who could help.

Baseball is a game of relationships.  It is impossible to play alone.  It requires doing your part to the best of your ability and trusting those around you to do the same.  There is very little that just one person can control in a game.  It takes the combined effort of all the players on the field, those in the bullpen, and those on the bench to succeed and compete.  The relationships that are forged on the field often last for a lifetime.  (This is true of many sports.)

There is a place for everyone on the field (isn’t this the lesson from The Sandlot?).  Baseball does not discriminate against height or build.  Eddie Gaedel did his job and earned a walk.  Jon Rauch is tall enough to play center for any basketball team.  Regardless of ability, you can find a place for them to play.  As the song says, “Here in right field, it’s important you know.  You gotta know how to catch, you gotta know how to throw…”

Finally, baseball is a glimpse of eternity.  There is no time constraint in the game, meaning that a tied game could last forever (The Iowa Baseball Confederacy).  There is no need to hurry or rush.  Baseball creates space for spectator and player alike to step outside of time and into forever.

One spring afternoon, I was the scheduled pitcher for the JV game, which started shortly after the conclusion of the varsity game.  In the final innings of the varsity game, the starting catcher for my school, Brian, suffered a stroke and was rushed to the hospital.  Brian was also “my” catcher.  Coach had Brian working with me to teach me a thing or two about pitching.

Immediately, Coach forfeited our game.  He then pulled both teams aside and said, “There’s no point in playing if your heart’s not in it, and right now, our hearts are with Brian.”  That was the first time I cried as a player on the diamond.

My daughters, thankfully, are very gracious to me and my baseball obsession.  I was recently watching TV while wearing my glove and tossing a ball softly into it, practicing gripping different pitches.  My youngest asked, “When do we get to go back to another Royals’ game?”

I answered, “Not soon enough, kiddo, not soon enough.”

Last year, I read dozens of baseball books—biographies and autobiographies and fiction accounts as well.  Each book shared beautiful truths and lessons of life learned from this game that can be taught in a matter of minutes.

“Why baseball?”

Because baseball provides a lens through which I see and understand the good and beautiful and utterly bizarre world in which we live.

I think the real question should be, “Why curling?”

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For me, the New Year does not start on January 1, it starts with Opening Day. Opening Day is the physical embodiment of hope and new life. Instead of soon-to-be-forgotten resolutions, I make predictions about who will finally break Steve Balboni’s homerun record (Alex Gordon) and which pitcher will win 20 games (Luke Hochevar) and how many wins we’ll have at the end of the season (88). And every Opening Day is filled with miracles—you just have to look for them.

For example, on Opening Day 2002, I tailgated with my friend Chuck and his sons. We ate burgers and hot dogs, played catch, and made sure to get into the stadium early enough to watch batting practice. After all the pre-game fanfare, the players took the field as Jeff Suppan strolled confidently to the mound. Chuck said, “If the first pitch is a strike, this game is ours.”

Sure enough, the first pitch to Minnesota Twins left-fielder Jacque Jones was a fastball called strike. The stadium erupted. The second pitch, however, sailed over Chuck Knoblauch’s head and landed beyond the left field fence.

The Royals were down 3 – 1 after the first two innings. In the bottom of the third, they scored three to take their first lead of the season. Then, in the bottom of the fifth, Neifi Perez and Carlos Beltran hit back-to-back triples. Buck O’Neil is right; there is nothing more exciting than a triple.

After six innings, the boys in blue led 6 – 4. The Twinkies, though, plated four in the top of the seventh, winning the game 8 – 6. On that Opening Day, the miracle was this: Neifi Perez was the team leader with a .600 batting average—two singles and the triple. (The only other time Neifi impressed me with his bat was when he hit the farthest foul ball I have ever seen—it flew over the corner of the upper deck.)

The next year, 2003, Tony Pena’s simple mantra “We Believe” was in full-effect as Runelvys Hernandez took the mound instead of Jeremy Affeldt because of a Spring Training coin-toss. Seated near White Sox starting pitcher Mark Buehrle’s family, I tried not to be too rude as I cheered when Ken Harvey doubled twice off the crafty lefty. Hernandez, Jason Grimsley, and Mike MacDougal combined for a three-hit shutout, the first and only shutout victory in Royals’ Opening Day history. (They do have one shutout loss on Opening Day. In 1971, the Twins won 2 – 0.)

Probably the biggest miracle in recent Opening Day history took place in 2004, also against the White Sox. The Royals were losing 7 – 3 going into the bottom of the ninth. Brett Christie describes the scene beautifully here. That game only served to reinforce my belief that one should always stay until the last pitch; you never know what’s going to happen.

This year, I’m hoping for a different kind of Opening Day miracle. I won’t be at the stadium, or even in Kansas City for that matter. My cousin’s daughter, Rachel, has cystic fibrosis (CF). I’ve been asked to serve as the emcee for a CF fundraising event in Omaha—Rachel’s Raise of Hope.

Rachel is the same age as my youngest daughter and the two girls look more like twins than second cousins…or third cousins once removed…or whatever. In the last couple of years there have numerous breakthroughs in research regarding CF and every dollar raised brings a cure one step closer. Maybe the money raised from this dinner and auction will make the difference. Maybe this will be the year when CF can stand for “Cure Found.” Maybe next year, Rachel and her family can come to Opening Day with my family without worrying about all the hazards inherent in large crowds for those with CF.

Yes, of course, I’ll miss tailgating, high-fiving strangers, and walking around in awe of the most beautiful stadium in major league baseball.

I’ll listen to Denny on the radio every chance I get, trusting him to keep me up-to-date with the game. I’ll also ask a couple friends to text me updates from the stadium. Before bed, I’ll watch the highlights online and read the writings of Dutton and Kaegel and my KoK friends.

And while 40,000 fans are cheering on the boys in blue, I’m hoping to play a small part in an Opening Day miracle for the 70,000 people living with CF around the world.

For more information about Rachel’s Raise of Hope, click here.

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When I was 11, Dad took me to the nearby baseball field to practice pitching, fielding ground balls, and catching pop-ups.  While we were there, a couple of other kids walked up wielding gloves and bats, wanting to play with us.  Dad invited them to take batting practice off of me.

There was no need for a catcher; they hit everything I threw.

Many hits had to be retrieved from the other side of the fence—a devastating shot to my fragile ego.  After fifteen minutes of forever, I was frustrated at my failure to get any pitch past the boys.  I stormed off the field and threw my glove against the fence.

Dad started walking my way.

*********

One of my favorite treasures is a DVD set of the 1985 World Series.  Over the past 14 months, I have slowly savored each sacred game.  However, I have watched games two and six far more than any other game.

Charlie Leibrandt started both of those games and, in my mind, pitched brilliantly.

In fact, the first seven innings of game six are nothing short of masterful, near perfection, poetry in motion.  A quick review:

Inning 1:  Ground out, fly out, strike out.

Inning 2:  Pop out, fly out, ground out.

Inning 3:  Strike out, pop out, ground out.

Inning 4:  Pop out, ground out, ground out.

Inning 5:  Pop out, fly out, ground out.

Leibrandt was perfect through five innings.  The Cards got their first hit in the sixth inning.

Inning 6:  Single, single, pop out, double play.

Inning 7:  Ground out, ground out, strike out.

There simply aren’t any words that describe Leibrandt’s performance with the season and the title on the line.

With two outs, the Cardinals scored their only run off Leibrandt in the eighth inning.

Inning 8:  Fly out, single, walk, strike out, single & RBI…

Leibrandt’s line for the night: 7.2 IP, 4 hits, 1 run, 2 walks, 4 strikeouts.  Left the game in a losing situation.*

*Shout out to Danny Cox, who also pitched a terrific game six.  His line: 7 IP, 7 hits, 1 walk, 8 strikeouts. 

In the two games combined, Leibrandt:

Pitched 16.1 innings.

Gave up only 10 hits.

Had 10 strikeouts.

Compiled a record of 0 – 1.

In Leibrandt’s sixteen-plus innings of work, the Cards scored only five runs.  The boys in blue, however, only scored two.

Leibrandt’s luck reminds me of my life.  There’s only so much one person can do.  The most of life is beyond my control.

My hair fell out when I was six years old.  I was teased for years.

On one occasion, shortly after turning 16, I was running an errand for my parents when a cop pulled me over, ordered me out of the vehicle, and shouted at me, “What’s wrong with this world is skinheads like you!”  I fought back the tears.

Life is not fair.  And that’s one reason why I love baseball.

It’s not fair that the Yankees have a payroll that is a gajillion dollars more than the Royals (give or take a few dollars).

It’s not fair that umpires miss calls and that pitchers make perfect pitches only to have a broken-bat-opposite-field-single score the winning run.

It’s not fair that baseball is a business first and a game second.

What I love about baseball is this: there is always tomorrow.  We cannot let today’s struggles and injustices prevent us from having the courage to pick up the ball, walk to the mound, and try again.

Failure doesn’t come with a loss.  Failure comes from not trying.  Courage is having the strength to hold on to hope, even after failure.

In game two, only one out away from tying the series at one game each, Leibrandt surrendered a bases loaded double to Terry Pendleton, scoring three runs, and leading to a 4 – 2 Cardinal victory.  Leibrandt could have been depressed.  However, before game six, Leibrandt was interviewed and said this:

Al Michaels:  “Do you feel at all, maybe, jinxed by the way things have been going?”

Leibrandt:  “Well, uh, I don’t know.  I’ve been fortunate enough to pitch some pretty good ballgames.  If I can do that again, I think my chances should be a little bit better.”

Leibrandt did not dwell on past “failures” or on what was out of his control.  He had the courage to try again, to choose hope, to keep playing.  Leibrandt pitched through the 1993 season, compiling a record of 140 – 119 and an ERA of 3.76.  Those are great numbers in my book.

*********

Dad walked over to the bench where I was holding my pity party and handed me a baseball.

Dad:  “We can go home if you want.”

Me:  No response.

Dad:  “You know those boys are a couple of years older than you.”

Me:  Glaring at the ground, rolling my eyes.

Dad:  “It’s a lot more fun when everybody plays.”

Me:  Big sigh.

Dad:  Even Nolan Ryan and Charlie Leibrandt have bad days.*

*Dad really said this.  I don’t know why he chose those two pitchers, but it really connected with me.

Me:  Okay.  Walked back out to the mound.  Continued to get bombed by the older boys.

*********

Baseball is not fair.  Life is not fair.

But absolutely nothing is going to change if you sit on the bench and pout.

Take the ball, walk to the mound, and give it everything you’ve got.

And when the game is over, win or lose, dare to have the courage to hold on to hope.

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JoPoz by Dave Hogg via WikiMedia Commons

Dear Joe,

You beat me to Kansas City by a few years; I didn’t make it back here until August of 2001. One morning, while eating Cheerios at the kitchen table, I discovered your column. Royals’ All-Star Mike Sweeney got into a fight with then-Tigers’ pitcher Jeff Weaver and you shared the inside scoop with all of us. Towards the end of yet another losing season, Sweeney had had enough. Even though you were writing for a team that seemingly tried to lose 100 games, your words weren’t cynical or sarcastic. And your words stuck with me.

You wrote during some incredibly lean years—the Neifi Perez years and the Mark Quinn years and the Ken Harvey years. There was but one bright season during those dismal dog days, the “We-Believe-2003,” yet your stories were still hope-filled.

I remember reading your stories about Dan Quisenberry and was grateful that you were able to put numbers and reasons to my heart-felt belief that he belongs in the Hall of Fame. I used to have all of his baseball cards, even when he played in St. Louis. You were the first person to tell me that he wrote a book of poetry, which now sits on my nightstand.

I remember reading your story about Jeremy Affeldt in spring training. He still credits you for his arrival in the major leagues. I actually got the chance to meet Affeldt last year. He’s a great guy doing amazing things outside of baseball. (Check out his organization Generation Alive.)

I remember reading about the water fountain button and, by the end of the column, I wanted a chance to push the button and make the fountains come to life too.

I met you on two separate occasions—both of your book readings in KC. To this day, The Soul of Baseball is one of my favorite books of all-time, and I read dozens of books each year. Tears welled up in my eyes reading how Buck was denied the Hall of Fame, even though I knew it was coming. You played the piano at that reading and it was beautiful. (I’m also a professional musician, so that gives you some bonus points). At the reading for The Machine, I actually screwed up the courage to ask you a question about Frank White, and you shared a story about his broadcasting days. Reading The Machine took me back to my childhood. When I first started to play baseball, Pete Rose was one of my heroes—I named my first pet after him. I think that he, too, deserves to be in the Hall.

Every February, you would write my favorite column—this is the year the Royals will win the division. As players were reporting to Spring Training, you were instilling hope in the fan-base back in KC. There were a couple of times that I actually saved that column for months, willing its words to be prophetic.

Joe, I wish you were here to write the column this year, because there are some great things worth writing about.

Alex Gordon will simply shine on his way to a second gold glove. Now that he’s tasted success, he’ll be hungry for more. Gordon will be a delight to watch at the plate and in left field. And he will continue to lead a defensively-solid outfield including Jeff Francoeur and Lorenzo Cain.

Hitting-Genius Kevin Seitzer will keep Hosmer, Moose, Escobar, Perez, and Johnny G on track at the plate.

Chen and Hochevar will pile up innings and wins, and I bet some of the young arms break through to dominate as well.

Joe, this is the year. It really is “Our Time.” The boys in blue are gonna win the division this year.

You’ve definitely put in your stripes during the lean times; please, come back and write for one more year. Write the stories of the All-Star Game and this playoff-bound season. Write the stories of Alex’s outfield assists, of Frenchy’s leadership and smile, and of a team that truly shares life together—just like the good old days.

Finally, Joe, I have a personal request.

I’m trying to find a way to get to Royals’ Alumni Fantasy Camp next year, and I’m wondering if, once I get there, there’s any way you can come and write some stories for me.

You could write about my solitary fly-out that almost makes it to the warning track. I know you’ll make it sound much more impressive than every other fly-out I’ve made.

You could write about my presence on the mound and how my 68 mph fastball has “life” and really helps set-up my 48 mph change-up.

You could write about my fancy footwork at second base and how I must have learned a thing or two from years of watching Frank White on TV.

You could write about my blazing speed as I turn first and dig for second and pray with everything in me that I arrive with both hamstrings still firmly attached.

Maybe it would be one “curiously long post” about my ridiculously exceptional week. Or maybe it would just be a “curiously long post” about my ridiculously un-exceptional skills. Either way, I know you could write the story in such a fashion that my girls will be proud of me, and that’s all I’m asking. It’ll be something I can print off and laminate and tape up on my office wall to get me through those hard days of life.

Here’s the catch: I can’t pay you a thing.

If I happen to make it to camp, I’ll have to save all my dough for Kangaroo Court fines and souvenirs for autographs.

But money isn’t everything. I’m more than willing to barter.

Here’s what’s on the table:

1. I’ll write you a baseball song.
2. My seven-year-old daughter is an incredible artist. She will make you a drawing of Kauffman Stadium with fireworks that look like real life.
3. A Barry Bonds rookie card.
4. A Royals’ lunch box.
5. I’ll write a guest-post for your blog. (Everyone needs a day off every now and then.)

Joe, it’s going to be a great 2012 baseball season in KC, and I think that America’s best sportswriter needs to return for one more summer with the boys in blue.

And about Fantasy Camp, the offer’s there for the taking.

Hope to see you at the K,

Ethan Bryan

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Summer Stories by, Jamie K. Bryan

I am a storyteller. I write songs, shape sentences, and rake in the big bucks as millions of readers ponder over my musings. Or something like that.

I don’t remember this story first hand, but that doesn’t dismiss its importance. I know this story because I’ve heard Mom and Dad tell it on multiple occasions. I also know this story because I’ve seen its impact in my life. I have tried multiple times to find the exact game researching box scores through Baseball Almanac, but can’t seem to get all the pieces to fit together. Regardless, the story goes like this:

After Dad finished veterinary school at Mizzou, my family moved to Lee’s Summit, Missouri. Dad started working at a local animal hospital and Mom found a job at a preschool. Every fall, the workers at the preschool would go with their families to a Royals game.

It was a night game in September. The Royals were playing good ball and the score was tied after the regulation nine innings. Dad says I was still interested in the game, so they decided to stay.

Sometime around the 11th inning, Dad bought me a hot dog and a Coke for a bedtime “snack” of sorts. A few innings later, according to the legend, the Royals were victorious—a walk-off home run for the home team.

Even though I have no active recollection of this story, I don’t doubt its truth. As long as I can remember, I have been a passionate fan of the Kansas City Royals. There has always been something sacred about the game of baseball and the boys in blue.

Something mystical happened at the stadium that night. While grown men played with passion and perseverance on the field, in the stands a foundation was laid for a lifelong love of baseball, bringing together a father and a son. (Kinda sounds like Field of Dreams, huh?)

A few years after that game, we moved to Springfield, Missouri. Dad started his own veterinary practice making house calls. Some days he’d drive more than 200 miles and never leave city limits. And almost every day, as soon as I heard his car pull into the driveway, I’d rush out and greet him with ball gloves in hand. He’d smile, start stretching, and we’d “have a catch” for the next thirty minutes.

As I got older, he bought a catcher’s mitt and became my catcher for these afternoon practice sessions, helping me spot curveballs and change-ups from our middle-of-Eaton-Street mound.

This is what I remember most about growing up: playing catch with Dad in the street.

In a culture obsessed with competition, numbers, and athletes, we often miss the other side of the game, the side where sports encourages storied living.

Games will be won and games will be lost. Players will come and go. Seasons will be good and seasons will be bad. But through all the games and the players and the seasons, the sport provides a sanctuary (Annie Savoy and the church of baseball?) where families can share life and laughter and hot dogs in 11th innings. Cheering and shouting and screaming, dads and daughters and moms and sons root for the home team together, and years later look back and say, “Do you remember when…?”

I have two daughters. Last year, my oldest daughter wanted to play fast-pitch softball. The week before her first game, Mom and Dad came to town. We went to a local park and playground to relax when my daughter grabbed gloves and a fluorescent softball.

Tossing a glove to my dad, her grandpa, she asked, “Papa, will you teach me to throw and catch like you taught my dad?” On that gorgeous summer day, there were three generations playing catch, sharing stories of yesteryear.

Every year, every season, brings new stories. I cannot wait to see the stories that this year will bring.

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