OMAHA, Neb. | Well, I&rsquo;ve written about many things in this space for the last 13 years or so, but I suppose the theme has always been dreams. That this isn&rsquo;t everyone&rsquo;s speed, I know. There were always some who wanted more anger here, more skepticism, more calls for change, more attacks on the players and coaches and teams that lost.</p><p> I understand. But one of the lessons you learn in life is that you have to try and stay true to yourself. As a columnist, you have to write about what speaks to you. In Omaha, I watch Alex Gordon mope his way through a Class AAA game. Gordon, of course, was the second pick in the 2005 amateur draft, the can&rsquo;t-miss prospect, the Midwestern kid with the George Brett swing and the swagger in his walk. Now, after two patchy big-leagues seasons and a third scarred by injuries and strikeouts, he&rsquo;s here in Omaha, barking at umpires seemingly after every pitch, walking with his shoulders slumped, looking for all the world like someone who has been wronged by life. </p><p> Instead, I am writing about a 26-year-old relief pitcher some call Disco Hayes.</p><p>&bull;&bull;&bull; </p><p> They call Chris Hayes &ldquo;Disco&rdquo; because he throws in the 70s. Isn&rsquo;t that beautiful? Everything about Disco Hayes is like that &mdash; funny and self-deprecating but also oddly confident. Disco Hayes believes he will get out big-league hitters. He doesn&rsquo;t believe that he <em>can </em>get them out. He believes he <em>will</em>. And no one yet has shaken that belief.</p><p> Oh, Disco is a smart guy &mdash; a Northwestern grad with a computer science degree. He understands why people may think that an undrafted pitcher who throws sidearm fastballs at 78 mph isn&rsquo;t a big-league prospect. He sympathizes with those people. Hey, if Disco didn&rsquo;t know better, he might think the same thing. But he does know better. </p><p> &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t really explain it,&rdquo; he says, and while he&rsquo;s talking, he and his wife, Tracy, hold hands. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve just always believed in my ability to pitch.&rdquo;</p><p> &ldquo;We know we&rsquo;re going to have a long career in the big leagues,&rdquo; Tracy says.</p><p> Who can explain that sort of confidence? Disco Hayes showed up at a Royals tryout back in 2006. He was out in Arizona on money he did not really have to try out for teams that had shown only vague interest &mdash; the White Sox, the Padres. Someone mentioned that the Royals were having a tryout camp. An Abbott and Costello skit followed.</p><p> &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; Disco asked.</p><p> &ldquo;Surprise,&rdquo; the guy said.</p><p> &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the surprise?&rdquo; Disco asked.</p><p> &ldquo;The town,&rdquo; the guy said.</p><p> &ldquo;The tryout is going to be in a surprise town?&rdquo; Disco asked.</p><p> &ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; the guy said.</p><p> And so on. Eventually, Disco found his way. When he arrived at the tryout, he saw a collection of 40- and 50-year-old men &mdash; one wearing work boots. He heard a Royals official ask if anyone there had major-league experience. Disco snickered, then noticed that seven or eight people were holding their hands up in the air. He suddenly realized that this wasn&rsquo;t a tryout camp so much as a graveyard for broken dreams. While he pitched, he noticed a Royals scout behind him with a radar gun. He had mixed emotions. It was nice to be noticed. But radar guns were never kind to Disco Hayes.</p><p> The next day, the Royals called to offer him a contract. Joy. His friend found Wilbert Harrison&rsquo;s &ldquo;Kansas City&rdquo; on Disco&rsquo;s iPod, and the two of them listened and sang along and talked about how this crazy dream really was coming true. At that point, Chris Hayes had never made an All-Star team. Never. Not in college. Not in high school. Not in Little League. Not in tee-ball. He still thought he would pitch in the big leagues.