Revelation

**********DISCLAIMER**********THOUGH SPORTS-RELATED, THIS MIGHT STILL BE INTERESTING**********

The Royals finally ended their 11-game losing streak last weekend with another streak: Two in a row over Cleveland. This also temporarily put to rest my intestinal aching about how bad this team is.

Over the course of the streak, I kept asking myself (and others) the same question: Why I should continue to follow this team. I mean, isn't this like the kid who touches the hot pan on the stove yet, for some unknown reason, touches it again even after finding out it's painfully hot? And then keeps touching it repeatedly for the next 15 years? Why on Earth would someone continue to subject themselves to such an utterly hopeless pursuit?

Maybe we should start at the beginning.

My first memories of being a Royals fan go back to 1980. I was six years old but I remember that the town was on fire because of George Brett's amazing run at .400. That and the fact that the Royals were on their way to yet another Western Division title. My grandma had a "George Brett for President" bumper sticker and she took my brother and me out to get a t-shirt with Brett on it. Unfortunately for us, all the Brett shirts were sold out and we had to settle for Hal McRae. But my allegiance had been cemented: I would be a Royals fan from then on.

I had run-ins with kids about who was better, Brett or Mike Schmidt. I would simulate Royals games by myself with my Whiffle ball and bat, writing up the lineup for the Royals and their opponent for the series and then throwing the ball up, hitting it and deciding what play had happened by where the ball had landed. I would listen to games on my grandparents' front porch with them. I remember listening to an exruciating Royals/Tigers ALCS game in 1984 in the car with Dad on the way to soccer practice.

Then the Royals made it back to the World Series. Against the hated Cardinals. And they weren't supposed to come within a mile of beating St. Louis. But that didn't phase me. I watched every game and stuck with them even after they went down 3-1 in the Series. And they did the improbable. Until then, the nearly impossible. They came back and won the World Series. And I remember going to bed that night thinking that my life would never be the same.

The Royals stayed competitive throughout my youth, never making it to the playoffs again, but always managing to be within striking distance. Little did I know back then that they were fading gradually, just like the skills of an aging ballplayer. The difference between a .300 batting average and a .280 batting average is about two hits per month. You don't really notice it as it's happening, but at the end of the season you look back and realize that you just missed a few opportunities. That's how it was with the Royals after 1985. They didn't appear discernably worse. And as each year passed, those little differences continued to add up until they were just a shell of the organization they once were.

Finally, Ewing Kauffman realized that he wasn't going to be around forever and then started to make rash decisions concerning personnel, trying to capture that championship glory one last time before he passed. Those decisions began a downward spiral that the team has yet to pull itself out of.

For a while, my allegiances were split. Will Clark and the San Francisco Giants had captured my fancy in the playoffs of 1987 and 1989 and Clark had become my favorite player. I was rooting for the Giants because I wanted his team to do well. But I never stopped rooting for the Royals. As bad as they got, I still derived a great amount of pleasure from listening to them on the radio as a companion to whatever it happened to be that I was doing.

The last gasp of respectability was breathed in 1994 when the Royals had made an impressive run, only to be lost forever to the strike. From then on it was a steady stream of mediocre players, mediocre seasons and mediocre expectations. They cycled through guys like Jeff King, Greg Gagne, Gary Gaetti, Jay Bell and Dean Palmer.

But toward the end of the '90s and the beginning of the new century, some talent started to trickle through. They had Johnny Damon and Mike Sweeney; they had "Dos Carlos", Carlos Febles and Carlos Beltran; they traded for a young Jermaine Dye. They were starting to score runs in bunches. Unfortunately, they employed one of the worst bullpens in major league history. Lead after lead was blown. Prime seasons for young players were being wasted. And then began the exodus of talent.

Johnny Damon was not willing to take less money from the Royals than he could get on the free market. So that forced the Royals to trade Damon and try to get some value out of him before he left via free agency. In the deal, the Royals picked up Roberto Hernandez, a washed up closer and Angel Berroa, a young shortstop who turned out to be a Rookie of the Year. The Royals had the same situation arise with Jermaine Dye. The bounty? Neifi Perez, an overrated shortstop from Colorado, who will go down as one of the worst offensive regulars in modern baseball history.

Predictably, the exact circumstances of the previous talent dumps came together one more time. Carlos Beltran was quickly becoming an elite player. And there was no way the Royals could afford to keep him around. But this time, the situation played out a little differently. The Royals started out the 2003 with a 9-0 record and rode that momentum to their first winning record in nearly a decade. I hadn't had so much fun during a Royals season since I was 11 years old. I bought a partial season ticket package the next year, thinking that I might get first shot at playoff tickets the next season. And the season started out spectacularly. Opening Day, Beltran hit an extra-inning, walk-off homerun to win. My spirits couldn't have been higher.

But the roller coaster had begun it's terrifying descent. The Royals wouldn't come close to duplicating their magic 2003 and, in fact, would lose 100 games for the second time in three years. On their way to accomplishing that dubious feat, they had to try to get some value out of pending free agent Beltran. The return on that trade has been numbingly similar. Three fringe major league players all trying to prove they were worth the enormous price given up for them. And not doing nearly enough to justify their roster spots.

And so now the Royals have carved out a niche all their own in Major League baseball. They've now lost 100 or more games in three of the last four years and are an even bet to make it four-for-five. More mediocre, overpriced talent has come and gone. More hopeful young talent is trying to peck its way out of its minor league shell. The Royals' management is doing everything within its incredibly limited talents to extract the most out of this team.

But the question remains: Why do I continue to root for this team?

It certainly doesn't have anything to do with success. One winning season in the last 11 years is tough to swallow. It's not because of the young talent we've developed; they spend their peak years in someone else's uniforms. Speaking of uniforms, could that be the reason? Am I, like Jerry Seinfeld quipped, "rooting for laundry"? It sure seems that way considering the constant flow of players from team to team. Plus, it's hard to cheer for players you know won't perform.
But one day, while whining about the Royals most recent plight, a friend of mine gave me the answer:

"Keep rooting for the Royals. They need fans like you."

It was a simple yet profound statement. I had never thought of it that way before. Normally, I'm thinking about how the Royals can best satisfy my needs for sporting entertainment. But the simple fact of the matter is that the Royals (or any other professional sports franchise, for that matter) wouldn't exist without fans like me. People who stick with their team through thick and thin are the lifeblood of a sports franchise. They are the ones who continue to buy the tickets, watch the games on TV, listen to the games on the radio. Fans like me are directly responsible for paying player salaries, landing TV contracts and selling advertisements. Without fans like me, the Royals are literally nothing.

So, I suppose I could become a free agent myself and solicit the services of another team to follow. But what would be the point? A fan and his team build a relationship over time, something that can't be duplicated in a bandwagon's ride for the latest flash in the pan. All the history I've built up with this team MEANS something. I've been with them through the ultimate highs and the absolute dregs. Sure, my history doesn't compare to a New Englander who waited his entire life to see the Sox finally win a World Series, but the Sox also didn't lose 400 games in four years, either. And wasn't it all the sweeter for that guy when they did win and his loyalty had finally paid off?

But maybe that's the point, after all. Does winning a championship mean that my dedication has suddenly become justified? I suppose it does in the short-term. But I think it might be more along the lines of the journey being more special than the destination. Sure, it's great to win it all, but you still remember all the fun and sorrow and laughs and stomach punches that you went through to get there. You can't get that sort of satisfaction jumping from team to team, casting loyalty and history to the side. You've got to stick with it, continuing to hope for the payoff in the end, but also savoring the little payoffs along the way.

The Royals got hammered yesterday, 7-3. It was certainly disappointing but definitely not as bile-inducing as it could have been had I not come to this revelation: I need the Royals. And the Royals need me.