Game 4.

Game 3 ended with a loss for our heroes, the Royals. Us Kansas Citians sat shivering in our seats for a good long while, waiting for our players to shower off and prepare for that long ride home. Our fans spread between two sections, those sections comprised of three groups of people. One group stayed with the team at Hotel A, one group stayed with management at Hotel B, and the final group was a mixture of the first two at Hotel C. H and I were at Hotel A, and after talking with the locals around us we discovered that the color of our bracelets determined which Hotel the buses were headed for.

The team's organizers began herding people up out of their sections and down two flights of stairs to ground level outside the stadium. We followed our other gold bracelet-wearing brethren towards an offshoot of the main parade of people, and stood next to a very tall man that was calling out the name of our hotel. At this point I was 75% sure we were in the right place. With every new person or two that made their way to our group there was an echo of, "Is this the bus for --- hotel?" "Yeah, I think so, that's where we're staying." I was minding my own Chuckaluck business when a woman and her two sidekicks rolled up to us and asked if this was the players' bus.

"Oh, I don't know. But this is the --- hotel."
"That's the players' hotel. You must be in the wrong spot."
"Uh, no that's where we're staying. I mean, I think the players are there too-"
"No. You don't understand. We are waiting for our husbands."

I can see the main organizer for this little shindig off to my left. "Excuse me, is this for the --- hotel?"
And with a smile, "Yes it is!"
I turned to the wonderful lady berating me with questions and said, "I guess we're going to the same place."
Then I gave her one of these.


Okay, I did that in my head. But it felt pret-ty good. And how did she know I wasn't married to a crazy tall, lesser known baseball player? Don't answer that. H explained that I probably would have been at other family functions and whatnot. It doesn't matter, I've got the best husband in baseball anyways.

The next morning we slept in. I mean we really slept in. It was at least eleven or so before we decided to get up and enjoy our Saturday. The hotel we stayed at was within walking distance of a number of places, most notably of them the incredible Halal Guys. I had wonderfully seasoned falafel packed tightly with lettuce, tomatoes, and onions, covered in white sauce (mayo) and small droplets of red sauce (I'm guessing sriracha), all wrapped tightly in the most delicious naan. Holy freaking smokes was that tasty. H had the same thing, but instead of wrapped in naan it was on top of a bed of awesome rice. Our best decision for the day was skipping breakfast and going straight to lunch.

Second best decision was walking around Times Square. It was a gorgeously sunny day, one of those pleasantly cold afternoons, and the air was crisp and smelled like the early days of winter.

The hustle and bustle was oddly serene. 

Walking up to the Square was cumbersome - there was quite a bit of road construction on one side of the avenue which forced everyone over to the other sidewalk. I'm glad that it was only the two of us winding our way through the crowd. I can't imagine how crazy it would be to make sure your four chillens are duck-duck-goosing it around you in a living, moving mob of people.

What a nifty sign. 

I thought this was a joke when I first saw it. In perpetuity throughout the universe, eh? So my alien buddies can see me on the silver screen, too? But after looking it up on IMDB, it may be real.  Just past this truck was a group of people just standing around, looking up towards what I think was a camera (never could find the actual camera). H and I ended up walking around them a few times as we made our way around the Square. I imagine the producers will speed up their footage of Times Square one hundred times to show the passage of time or the busy life of the city, so the chances of seeing us on film are pretty slim in my mind.

Sitting to the left of the iconic billboards in the first shot. 

H and I walked past so many bus tours, so many map sellers, so many people dressed up as Pikachu and the cast from Frozen. I thought that they were all dressed up because it was Halloween, but H reasoned they do this every day. There was even a sign that said something like, You don't have to pay street performers. If they demand money, report to Times Square Police. I guess you're just supposed to tip your Pikachu after they take a photo with you. But boy were they dingy costumes. Which reminds me, Times Square has their own police department. You can see it in the first photo if you zoom in towards the base of the billboards.

People sitting between skyscrapers say HEY-oh!

We walked all up and down the adjacent streets to see what we could see. Turns out New York takes their musical theater very seriously. I mean, I knew that broadway was a big deal in New York City, but I wasn't prepared for the twenty or so theaters that we walked past. People were outside buying tickets and everything. Now, I don't hate musicals, but in every musical it seems you reach a point where there's been one too many songs. At some point it's just easier to speak your feelings instead of singing them. But I suppose a large majority of people prefer elongated pronunciations of speech set to jingle-jangle melodies used to generate an emotional response from the audience. I guess I'm just not one of them.

We strolled by Wolfgang Puck's restaurant, skipped next to a four-stories-under-the-ground Forever 21, and double-dutched beside the Madame Tussaud's wax land adventure. We cartwheeled past each of the five Starbucks we saw. We watched street performers in bare feet belly dance as they stood stacked on top of one another. There was a rapping duo dressed as Edward Scissorhands and Jason blasting their tunes outside of a corporate banking entity with green marble columns. There were maybe fifty other unique things we saw that I can't pull out individually from my memory.

What an enrapturing building. 

I took this picture not knowing what the building was - I just really loved the architecture. Turns out this building has an incredibly interesting history behind it, including being the reason we have the phrase "Not a bad seat in the house." This beaut is sandwiched between skyscrapers, surrounded by modernity, and unfortunately lives across the street from a theater. What a neat little guy.

Enchanting cityscape. 

I was always on the lookout for the Cash Cab in the hopes that H and I would be able to answer random trivia questions. We would totally own that show. I feel like we've got most categories covered. H = technology, engineering, history, reasoning, practicalness. A = science, food, art, nostalgia, unicorns.

Four-story wedding prep.  

Eventually it was time to head back to the hotel and change for the game. We walked two minutes to a little pizza place for dinner took a window seat. Across from the restaurant was a beautiful bridal shop. Each floor had a different gown in it, and I wondered how deep the store went back from the street and if they used stairs or an elevator to move between the floors. We ordered a pizza with white sauce (alfredo, perhaps), baked clams, and arugula. The dough had roasted garlic and parmesan mixed throughout, and was like an airy version of flatbread. What a divine creation.

When we saw the four buses all lined up outside the hotel, we hopped onto a nearby people-mover and took a seat. The quickest way to get somewhere in NYC is with a police escort - we had three or four motorcycle cops and two or three Dodge Chargers guiding us through the one-way streets and onto highways with ease. At one point, an SUV decided it would be a good idea tag along with our caravan and merged right in front of our bus. Ain't nobody got time for that, so our driver honked the horn and flashed his brights at this wingnut until he got the message and merged out of our lane. The whole bus erupted in cheers and shouts.

At the stadium we filed out of the buses and followed our tour guides up into the stands once again. We had quite a bit of time to kill that night before the game started, so H and I decided to walk around the stadium and see what the Mets had to offer. There's a legendary diner way out in left field called Shake Shack that might be the East Coast version of In N Out Burger. I regret not taking a picture, but luckily I have the internet to back me up when I say there were at least 300 people in line an hour before the game, waiting to get a burger. H told a cryptic tale of Mets fans who never got to see any baseball in Game 3 because they were still in line waiting for food.

Fox Pregame crew. 

In the right field corner of Citi Field, Fox had set up a desk and some fancy lighting for their Pregame crew. I wonder how it sounded over the airwaves, but as a person in the crowd it sounded a lot like "F-- you A-Rod!"  Turns out Mets fans don't like Yankees in their kitchen.

That would be Luke Hochevar's family two rows in front of us.

Being at your opponent's stadium during a World Series game is like putting on a suit of butter and catnip and walking into a pit full of cats. We were lucky enough to be sitting in the center of our Royals section next to a slim dosing of Mets fans row per row.. We could cheer and yell loudly without worrying about retaliation. One of the guys from H's office was sitting in an aisle seat next to a haggard crowd of Mets fans. He said the first night he had beer "accidentally" spilled on him, random food pieces thrown at him, and there was even one man yelling expletives at him from across the stairs who ended up throwing beer cans at him and almost hitting a little girl in the process. I've also heard stories of Royals fans who went to Game 3 and were harassed in much the same manner, then ended up selling their tickets for the next two games and going to Royals-friendly bars scattered throughout the city.

Now, that's not to say all Mets fans are incorrigible asshats that spit on their enemies. We ended up having somewhat of a heart-to-heart with a pair of Mets men who would Let's Go Mets! during the clapping part of our Let's Go Roy-als! (which would always throw me off) where we thanked them for having a stellar baseball team and for putting up with our shenanigans. Also, I don't know what it was like for the orange-wearing Mets fans when they were sectioned off in Kauffmn Stadium. I would imagine that they also put up with their fair share of heckling and harassment, but I can hope that didn't include beer being spilled on them. 

There was a lot of positivity too, though. Every game around the fifth inning a short video comes on the big screen to tell the story of an honored soldier as part of the Mets' Veteran of the Game. At the end of the video, they cut to the soldier who is either on the field or very close to it, and immediately everyone in the stadium stands up and claps. It becomes hard to hear the announcer as they present the veterans with an American flag and a jersey signed by the entire Mets team. Goosebumps roll over my skin and I start to choke up thinking about what these people have gone through. And the entire stadium is just whooping and cheering, whistling and clapping, so incredibly proud of their own that you can feel it in the air, the swell of pride. 

After the game. 

The win in Game 4 was a warm blanket of restored confidence after the loss in Game 3. It was a pat on the back, an Attaboy, for all of us Kansas Citians who were contemplating the ramifications of home field advantage. And so that night I said to Citi Field, and to the lingering Mets fans, "No, thank you New York, thank you."

Game 3.

Before we get this party started, let me just say that if I sound snippy for any reason in the next few words, it's because I spent two hours putting this post together, and Blogger deleted it. It cleared all of the work I had put into this thing, and wouldn't bring it back no matter how many Undo's I clicked. That being said, this had better be a freaking fantastic second draft.

H woke us up incredibly early the next day (9 o'clock Eastern Time is still really freaking early in the correct time zone), and had the day all planned out for us. First things first, coffee. He had found a spot just a couple of blocks north where these two guys were making coffee out of their car-cart. After waiting what seemed like an eternity for the guys to finish making these two ladies in line ahead of us a tiny, tiny espresso, H decided we should head on over to this little breakfast place he found. It's called Sarabeth's, and it quite possibly could be the smallest restaurant I've ever been in.

Game 2.

I woke up the next morning about as sick as one could possibly be on a World Series Wednesday - retrograde amnesia, irritable bowel syndrome, and the feeling that someone had sawed off my unicorn horn. Okay, so maybe not that sick. I had your typical cold symptoms - throat on fire, drainage out the wazoo, and that delightful achy sensation all over that makes you want to sleep all day. I somehow convinced myself that I was okay to go to work, and boy should I have just stayed in bed. My head was foggy; it took me longer than usual to work through the usual problems. Luckily, my coworkers took it upon themselves to handle all the major fires and let me rest as much as possible while still churning out decent work.

Game 1.

Before I start my World Series game day experience, I have to tell you about this awesome part of the ALCS. At the end of each home game in the ALCS there was a pop-up party in a canvas tent just outside the stadium for the front office and operations executives to catch a bite and chat about the game. The catering company was spectacular, sending out different delicacies each night. My personal favorite was the tiny cauldron of mac n' cheese topped with smokey brisket pieces, followed closely by the mini pulled pork sliders on pretzel buns. They had a different band playing each night, and a loaded dessert table, but the showstopper had to be the ice sculptures they had on display.  I give you the three ice sculptures of the ALCS.