“I’m not superstitious, but I am a little stitious.”
— Steve Carell as Michael Scott, “The Office”
You’re welcome, my fellow long-suffering Kansas City Royals fans.
Had I not taken the drastic steps I did over the past month, our boys in blue most likely would have seen their 29-year World Series title drought extended.
There would have been no miraculous comebacks against the Astros; no thrilling wins over the Blue Jays; no late-inning magic against the Mets; and no wild parade in downtown Kansas City this week.
How did I, an insignificant nothing, propel the Kansas City Nine to their season of destiny?
I quit watching.
You see, I’m neither an optimistic, nor am I a pessimistic sports fan.
I’m most accurately described as fatalistic.
I’ve been raised as most Kansas City sports fanatics, fully convinced that regardless of circumstance, regardless of score, the objects of my sports passion would somehow muck it up at the end.
In order to reverse the jinx, I had to just ignore the Siren’s Song of October baseball, and things would take care of themselves.
But temptations are named so for a reason, so I watched a little, here and there, and nearly wrecked the postseason fun all by myself..
I watched Kansas City get blasted in Game 1 in the ALDS against Houston; I also watched the Royals fall behind in Game 2 before finding something better to do late in the game. (The Royals rallied to win.).
I also watched much of Game 4 before Houston took a commanding lead in the sixth and seventh innings.
The run was over. I. The offseason was going to arrive a few games earlier than I’d hoped.
So I missed The Comeback, Part 2, with Kansas City exploding for five runs in the eighth inning to win.
(The comeback, Part 1, of course, was the Royals’ miraculous extra-inning win a year earlier in the Wild Card game against Oakland. I skipped watching that one, too.)
I missed most of the Toronto series — for work-related, and superstition-related reasons.
I became convinced the jinx was real in Game 2 against the Blue Jays, when on a busy afternoon, I watched sporadically while doing assorted other household chores. I proceeded to watch Toronto score all three of its runs, while missing Kansas City’s improbably seventh-inning comeback.
Lesson learned. If the Royals were to succeed, it’d be without me.
So i missed the rest of the series, including the Game 6 thriller, even though the TV set was a few tantalizing feet away from my desk in the Register newsroom. (Working on Friday night football, of course.)
THAT leads to the World Series.
I continued to tempt fate by watching some of Game 1. (That’s why the Royals fell behind in the eighth inning.)
But I acquiesced to the superstition gods by turning off the TV as the game headed into the ninth. (I’m sure most would credit Alex Gordon, Chris Young and some shoddy Met defense for Kansas City’s stirring comeback. I know better.)
I saw all of Game 2 (the one outlier; Johnny Cueto was too good to be bothered by my jinxing him.
I also saw most of Game 3. Kansas City’s only loss. (Sorry about that.)
In Game 4, I started watching, saw them fall behind, then decided to channel surf as the game grew late. (Again, you can blame the Met defense for the Royals’ rally, but again, you’d miss the true impetus; my absence.)
ALL DAY SUNDAY, I was a bit anxious for the game to arrive. I figured I’d watch a little to see how it goes.
Of course, Kansas City fell behind from the game’s first batter. Of course, I saw Matt Harvey turn Kansas City’s bats into sawdust.
And duh, I turned off the game in the eighth inning.
I did some laundry, sorted through books and decided about 30 minutes later to check the score.
In retrospect, I knew I never needed to.
The game was tied and in the 10th.
I was certain of two things.
1. The Royals would find a way to pull it out in the end.
2. I wouldn’t get to watch a second of it, or I’d blow it for them.
So I didn’t.
You’re welcome.
SO, CALL ME crazy, a bit too neurotic for your average sports psychopath.
Chastise me for giving up hope on a team that’s proven time and again it had more lives than a cat.
It won’t do any good, however.
I’m too busy toasting the Kansas City Royals, authors of the greatest games I never saw.
