October 3, 1995 was a very dark day for the Kansas City Royals. No, nobody involved with the organization died. The franchise wasn’t moving to another market. Hell, they didn’t even play a game that day. What happened was something far worse for the organization – In the criminal trial, People of the State of California v. Orenthal James Simpson, the jury found O.J. “not guilty” and set the Juice loose.
Now, you may be asking yourself, “What the hell does the O.J. trial have to do with the Kansas City Royals?” Well, if you’d hold your darn horses, I’ll explain.
The day that fateful verdict was read aloud for tens of millions of over-concerned Americans to hear happened to coincide with what I thought was going to be the happiest day of my less-than-a-decade-old life. Because that day I was going to meet several members (past and present) of my very favorite sports team, the Kansas City Royals. And these weren’t just any Royals players, these were some freakin’ studs! Dan Quisenberry, Mike Macfarlane, and many more. Oh, and I almost forgot, I was going to meet my hero, George Brett.
At the time, my dad volunteered some of his time serving as a board member for a local charity called Rainbows United. This was a worthwhile organization that provided resources and services to help children with special needs. Once a year, they held a charity golf tournament to raise funds and awareness with the help of generous Royals players who participated in the event. And since my dad was heavily involved (and heavily AWESOME) he was able to bring his 9-year-old son with him to meet some of the ball players.
I remember being at school that day, arrogantly boasting to my friends that I was going to meet some real-life pro athletes. If that wasn’t cool enough, my parents even pulled me out of school that morning to do so. They didn’t even try to make up an excuse (ex. doctor’s appointment, hamster died, etc.). They basically just said, “This sh*t is happening, Mark’s teacher, and you’re gonna deal with it.” I thought I was a pretty big deal.
As we headed over to the facility, I was giddy with excitement. Holding a fresh, ready-to-be-signed baseball in my small hands (that really haven’t grown much since then…sausage fingers), I was mentally preparing to “play it cool” when I met these larger-than-life characters. With my eagerness now impossible to contain, I’m pretty sure I jumped out of the car and hustled to the entrance before my mom’s van came to a complete stop.
After entering the building, I shyly followed behind my dad as he was greeted by some of the organization’s staff. They said “hello” and asked if I was excited to meet some ball players. And I certainly was. We continued our journey further into the facility until we came upon a room filled with several grown men playing with children (that sentence sure doesn’t sound creepy).
But these just weren’t any men. These were the Royals!
One by one, my dad walked up to the players, having previously met them, and introduced me. These guys couldn’t have been nicer. They looked me right in the eye, shook my hand, signed my baseball, and asked questions like “What position do you play?” and even complimented my bowl cut hair (or at least I bet they wanted to).
After visiting with all the other players, there was only one left to meet. This was the big one. The one I’d been waiting for. The granddaddy of them all. The most famous Royal ever. George Brett.
From the time I was old enough to pick up a bat and understand who George Brett was, I took every opportunity to pretend that I was him…minus the whole not being a left-handed hitter thing. I would force my dad to throw me pitch after pitch after pitch so I could swing away and imagine I was wearing #5 on my back and hitting homers. Needless to say, meeting him was a big deal to me.
As we approached him, I nervously retreated behind my dad and waited for him to make the introduction. My heart was pounding. This was it.
“Hi George, would you mind signing a ball for my boy?” My dad kindly asked.
Without uttering a word or even looking at me (or my dad for that matter), he took the ball, signed it, and handed it back.
But…but wait. Isn’t he supposed to shake my hand and ask me who my favorite player is? Isn’t he supposed to inspire me to be a great baseball player just like him? Can’t he even shake my damn hand?
The answer was no. My heart was broken. My innocent little dreams crushed.
I definitely learned something in that moment. Something I would never forget. George Brett was a giant assh*le.
And just like that, he alienated one of his biggest fans.
“But, Mark, what about O.J.?” Oh yeah.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute after meeting my former hero when one of the staff announced the O.J. Simpson verdict was about to be delivered. All the grown ups and I walked down a hallway to an office where a radio was tuned into the trial.
As we all stood there waiting for the verdict, I kept my attention focused on George. I was hoping that he would realize he’d been a total doucher and perhaps hoist me up on his shoulder and give me a high five in apology. That didn’t happen. But, he did find a putter in one of the offices and practiced his stroke as we all listened closely.
“We, the jury, find Orenthal James Simpson not guilty,” the voice on the radio declared.
George Brett’s response was one I will never forget.
“Eh,” he said. And then continued practicing his putting stroke.
Despite having met several extremely friendly players and having everyone, including George, sign my baseball, I left feeling very disappointed. My hero was no longer my hero, and my favorite team was no longer my favorite team. On this, the darkest of days, the Kansas City Royals had lost their biggest fan.
But don’t worry, the story has a happy ending.
During the aftermath of the George Brett fiasco, I had to find a new team to root for. At the time, I loved watching Frank Thomas, AKA the Big Hurt, play for the White Sox. As simply as that, I had found a new team to embrace. Well played Frank, well played.
As I continued my baseball playing days from elementary school through high school, I remained a casual fan of the White Sox. Just enough to pay a little attention to how they were doing each season and watch a game every now and then on TV. It also didn’t hurt that my sister-in-law’s cousin (and my pitching coach in the offseason) played for the White Sox during their World Series championship year in 2005.
Upon graduating from high school, it was off to college for me at the University of Kansas. Which, for those of you who don’t know the geography of Kansas, is only about an hour away from Kauffman Stadium, home of the Royals.
Despite being closer to Kansas City and being surrounded by Royals fans, I remained a White Sox fan during my freshman year. My fraternity even took a road trip to watch a Royals vs. White Sox matchup that spring, and I openly rooted for the Sox, much to the displeasure of some of my supremely loyal Royals fan friends.
However. Somewhere in the middle of college, I found myself gravitating back to the Royals. Perhaps it was the fact that I had so many friends who were fans, the proximity of the team, or maybe even George Brett used some sort of witch magic to lure me back after realizing he’d been a jerk all those years before. Either way, I was well on my way back to claiming the Royals as my team again after a messy divorce.
It wasn’t until a few years after graduating from college, that I was 100% back on board. But boy it sure was one hell of a reason to claim them as my team for good.
Living in Dallas, I flew back to Kansas City to raise some hell at a pub crawl with some friends one weekend in 2013. I was talking to my friend, Ryan, and somehow we got on the topic of both having July birthdays. We jokingly said, “I wonder what would have happened nine months before we were born that would have gotten our parents all riled up.” Then it dawned on us both at the exact same time. We were conceived when the Royals won the World Series in 1985. Because nothing gets folks all boned up like winning a world championship.
From that moment on, I’ve been loyal to the Royals. And talk about good timing. That year, the Royals had their first winning season in more than a decade. The following season was one of the most exciting and memorable sports experiences of my life. Watching them in the postseason, especially the Wild Card game, and going the distance in the World Series is something that I will treasure for the rest of my life.
My fanhood has taken a long and complicated journey, but it is finally back where it belongs.
George, I forgive you. But you’re still an assh*le.
Here’s to another memorable postseason. Go Royals!