Having grown up in Kansas City as the son of a season ticket holder, I've attended hundreds of Royals' games. In those days, they were blessed with strong ownership (Ewing Kauffman), a wise front office (John Shuerholz), smart managers (Herzog, Howser, et al), and talented players (Brett, Mayberry, Otis, Gura, McRae, Splittorf, Rojas, Busby, et al). We had the Yankees to hate. Life was good, focused.

My most memorable John Mayberry story is of a pop-up fowl ball. You should know that when Big John connected with the ball, even a pop-up, it went a mile. In this case, a mile straight up. The ball was popped to our side, but not close enough for me to try to get it. One section over, a dad jumps from his isle seat and with big gestures and full voice declares, “I got it! I got it!” So down comes the ball from a couple of hundred feet up and rotating about a million revolutions per minute (I could hear the buzz from the spin on the ball). The dad reaches straight up with two gloveless hands to grab it…

The ball parts his hands and hammers his nose with the awful, moist *crunch* that only a baseball can make when it breaks nose cartilage. As soon as the dad covers his face with his hands, a quart of blood hits the ground. The poor boy goes into a fit. The entire stadium gasps and audible gasp. The ball bounces a good 50-feet off the man's head and into our section where some jerk is all pompously joyous over his good fortune of catching the ball. Despite screams from everyone in the area, the guy won't give the ball to the injured man's son. The jerk with the ball then got belligerent, so three guys behind him doused him with their beers (to the roaring delight of the crowd). Security escorts the jerk out and leaves the three now-beerless guys alone.

The boy and the injured father are immediately taken to first aid. Three innings later they both return to their seats to a standing ovation; dad with two black eyes and a nose guard held on with lots of white tape, the kid with an autographed baseball, a home jersey, batting helmet, pennant and a bucket of popcorn.

I remember it like it was yesterday. As, I'm sure, the father and son do.w

Having grown up in Kansas City as the son of a season ticket holder, I've attended hundreds of Royals' games. In those days, they were blessed with strong ownership (Ewing Kauffman), a wise front office (John Shuerholz), smart managers (Herzog, Howser, et al), and talented players (Brett, Mayberry, Otis, Gura, McRae, Splittorf, Rojas, Busby, et al). We had the Yankees to hate. Life was good, focused.

My most memorable John Mayberry story is of a pop-up fowl ball. You should know that when Big John connected with the ball, even a pop-up, it went a mile. In this case, a mile straight up. The ball was popped to our side, but not close enough for me to try to get it. One section over, a dad jumps from his isle seat and with big gestures and full voice declares, “I got it! I got it!” So down comes the ball from a couple of hundred feet up and rotating about a million revolutions per minute (I could hear the buzz from the spin on the ball). The dad reaches straight up with two gloveless hands to grab it…

The ball parts his hands and hammers his nose with the awful, moist *crunch* that only a baseball can make when it breaks nose cartilage. As soon as the dad covers his face with his hands, a quart of blood hits the ground. The poor boy goes into a fit. The entire stadium gasps and audible gasp. The ball bounces a good 50-feet off the man's head and into our section where some jerk is all pompously joyous over his good fortune of catching the ball. Despite screams from everyone in the area, the guy won't give the ball to the injured man's son. The jerk with the ball then got belligerent, so three guys behind him doused him with their beers (to the roaring delight of the crowd). Security escorts the jerk out and leaves the three now-beerless guys alone.

The boy and the injured father are immediately taken to first aid. Three innings later they both return to their seats to a standing ovation; dad with two black eyes and a nose guard held on with lots of white tape, the kid with an autographed baseball, a home jersey, batting helmet, pennant and a bucket of popcorn.

I remember it like it was yesterday. As, I'm sure, the father and son do.w