6.20.00
ANAHEIM ANGELS vs KANSAS CITY ROYALS
I'm not sure exactly why, but I've always kind of had a thing for the Kansas City Royals. Part of it probably stems from childhood fascinations with their baby blue uniforms and the befountained outfield of Kauffman Stadium, fascinations that lay dormant through an adolescence of sports indifference only to remanifest themselves in my adulthood, by which time the uniforms and fountains had been rolled into the larger enigma of a virtually anonymous team that lived at the bottom of the most anonymous division in baseball. It is a sympathy not unlike that which formed the basis of my Green Bay Packers fandom in the early 1990s, and I must say, watching the young Royals come into their own during the last few seasons reminds me of nothing less than that feeling of giddiness that started coming over Packer fans 'round about '93, when it started becoming apparent that this was a team on a gratifyingly slow, gradual, and unstoppable ascent.
Whether the Royals' new owners will be inclined to keep the talented core of outfielders Johnny Damon, Carlos Beltran, and Jermaine Dye, and infielders Joe Randa, Carlos Febles, and Mike Sweeney together long enough to follow that arc to its conclusion remains to be seen (they'll need some pitching, too). Nevertheless, it's been fun so far this season watching Kansas City nipping at the heels of the suddenly fallible Indians, and playing a brand of baseball that's been all but forgotten in the 21st century, one based not on multiple home runs but on speed, sacrifices, opportunistic hitting, and defense. They're a hell of a lot more fun to watch than the White Sox, and I'm telling you, if they had any pitching at all, the Royals'd be right there with them.
The first of K.C.'s two visits to Edison Field this season came while I was up in Montana, so there was no chance of me missing them this time around. I called up Damore—“I was wondering if I'd be hearing from you,” he said—and it was on. A Tuesday night blockbuster.
The Angels' young starter (redundant, I know), Brian Cooper, gave up two runs in the first, but Royals righthander Jeff Suppan returned the favor in the third by walking Darin Erstad and Kevin Stocker with two outs, and glancing a pitch off Mo Vaughn's suit of armor to load the bases. Tim Salmon then worked the count to 3-and-1 and drove the subsequent pitch into the left-field bleachers. Damore had all his feathers standing on end and couldn't resist belting out his Angels-fan mating call, despite protestations from Cleaver, his better half, who repeatedly warned that he was getting cocky, and you know what happens when Angel fans get cocky, Chris.
I don't know if sitting through those Dodger-Angels games a few weeks ago had inured me to the ignominy with which I was again faced, or if I was actually confident about the Royals' chances of mounting a comeback, but I wasn't fazed in the least. Nor was I distraught when Garrett Anderson added two more runs in the sixth, to make the score 6-3. Rather, I turned to Damore as the Angels took the field for the top of the seventh and said, “Okay, here we go. Here come the Royals now.”
And indeed, they came. Three singles, a stolen base and a sacrifice fly added up to two runs for Kansas City, bringing them within one. The eighth was quiet, which set the stage for Anaheim closer Troy Percival. The P.A. played his customary headbanger music and the crowd of nearly 17,000 went nuts as Percival jogged in from the bullpen, the save he blew a week ago in Tampa, after a brilliant eight-inning shut-out performance by Cooper, doubtless the furthest thing from his mind. I stood and cheered, delighted at the prospect of what was surely to come. Damore sank down in his chair. And the Royals went to work.
Beltran, a single to right. Dye, a single to center. Sweeney, his fourth single of the night, to score Beltran. Game tied now at six. Randa, a single to score Dye. Exit Percival, to a standing ovation (from me, at least). Mark Petkovsek would give up one more before the inning, and effectively the game, was over. Beautiful! And after those Dodger games, so, so sweet. Poor Damore. Cleaver's I-told-you-so's only compounded his misery.
FINAL SCORE: ROYALS 8, ANGELS 6
MEMORABLE HECKLE:
I have a hazy recollection of a not altogether un-Damore-like “Whooooooooo-oooooooooo!!!”
delivered on the way out. I couldn't help myself.
