Thursday, September 25, 2014

thursday, september 25th: the password is "one" ...

“*Society blind by color;
Why hold down one, to raise another?
Discrimination now on both sides;
Seeds of hate?  Blossom further.

The world is headed for mutiny,
When all we want is unity.

(*: I can’t defend my love of this song, or this cd for that matter, other than to note, that here’s the keeper line – and please, feel free to shout it, because truer words have never been spoken or sung in, uuh, song, if you change “may” to “will” …)

We may rise and fall.
But in the end?
We'll meet our fate together!

One!  Oh, one!
The only way is one!

One!  Oh, one!
The only way is one! …”


This?  Is what I intended to post, earlier today, had the Mariners lost.


Please -- enjoy.



I literally just cried typing those three letters.


Good God, it’s so dusty in this room right now, you’d think I’d never heard of Swiffer or any other cleaning agent.


Hang on, let me type it … one more time.

Dammit!  Stop making me cry at typing one word!

Dammit!  I did it again.  OK, let’s try this one more time.

Sumbeach!  OK, here goes …


God bless it, stop crying, Stevo!

There’s no crying in baseball!


We have waited thirty bleeping years for this day.  Thirty bleeping years.  Today – Friday, September 26, 2014, is a day you are going to tell your grandkids about.  And I am fully aware most of you reading this, don’t have a kid over the age of ten.

For crying out loud, the author of this post, doesn’t even have one kid, he’s been sued for child support over.

(Pause).  Again!  What’s with that one word, that so gets to me!

(cue the tears …)


We have risen, and we have fallen, over the last thirty years.  Be it personally, be it professionally, we have all risen, and we have all fallen, as have our Boyz N Blue.  Hell, this season alone, they were eight back – eight freaking games back – eight weeks ago.  They were done-zo.

(Funny.  Eight?  No emotion.  One?  I need a drainage ditch, to carry the tears away.)

And now, here we stand.  Or sit.  Or are in a tantric position.  Hey, whatever floats your boat.  We don’t judge on this site.

Friday, September 26, 2014. 

A day we have dreamed about.  A day we only imagined.

A day that is now reality.

You have risen.  And you have fallen. 

I have risen.  (Yeah, right).  And I have fallen.  (penny voice) Right!

And the Royals, our Boyz N Blue, our Fine 25, our Fine 40, our Fine however many damned players are on the active 40 man roster (I believe it’s 37 at last count), they have risen (on the rarest of occasions).  And the Royals have fallen (on almost all occasions).

But today?

We meet our fates together.

As one.

Again, one?  Really?

God, it’s getting dusty in this room …


I had a great friend growing up, who was my go-to buddy, to go to Royals games.  It didn’t matter how sh*tty this club was, all I had to do was call James, or he’d call me, and the only two questions either of us would ask on a random Sunday morning would be (a) who’s driving and (b) Bud Heavy or Miller Lite.

We usually tailgated in Lot G.  Occasionally Lot H.  And always sat in old Left Field GA.  And being the shameless, classless guys we were, usually a t-shirt wasn’t anywhere to be found.  Because that’s what Royals baseball meant to us – an excuse to get ridiculously drunk, and not give a damn about life for an afternoon, while getting a decent shade of red from something other than the alcohol.

It never occurred to us, that the Royals would matter.  It never once hit us, that the team we heard about from our parents, could possibly matter to us beyond an excuse to drink in public, and soak up some sun.

James passed away Friday, August 20, 2004, in the early morning hours of what was his twenty seventh birthday.

I’ve always thought it was appropriate, in a sick kind of way, that he died during the season that murdered Royals baseball for me.

And I think it’s beyond appropriate, that he’s the first person I thought of, as the day before greatness, ends.


Folks?  It’s time to … hang on.  (Pause).  You know what?  I’m in such a great mood, I’m not even going to complete mock the man.  Ladies and gentlemen, Vice President Biden.

(vice president biden voice) Folks!  It’s time to win!  A three letter word – WIN!


When it comes to plagiarism, I can’t compete with the Vice President.  So in my (pathetic) show of solidarity for The Sports Guy, I’m stealing his “win this for” column, from before Game Four of the 2004 World Series.

I apologize for nothing.



Win this game, Royals.

Be our first playoff team in almost two generations.

But don’t win it for yourselves.  Don’t win it for just yourselves.  Don’t win it for just your loved ones, your treasured acquaintances, your life changers.

Because of all the lyrics to choose?

None are more appropriate, than the money shot.

“We may rise and fall.
But in the end?
We meet our fate …

… Together!”



Win it for us.

Because we are one.

With you.


Win this game for Ayden.  Win this game for Garrett.  Win this game for Jack and Ethan, for Heath Junior and Lucas.  Win this game for Rocco.  Win this game for Miles.  Win this game for every kid under the age of accountability in this town, so that they can remember what this feels like. 

Win this for their parents, many of whom are coming up, in the “win it for” roster call. 


Win it for my brother.  Win it for that Royals trucker hat I stole from him for this pennant drive, that I’ve worn every weekend this year.  Give us one amazing, awesome, never-forget-it man hug on Tuesday, in the parking lot where we properly prepare, for Wild Card Mania. 

Or Saturday, where we properly prepare for Division Round Mania.

Win it for Brett.  And win it for Scotty.  And win it for their dad.

Win it for Heath, the most die-hard Royals fan you’ll ever meet.  He is to Royals baseball?  What I’d like to think I am, to Chiefs football.

Win it for Anthony, and win it for his folks, and win it for his sister.

Hell, I’m feeling generous – win it for Dusty. God knows The Champ and I spent enough time witnessing sh*ttacular baseball.  Win it for The Champ, and win it for The Chica.  Win it for Beth and her sister, who were there for every game in 1985.  Win today for them. 

Because they’ve EARNED this.

Win it for Phil.  Win it for that waitress who dropped the “you let him drive?!?!” blast at the Quaff, in describing me, the last time this team truly mattered, on Labor Day Weekend 2003.


Win it for Oxygen Tank Dude.  No, seriously – win this for Oxygen Tank Dude.  Win it for Right Field GA’s greatest occupant.

Oh, and if there is a playoff game played at The K, and a relative of Oxygen Tank Dude is NOT chucking a ceremonial first pitch? 

Then Toby Cook should be fired.


Win this game for Toby Cook, for all the undeserved crap he’s had to endure over the years.


Win this game for Mr. Kauffman, and win it for David Glass.  Yes – win it for David Glass.  No, he’s not Ewing Kauffman.  But he did what Mr. Kauffman asked – he kept this team – OUR team – here in Kansas City, when no doubt Portland or Phoenix or Tampa or Charlotte or the District would have overpaid to move it. 

Win this one for ownership, past and present.

Oh – and please, enjoy a very stiff one, in honor of Mrs. Kauffman.

And win this one, for her.

As well as our Ol’ Pardner, the late, great Mr. William Grigsby.


And please – give your dog a very healthy feeding of Meaty Bones, in honor of Harry.  You all have no idea, how much I’d love to be feeding Priest a few of those, right now …


Win it for the Kauffman’s daughter, who has poured millions into making this metropolitan area the amazing, awe-inspiring city we live in and love.  The Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts is a national treasure.  Win this one for Irene and the remaining Kauffman descendants.

Win this one for every usher, every ticket taker, every vendor, who’s had to suffer through awful season after awful season.  A labor of love come mid-August.  Win this one for Archie, who has proudly been serving me my beers in 132 at Arrowhead for years … and who I seek out at Kauffman, to ensure he gets something for his work for the night. 

Win this one for Christine, my bartender in the lower bowl at Arrowhead for those moments I can’t wait for Archie to walk down the aisle, who works near 332 at Kauffman.  Win this one for her. 


Win this one for the late, great Randall Carlyle Wakefield, who (true story) used to control the music you heard in between innings at Kauffman, back when it was Royals Stadium. 

I pray “I Love a Rainy Night” by Eddie Rabbit plays at least once this postseason. 

Oh, please – by the way? 

Win this one for Nancy.


Win this one for Paul Splittorff.  We’ll never forget you dude. 

Win this one for Dick Howser.  Win this one for … for once?  This post demands proper respect, without mocking his inability to correctly state a name.

Win this one?

For Fred White.

And win it for Denny, for the Beaver.  Win it for “hello, is representative there”.  Win it for Physioc, if only because he’s named Steve.

And (fidelity ad guy voice) why not?

Win it for Rex Hudler.


Win this one for every member of the 1985 roster.  Win this one for every fan who stepped foot inside that stadium in the 1985 postseason.  Win this for Balboni, for McRae, for Iorg.  Win this for Motley, for Biancalana, for Sundberg.  Win it for Sabes, for Liebrandt, for DJ, for Gubby.  Win it for Lonnie Smith.  Win it for Don Denkinger.

And dammit – win it for Quiz.

Please – WIN THIS for Quiz.  And for Janie.  And every member of the Quiz family.  And for every one of us, who has ever read his incredible poetry, or witnessed his absolute awesomeness not as a player, but as a human being.  This franchise will NEVER employ a man as … for lack of a better word?  Amazing.

As Dan Quizenberry was.

Win this for him.


Win this for Art Stewart.  Win this one for his greatest find, Vincent Edward Jackson.  

Win this one for Joe Posnanski.

And please – please!  If you do nothing else in this rise, fall, and meeting our fate as one, Royals?


Win this one for John Jordan O’Neil.

And please, make damned certain, someone worthy of his greatness, is sitting in his seat, come next Tuesday or Saturday. 

Make DAMNED certain it’s Bob Kendrick, in that seat.


Win this one for greatness.

Win it for 5, 10, and 20.

Win it for George Brett.  Win it for Dick Howser.  Win it for Frank White.

And Toby Cook?

Make damned certain the two living of those three names, have spots of honor, on Tuesday or Saturday.


Win this one for Jasson, and win this one for Gregg.  The three of us have had many a fun day inside that stadium in support of a losing cause.  (And in a rarity, the “support of a losing cause”, wasn’t in support of me (rimshot!)  (scott hall voice) Hey yo!) 

Win this for every Double Header Day we’ve enjoyed.  Win this for every “sure, just pay me back before Jesus returns” ticket buy we’ve made for each other.  Win this for two amazing friends, who have made this friendship work, through the rises and falls, through the ups and downs, through the truths and the lies, through the smelly and the sh*tty.  Win this one for them, the two best friends a dude could ever have.

They deserve this.

And win it for Brent as well.  He may be Topeka … but he’s Kansas City.


And my next to last request?

Win this one for James.


Because my last request?

Glad you asked …



Win this one …

… for me.

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