If the Royals move to a new downtown ballpark, this kind of fan will quit showing up

I was born and raised in Kansas City. In 1983, my buddy and I drove to what was then called Royals Stadium. We were 17 years old, dedicated Royals fans, and though we were old enough to disagree vehemently about politics, we both would have gladly supported George Brett had he decided to run for office.

On that hot summer night, the cicadas were singing and the warm air was blowing and the Royals were playing the Yankees. We hated the Yankees. Although the game had already sold out, we were hopeful that someone might be hanging around the parking lot with a couple of extra tickets to unload.

We had discussed ahead of time that we were willing to pay as much as $25 on top of the listed fare, and despite what we thought was our generous offer, not a soul answered our pleas. We weren’t all that dejected — it was a gorgeous night, and there were all sorts of ways to spend a summer evening, even if the best way was to take in a ballgame.

Resigned, we were making our way back to the ancient Plymouth we’d driven in when a tall, lanky man dressed in overalls called out to us. He looked exactly like a farmer, and that’s because that was exactly what he was.

“You boys are looking for tickets,” he said.

“How much?” I asked him.

He looked us both over and then explained his terms.

“I come to one game a year, you see. I drive down here from Nebraska. The wife and me sit in the best seats we can get, and I always buy us both a beer and a pretzel. This year my kids couldn’t come. I’ve got two extra tickets.”

“Sure,” my buddy replied. “How much do you want for ‘em?”

“Don’t want a thing,” was his answer. He held up his left hand and I noticed he was wearing a baseball glove. “What I want is for you two boys to sit next to me and the wife, and if a ball comes our way, why, I want you catch it with this glove that I’m wearing and I want you to give that ball to my wife.”

I got the feeling that this was more than this man was accustomed to saying in a week, let alone in a single transaction.

Although we tried to pay him, he wouldn’t take our money. “Just be nice to my wife,” he replied. “No cussin’ or nothin’. And like I said, if the ball comes, you catch it and give it to Laura.”

He introduced us to his wife Laura, who looked like a farmer’s wife because that was exactly what she was.

I don’t remember who won the game, but I do know that we didn’t get a ball. But we enjoyed one other’s company, and we got to sit behind first base at a Royals-Yankees game.

This memory returned today as I glanced at the Kansas City headlines for the Royals and was reminded of the debate over building a new downtown stadium. Though I live now in the white mountains of New Hampshire, I’ll still go to Fenway Park a few times a year. It is the quintessential downtown ballpark, and it is an amazing place to watch a game. But the Royals will always be my team, and that 1983 experience was pure Midwest. I cannot imagine that this practical farmer from the plains of Nebraska would ever want to waste half of his day snaking through the downtown streets of Kansas City. He’s the kind of guy who I’d guess would stop coming to see the Royals.

And that is the best reason I can think of for not moving that ballpark away from where it stands now.

This story was originally published January 19, 2022 at 5:00 AM.