I haven't done a very good job of expressing my thoughts on the Royals this season. I've penned more than a thousand words on them in the past month for my own publication, but only one post here. Considering this team and this franchise inspired a lot of my dreams to become a sportswriter, that sucks.
So, here we are, on the precipice of Game 7 of the freaking World Series in Kansas City at Kauffman Stadium. It's hard to believe. The past month, or month and a half really, has been such a whirlwind. For context, I was more high on this team than a lot of prognosticators and advanced analytical folks. I had the Royals winning 90 games and nabbing the second Wild Card, finishing behind the Tigers by two games. The Tigers, once again, underachieved and won 90 games, while the Royals fell just one win short of where I expected them to be, but due to a down American League, they actually earned the first Wild Card.
So, in that regard, I somewhat expected them to have that clinching moment in late September. But it's kind of like telling people you'll one day get paid to write about sports; when it happens, and you receive that first paycheck, you're still somewhat in awe. Even that doesn't really do justice for what me and many Royals fans felt when Salvador Perez caught the final out against the Chicago White Sox Sept. 26.
I honest to God cried. I sat there in my modest apartment in Carroll, Iowa with tears streaming down my face, seeping into my mouth because it couldn't seem to shut from the permanent smile that I wore. Watching a team chock full of underachieving hitting prospects, unheralded starting pitchers and failed-starters-turned-amazing relievers transform into a good team who was headed for October was a sight to behold.
Many have tried over the years to explain what it's like to be a Royals fan. Fans in their late 30s or older can't quite capture the proper essence in my opinion, because for a time, albeit long ago, they watched championship baseball played by a model franchise. Their perspective is unique in that they saw the once proud franchise devolve into a steaming pile of ineptitude for 20-plus years, especially so after the renewed labor agreements following the 1994 strike-shortened season.
The Royals, like a handful of other small-market teams, weren't just becoming a dying breed, they were left for dead. Baseball changed. And while many other small-market compadres found sage ways to beat the unfair system of baseball's economics, (what up Billy Beane!?) the Royals kept operating in a pre-strike era way.
These are the Royals I knew and, before the past two seasons, have always known.
To me, the Royals aren't the poor SOB who continually finds himself getting kicked in the nuts, or Charlie Brown, who has the football pulled away right before he goes to kick it. No, the Royals are an extra in those scripts for which no one really notices. My Cardinals friends used to laugh when I'd talk about the Royals being contenders someday.
I used to read season previews every year from about the age of nine on, about how maybe this year the Royals could do something special. I talked myself into guys like Ken Harvey, Angel Berroa and Dee Brown becoming real stars. I got excited about aging veterans like Terrence Long being the missing piece. And that Carlos Beltran, Raul Ibanez, Jermaine Dye were just anomalies — that eventually these young stars the Royals produced would stay and sign long-term contracts.
After awhile, through age and wisdom, you come to realize that none of these things were realistic. And that maybe, just maybe, the people running the organization have much more to do with the game than what you are aware of as a kid.
Enter Dayton Moore.
Dayton Moore brought excitement. He brought a history of success. And, most importantly, he brought hope. He preached about his process. He laid out his five-year plan. He then said it was an eight-year plan, or something.
Slowly, but surely, you could begin to see the remnants of a competent baseball team. The scouting and the drafting played an integral role, but no team in the history of baseball has ever won something of significance simply through drafting and developing their own talent. Trades and free agency moves always felt like Moore's weak point from the get go, so it made it extra terrifying when 2013 approached and it became quite clear that he was going to have to pull the trigger on a franchise-altering move to acquire starting pitching.
I said this to my buddy Jack, (if we could somehow find a way to transcribe and post our Royals-related text conversations from the entire season in chronological order, it would jump to the top of the New York Times Best Seller List under NSFW category), that while everyone talks negatively and positively about the James Shields/Wil Myers trade, which was highly-controversial before the 2013 season, the trade that made all this possible is the best trade Moore has ever made and ever will make: The Greinke Trade.
The Royals are not here without Lorenzo Cain and Alcides Escobar. They were the team's second and third most valuable players, as measured by fWAR, with Cain at 4.9 and Escobar at 3.5. Jake Odorizzi, who was a key late addition in the trade, was part of the Myers package that brought Shields and Wade Davis over.
Cain quickly became my favorite Royals player, for no other reason than my belief in his incredible defense in center field. My hope was that his skills at the plate would catchup to his tools in the field at some point. And, the biggest caveat, that he would stay healthy. He did all three of those things this season, and has blossomed into a bonafide star in front of the entire nation due to his excellent postseason play thus far, which earned him an ALCS MVP.
All of this, of course, is a bit longwinded. It's tough to eloquently put into words what I am feeling at this very moment. My sports teams (Mizzou, Royals, Chiefs) do not win championships, or ever really compete for them. And somehow, the team who was the most hopeless of them all, yet grabbed my love the most, is now one game away from winning the whole fucking thing.
It's good to have some bandwagoners, every successful franchise needs them and should strive to become a team who casual fans want to root for, but there is something so pure and and beautiful about this run when you've lived and died with this team for the last 20 years.
It goes beyond the joy of seeing your team winning and celebrating with a few drinks. It's deeper. It's a sort of profound appreciation for yourself and those around you, who endured the four 100-loss seasons and dubious quotes and SportsCenter "Not Top 10" moments that were frequent.
It's your "see!!" moment for all the times people said, "why do you put yourself through this? Why not root for someone else, like the Cardinals?"
This is the payoff. This moment when the team you love finally begins to love you back.
One more win.
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