Game 5.

On our way back from lower Manhattan, we happened to run into some of H's coworkers a block or so from the hotel. They asked if we had seen the newest email from the front office - there was a flight going out to Kansas City tonight, but they opened up a second flight leaving very early Monday morning. We thanked them and continued our way back to the hotel, deciding I would leave tonight since I had to be at work in the morning and H would fly out on the second plane. The only issue was that the folks heading out on the flight tonight would be leaving right after the game, and my luggage (which we packed up that morning) would be going out on H's flight.

Cue dramatic music.

    IN A WORLD

Open with shots of the streets of New York.

    WHERE ONE WOMAN

Closeup of heroine's forlorn face.  

    WITH ONLY THE CLOTHES ON HER BACK

Zoom out to show sleek Royals outfit.

    SURVIVES A DAY

Fade to black.

    WITHOUT HER STUFF

Framed shot of heroine slow-motion running through an empty Times Square. 

I was actually kind of glad that I wouldn't have to look for the luggage when we landed back in KC. All I had to keep track of was my sweet, yellow, cross-body purse.

We went back to the hotel's restaurant and ordered an appetizer to tide us over until the ballgame. What they ended up serving us was something of a cross between a sushi tower and nachos. It was a cylindrical form with a bean base, diced onion, salmon tartare, smashed avocado and lime juice top, drizzled with a soy sauce glaze, and a handful of tortilla chips on the side. Yes, that was a soy sauce glaze. Some things New York just doesn't get right.

We hopped on our bus and traveled the seven or so miles to the ballpark. Directly behind us were two girls who I'd say were between the ages of twelve and fifteen - probably related to some incredibly important front office person - discussing the woes of the eighth grade. Oh, to have your biggest worry be using FOIL in Algebra, or having to decide which foreign language to take, or wonder why boys are such an annoying pain in the butt. That actually sounds pretty chill - I wouldn't mind being back in eighth grade myself.

When we got to the stadium it was still fairly early; we had about an hour to walk around before the big show began. On our last trip around the stadium, I had spotted a booth selling Lobster Nachos and it was stuck in my brain. H was down for some crazy ballpark food, so we sidled up to the booth and looked at the description. White corn tortilla chips topped with jalapenos, black beans, pepper jack cheese sauce, mango salsa, and chunks of lobster.

This is what it looked like on its first day in the big leagues. 

If I could have gotten all of that in one bite, I'm guessing it would be amazing. What I ended up with was some bites of cheesy tortilla chips, and me having to chase down the other additions with a fork. Would I get it again? Yes, on the one condition that the culinary staff had all day to prepare it and weren't just slapping some cheese on top for the masses. I'm probably being too harsh on it (it is, after all, baseball food), but dangnabbit, I have standards!

We finished munching on nachos just as the game began. Unlike H, I can't remember every out or scoring chance. I just remember having a very good feeling about the players, and that it could very possibly be the night they could win it all. The Mets' starting pitcher Matt Harvey works his way in to pitching the ninth inning. Mets fans thought this would be the stop they needed to get the series back to Kansas City - they loudly cheered his return to the mound. I remember him walking off the field amidst my section of raucous fans whooping, clapping, and possibly yelling some obscenities. I remember scoring in the top of the twelfth inning, feeling like we were just about to reach the top of Mount Everest if we could just make it through their last three guys. H grabbed his phone when it came down to the last batter, opened up his Facetime app and called his younger brother.

It all happened so fast from there. We were cheering and hugging, high fiving random people, walking around to the sections closer to home plate. At one point I was standing next to Johnny Cueto's twin-like brother (someone please teach me how to take a discreet selfie). A few minutes later, H was told he could be with the players in the locker room for the coveted champagne showers. I told him to get himself over there and I'd be fine up here with the remaining KC fans - there were at least one hundred fans (maybe even two hundred) that stayed for the next couple hours.

I wandered around until I learned where the access point to getting on the field was. A man in a security jacket was waving through people with wristbands and turning away those without. I flashed him my golden ticket and stepped past a group of guys trying to talk their way in. Now I was directly behind home plate (I could've sat in one of those fancy-shmancy plush leather chairs, but I didn't have time for games), and making my way towards the gate that separated the seats from the field. One of H's coworkers saw me and flagged me down - he said H should be done soon, and that he'd be waiting for us on the field. We showed our wristbands once again to the security guard on the field, and then magically, we were walking on major league ground.

Players had emerged from their tunnels, and it must've been somebody's birthday because the fans were singing Happy Birthday on loop. There were television and radio reporters interviewing players and coaches, there were families and tiny children running the bases. One thing I can still feel is the crunch of the "dirt" they use to denote basepaths. I thought it would be a mix of clay and dirt with that signature copper color, but it was actually comprised of hard, manufactured chips (possibly made of plastic, I can't be sure), and underneath those was that dusty dirt.

I found H with the rest of his coworkers and gave him a congratulatory hug. He smelled as though a wet dog had taken a bath in wine, and apologized for being essentially soaked through. Off to our right was the MLB Channel's setup, with Salvie and Ned Yost just chilling behind the announcers.

I made a point to congratulate anyone from the front office that I recognized. It felt like I was only on the field for five minutes when H's coworker checked his watch and said, "We better head over to the buses. They're leaving in a couple of minutes." Ever the clever one, H told me to go stand over there while he got a picture of me on the field.

I hugged H goodbye, told him to have as much fun as he could, and that I'd see him in Kansas City. As the coworker and I made our way to the buses, we couldn't stop smiling. We walked past a couple that was absolutely making out like no one was watching on a bench just outside the stadium, clapping as we went by. We hopped on the bus and talked about our favorite moments from the night. The buses roared to life and we were off to find our plane.

I thought we would be using LaGuardia, but we drove past it and onto a nearby empty tarmac. We stopped in front of a plane the size of Texas and filed onto the aircraft. We had assigned seating, but the person that I was supposed to fight over the armrest with never showed. The seatback in front of me had an embedded touchscreen and over forty different movies to choose from. It also had a navigation tab that showed the approximate location of the plane over the United States. Every five minutes a flight attendant would walk by with some sort of food item, but I was reserving my appetite for the main entrees they were going to serve.

As the plane took off, I figured it would only be appropriate to take a quick nap before the main course since it was approximately two in the morning. That quick nap turned into three-quarters of the flight. I was both upset because they didn't wake me for filet mignon and thankful that they didn't wake me because that's possibly the deepest sleep I'd gotten all week. I stayed awake long enough to consume a ginger ale and an oatmeal raisin cookie, then back to sleep I went. The next time I awoke we were grounded, and people were beginning to file off the plane. We had landed at Terminal A in the KCI airport, a bona fide vacant lot ninety-five percent of the year. H's coworker grabbed his luggage and was kind enough to give me a ride to the parking lot where H's car sat. I told him to go get some sleep, and he told me to do the same. I looked at the clock and saw that it was six in the morning.

I should go home and go to sleep.
If I go to sleep, I'll be taking a day off work.
If I take a day off work, that's one more day I can't be in Texas for Christmas.
I want to be in Texas for Christmas.
I should go to work.
How cool would it be to go to work after winning the World Series.
So incredibly cool.

And there you have it, folks. I made a quick pitstop at the house to grab food, grab my work badge, and make some coffee before heading out to work quite a bit early. I loved the feeling of walking into work with a set of World Series winning clothes, coffee in hand, and surprising my coworkers with my presence. Apparently everyone with ten brain cells reasoned I would be off that day, but boy did I show them what adrenaline can do for eight long hours. Luckily, I was able to leave somewhere between four and five in the afternoon (I honestly can't remember when I left - I believe it was dark outside?) and go pick up my husband from the baseball stadium he tends to work from on weekdays. I pulled up to the curb as he stuffed our luggage into the trunk of the car.

"How many hours of sleep did you get last night?" I asked him.
"Uh ... maybe four? Why?" he replied.
"I'm working off of three. Want to switch seats?"
"Yeah, you crazy person."

We trucked along back to the house, muscled up enough energy to bring our luggage inside the house and up the stairs to the bedroom, and went to bed. It may have been seven o'clock. Which, if you think about it, is eight o'clock New York time, and a perfectly respectable time to go to bed.

My husband is a badass. 

Remembrance.

I was struggling with trying to piece together our last day in New York activities with the last game of the World Series, but H suggested I make this its own post. I felt as though I may be diminishing these events by following it up with a celebratory yeehaw, so I've split up the two experiences.

We stopped for an early lunch at The Halal Guys cart to grab some gyros. We hadn't tried gyros before, but it'd be safe to say we are complete converts now. I got to the bottom of my gyro-filled naan wrap and had to make a very difficult decision - stuffed as I was, should I toss out the remaining ten bites of my lunch, or eat just munch on the inner layer of naan where the piping hot gyro meat had essentially seared the dough making it a crispy, crunchy delight? Come on, now. H gave me a sideways glance not unlike the face he makes when I lick the remaining crumbs off a dessert plate at home. We chunked the last food bits in a nearby trash can and triangulated the location of the nearest subway entrance two blocks over.

I've never been on a subway - I haven't lived in a city that's offered them (I don't think DART counts as a subway, just a railway system) - so this was an experience in itself for me. H negotiated with the older gentleman seated in the glass booth for a card with enough money for two roundtrip tickets. THe card was sort of like a super bendy library card with a swipe stripe. I think I still have ours somewhere in my suitcase, actually. We made our way down the thin steps to the station and waited for a while before realizing we probably just missed the train. The air was warm despite the cold aboveground, and it felt like I was breathing the same breath from a million people. I saw some benches a few feet down from us, and we started to walk over until we noticed a couple of guys were already seated on them and didn't look like they would be moving anytime soon. The train pulled up in no time, though, and we hopped on and easily found seats together.

At some point, H said there was no way I would be able to sleep on the train, what with all the stops and mechanical noise and all the people. Challenge accepted. I pulled my coat hood up and leaned my head on his shoulder. I was just at the point where recollection ends and unconsciousness begins when the train came to a stop and I unwittingly slid an entire foot away from his shoulder. I guess the person that was sitting to my left had gotten up because this was her stop, which allowed me to travel a respectable length of the bench as the train decelerated. H laughed at me, but I felt as though I'd proven my abilities. A few stops later and we had arrived at our destination.

One of the places I hoped we would visit on this trip was the World Trade Center Memorial. I wonder if that's an odd thing to admit - yes, I wanted to see Central Park, and I liked the feeling of being taller than NYC, but I really wanted to travel to the place where thousands had lost their lives. I suppose it's similar to wanting to visit Auschwitz (but obviously on a much smaller scale) - something about the incredible backwards thinking that led thousands or millions of innocent people to their deaths. A need to understand how the events unfolded as an attempt to understand why it happened. And I suppose for me, I needed to see it with my own eyes.

Walking up to the memorial you first notice the fountain, the loud sound of water rushing over stone both eerie and soothing. Droplets mist the names engraved around the perimeter of the structure. Oak trees were chosen for their varying leaf colors and were transplanted at varying  ages, so that as they grow none are identical.

To the left of the fountain is the entrance to the underground memorial. A long staircase leads to a hallway with photographs and audio on loop of witnesses relaying their first thoughts when they heard or saw the plane hit the tower. As we walked past these accounts I remember feeling like it was harder to breathe, as though I was moving through air thick with emotion and sadness and the premonition of what would happen.

Past the hallway was an overlook onto the ground floor of the structure.

The original concrete-embedded cable mounts for the World Trade Center. 

Taken from Ground Zero. Notes for loved ones, missing person pictures,
and a bouquet covered in dust that has since dried up. 

The antenna from the top of the World Trade Center, circled in the picture. 

While the larger objects in the memorial allow photography, much of the inner enclosed portion did not. Whether that is out of respect for families or for other reasons, I'm not sure, but I'm glad that they don't allow it. There was enough silently shocking material inside that taking photos of it would just be a distraction to everyone else inside.

In the center of each room would be artifacts from the morning, and timelines were posted along the walls with minute-to-minute events as they took place. Underneath the timelines were phones for visitors to listen to pieces of audio, including transmissions from the aircraft to towers, and phone calls from passengers to their loved ones. On the timeline would be the transcript of the message, and that alone was almost too much for me to handle. I couldn't listen to the audio. There were so many items left behind, so many items found by first responders, so much hope that a person would be alive just underneath this next piece of rubble. You feel heavy with the weight of all those lives. Somewhere in the timeline was the fact that this was the largest number of people successfully evacuated in the history of America.

There are many pieces of the memorial that stay with me. One of the final videos was taken by astronaut Frank Culbertson on the International Space Station. Underneath the video a sign tells us that his friend was the pilot on the flight that hit the Pentagon. There was a bike rack that had been preserved, dust and all, taken from a street marked with spray paint to "Save This". In the public part of the memorial, this wall created by an artist to resemble how blue the sky was in the hours before the attacks.

And after we had seen what we came to see, we take the escalator up to the hallway where the day began. We walk up the straight staircase bringing us back to ground level, and with every step I feel lighter somehow, as though I can breathe a little easier. We walk past the fountain, and this time it seems less frightening.

We hop on the subway taking us back to the hotel. We didn't talk to each other, we were still taking it all in, remembering the feeling. We stop on a stone bench on our way, just for a moment, because we have the time. I look up, and the sky is so intensely blue.

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.