When the Bruins finally skated past the Montreal Canadians to reverse the long playoff curse, I was there. I was there in a jam packed sports bar, my vivid red Montreal jersey getting more soaked by the second. Beer was dumped on me. Dripping napkins were hurled. There might have been some spit in there but it was lost in the haze of Coors draft and rum.

When the Yankees did their ninth inning thing in 1977, I was there. I was there on the floor, a kid in tears getting noogies and Indian sunburns administered by a joyous older brother and sadistic cousin. I took heaping helpings of fists and knees to go with the main serving of heartbreak.

Pitchers of beer are cold down the back and Charlie horse punches hurt like hell. But sitting here tonight, I’d take either of those physical discomforts five times over to eliminate the last nine innings of my life. I’d pay money, eat dirt or run naked through barbed wire for a chance for just three more Royals batters to take their cuts.

The Red Sox fans who know me need no recap of the night’s events. They are already dancing, texting each other and calling my phone every thirty seconds to assail me with the verbal form of the noogie. For the rest, I’ll say it concisely: in the first matchup of the season between my beloved Kansas City Royals and the mighty Boston Red Sox, the latter did not allow a single hit to the former.

A no-hitter. A no no. A friggin nine-inning massacre I could not have foreseen if I’d masochistically set forth to envision my worst case scenario. My boys didn’t just lose to the Sox, they lost in a way that will keep the Boston faithful up in all-night celebrations and lock the Royals up as a footnote in the record books. When your team fails to get a single hit, there is nothing for you to fall back on by way of rationalization. If only the pitching was there. If only a call would have gone this way instead of that.

In a no no, there is only the sense of impotent failure. It is failing to perform over and over, even given a minimum of 27 chances. There are no little blue pills for that.

Fantastic misery awaits me. The phone has already been ringing non-stop (there it goes again. If I had a rifle, I would shoot it on the spot) and the torment will rage on all through the workday tomorrow.

A loss to Boston is always bad for a Royals fan in the frothing land of Red Sox Nation. A loss of this significance is the kind that leaves that fan pondering over whether the rope in the basement is long enough to affix to a ceiling beam.

Being a Royals fan is no easy feat on a good day. They have been in the division basement for so many years, they have grown mold. I go walking around Boston with my Royals hat and people don’t give me grief. They say: “Royals? Aren’t they in the national league now?”

And they mean it, which just stings. But you endure the abuse because you know that toughness and loyalty starts with remaining faithful to a team in the worst of times, even if those terrible times last for decades. You know that on the long climb up out of the Central Division muck, there will be little victories (Royals sweep Red Sox, August 2006) and that they are just fun as hell to watch. I have the hats, I have the jersey, I shelled out $150 for the lousy MLB package so I can watch every game. I regret nothing.

But man, the no no hurts like a bicycle crossbar to the crotch.

The phone is still ringing. I’ll answer it every damn time and take what abuse is coming to me. I’ll wear my hat tomorrow and take some more noogies and Indian sunburns, just like I kept on that beer drenched Habs jersey back in 1988. Being a wounded fan is one thing. Being a bad fan is another.

In the great movie “Fail Safe,” leaders of the United States decide to launch an attack on New York to mitigate a previous, accidental attack on Moscow. This blog is like that. By opening myself up for the barrage of abuse that’s sure to continue, maybe the blows won’t land as solidly, though they are still sure to smart.

Ultimately, the jagged agony of it will be there until the Royals start slapping the ball all over the place again and their numbers climb over the Sox on the scoreboard. I expect that to happen this very night.

As in love, there ain’t no cure for the Royal blues quite like a fast rebound.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 19th, 2008 at 11:12 pm and is filed under Etc.. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.