The postseason

It was another 95 degree summer night. A blue oscillating fan teetered on my windowsill providing occasional respite as I laid on top of the sheets, sticky, but not quite sweaty. The familiar sound of cicadas chirped outside my bedroom window, and the even more familiar sound of Denny Matthews voice crackled through my Sony Dream Machine clock radio. The Kansas City Royals sat 20 games back in late August, but to 9 year old me, the next crack of the bat was all that mattered.
This is baseball.
It’s not just the 162 game grueling battle of attrition that will come to an end approximately 30 days from now, it is a vivid memory of my childhood that the word nostalgia doesn’t quite encapsulate.
It is the game itself, and the thousands of games within the game. The chess match between pitcher and batter, between managers playing odds and tendencies. Then it is all of this thrown out the window when a player takes the field and does the unexpected.
Here we sit again Royals fans, in unfamiliar territory, the postseason.
Last year seemed like a gift, a tear in the time space continuum that allowed improbabilities to be the norm. Our boys in blue became supermen, and if it weren’t for the kryptonite that was Madison Bumgarner, KC would be defending their title instead of looking for it. This year is different. Coasting into the playoffs with a division title is a reality my 9 year old self never fathomed.
It’s a game, it always has been and always will be, but it is a game that so closely represents life. There are small successes and small losses, ups and downs, but there is no clock. It is not over until that last out is collected, that last batter retired. Until then, anything can happen.
Clap it up Royals, game 1 tonight.