I have come to a new understanding of the world of sports. The realization was sudden; its onset caused by the lack of a miracle by my home town team as the Royals lost game 7 of the World Series to the San Francisco Giants while Alex Gordon was just 90 ft away from tying the game. I thought I needed a hero, racing on the thunder and rising with the heat. Yet, there was no Superman to sweep me off my feet this night.
I have followed the Royals increasingly over the last 5 years in particular, going from a passing fancy to a hardcore fan that watched or listened to more games than I missed. Even when I wasn’t able to watch or listen, I was keeping track on my phone. My fandom increased not only because it felt like they were about to turn the corner, but I had a reemergence of my appreciation for the sport. I loved baseball as a kid, but my attention shifted to football as I got older. Who could blame me? The Chiefs were the hot ticket in town throughout the 90s and football has and had a stranglehold on America’s attention the likes of which not even the Nuge could imagine.
I cannot help myself. I love so much about the game of football. I embrace the violence of imposing will on those unwilling, yet it is still a cerebral game. Whether it’s athleticism, speed, strength, tenacity, precise skill, or strategies no one could defense, as all these powers are constantly grappling to prove which team and concept is best, it is hard to deny that there is something for everyone in football. I love it. We love it. It is America’s game.
Baseball is a much different game. It is leisurely. Intensity is rare and usually only happens in short, controlled bursts. You could go a whole game without touching an opposing player, whereas in football you likely touch an opposing player every play. Yet it is still a beautiful game. Although there are a million rules, the basics can be grasped by just about everyone. There is no play clock. So long as you have one of your 27 outs remaining you have a chance, even if it is a Lloyd Christmas kind of chance. It is a game of hope and a game of failure.
I loved watching baseball when I was growing up, especially since I also played it. I was never anything special. Each little league season seemed the same. I’d start out hot and free swinging, but eventually my poor eyesight would lead to me getting hit by pitches which led to me becoming timid at the plate. My defense was awful since I couldn’t read the ball off of the bat well and I had a terrible time even maintaining focus. I never even lucked into being on anything more than a slightly above average team.
My crowning baseball achievement was on an emergency swing at a ball hurtling toward my head. I literally hacked downward with my eyes closed at a ball that otherwise may have sent me to the hospital, yet somehow I made contact. I could not tell you how, but in a flash I had a stand up double as I knocked in the eventual game-winning RBI. I was treated as a hero for a day by a couple friends, a feeling that never lasted as long as I wanted and seemed like a dream even then.
That one moment I felt like a hero.
I realized at an earlier age than most that I wasn’t going to grow up to be Bo Jackson or George Brett. After that set in, it didn’t take long to realize that even the ranks of the minor leagues were unlikely. I still played plenty of sports going into high school, but I was never disillusioned to believe I could achieve greatness that way. They were a hobby. The real game would be left to those greater than me. The heroes.
I have spent my entire life, 31 years and counting, waiting for heroes. Every time I’ve ever felt proud of a team I followed it was always proceeded by a “but”. But we’ll see how they do next week. But they still haven’t won a playoff game since 1993. But they haven’t been to the postseason since 1985. But it’s just soccer. But. But. But.
This was the closest I had been to seeing a hero rise up to the greatest challenge set before them like some kind of streetwise Hercules fighting the rising odds. Again, the Royals were just 90ft away from removing any and all “but”s, even if just for a minute. It never happened. Almost regardless of what happens going forward, the wonder that was this postseason run will always be finished with a “but”. But it turns out they couldn’t complete the Disney movie moment. But they couldn’t get past one pitcher. But they couldn’t scratch across another run. But they lost. But they didn’t end up being heroes.
31 years on this earth and I’ve been a sports fan as long as I can remember. I will continue to be a sports fan, especially on game days. However, my realization is clear. I am sick of holding out for a hero. I am more powerful than that. We all are.
It’s not just because I realize there are far better role models out there than twenty-something year old athletes that are often just chasing a paycheck. I’ve long known real heroes wear camouflage or scrubs or sometimes a badge. It’s because those larger than life athletes are dependent on us.
Something that has long been clear in sports, yet has been further magnified recently in Kansas City, is how much a crowd can affect change in an outcome. We watched our Chiefs dominate at Arrowhead before a record setting crowd louder than a jet engine. We watched Kauffman Stadium come alive and will our Royals to an all but statistically impossible comeback in an unstoppable blue tide to even get to the “real” playoffs. That isn’t supposed to happen in baseball, but the implication is clear. Normal, everyday people can make things happen.
While I appreciate the run the Royals had this year and sincerely hope the Chiefs can do the same or one better, the real Kansas City sports heroes have been us fans. We should take pride not only in our teams, but ourselves.
So my thoughts are clear. I am going to be my own hero from now on. I am going to do what I can to affect positive change for myself. I am going to do what I can, within reason admittedly, to improve the lives of those around me. I will not let myself get down when a group of millionaires fail me. No athlete can or will do as much for me as I can do for myself. I’ll still cheer them on, do my part to will them to victory, but I am no longer holding out for a hero. Bonnie Tyler be damned!