It’s history. It’s poetry.

Growing up on Kansas City Royals baseball

The specific memories are few but concrete: I remember the cascading water of the outfield fountains; I remember the pixelated scoreboard, a sentry helmed with a massive, ornamental crown; I remember the burnt-orange seats that baked during the dog days of summer; I remember eating Frosty Malts and hot dogs ravenously. But more than anything else, I remember baseball. I remember watching and learning and falling in love with it all at the same time.

For me, baseball has always been — and will always be — a family affair. Some of my first memories involve trekking out to what was then called Royals Stadium with my mom, my aunt, and my brother. It wasn’t always that group; sometimes one of us was missing, and others took that person’s place. But to my memory, it was usually the four of us. Before my brother and I arrived on the scene, my mom and aunt owned Royals season tickets for years. So it was only logical, then, that we would be brought up watching along with them. I grew up cheering on players like George Brett, Johnny Damon, Carlos Beltran, and Jermaine Dye. And as devoted as we were, as many pilgrimages we made to the ballpark each season, the team never won.

And when the losing got to be too much for them, or the money and market weren’t big enough, those names we cheered all left town. All except Brett, of course, Kansas City’s (adopted) favorite son. Truly, I was 16-years-old before the Royals produced a season that warranted optimism and any semblance of hope. That was the 2003 “Nosotros Creemos!”/“We Believe!” season, with Tony Peña at the helm. The Royals held first place in the AL Central for a while, but eventually the season slipped away and we finished third in the division.

It was never easy to be a Kansas City Royals fan. There were the seasons when we didn’t spend enough money and the seemingly countless seasons when were told to be patient, that the next generation of talent — the ones that would save us — were on their way. There was the strike. There was a parade of managers from Tony Muser to Trey Hillman to Buddy Bell. And so we waited. For my entire life, we have waited. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t lost some hope that there would ever be a season worth telling my kids about one day, that they could ever know a Royals team that was truly special.

I bring all of this up simply to preface the following: I have no idea how to handle what is currently happening in Kansas City.

The Royals making the postseason was remarkable enough. But sweeping the team that had the best record in baseball? Going into Baltimore and stealing two from the Orioles at home? Winning eight straight? Going to the franchise’s first World Series since before I — a guy in his late 20's— was born? It’s inconceivable. And while I’m elated and ecstatic and any number of other positive things about the quality of play and outstanding performances we’ve seen from the boys in blue, this most excites me for what it means to the people I care about and to my city.

Seeing childhood friends cheer on the Royals during every single home game at the K via posts on social media. Feverishly texting my mom, aunt and brother (all of us now separated by 2,800+ miles) during the ups and downs of each postseason inning. Watching from afar as my hometown rises up as one to support this improbably wonderful team of misfits and home-grown talent. It makes me truly happy. I have no idea how this will conclude. Having tasted the sweetness of postseason success for the first time as a Royals fan, I dare not get greedy and presume there will be more. Instead, I’ll just watch, inning after inning, with hope for what may be. Because if this postseason and this team have taught me something, it’s this: anything is possible. And truly, at the moment, there’s nothing to do but celebrate. I feel like a kid again, in the best possible way.

So let’s pop some champagne, enjoy the American League title, and hope. Because what comes next could be nothing short of magic.