Bracketology and a Clear Conscience

I will never be a bona fide Bracketologist.

During the month of March, no word and  its affiliates are more overused than that of "Bracketology." Sports fans everywhere this week have been reading blogs, perusing newspapers and diligently watching ESPN in an effort to get a one-up on their comrades so that they may achieve office pool immortality.  It's all about picking a winning bracket, and some will stop at nothing in their quest of winning the title.

But I will never be a good bracketologist. I'm too much of a homer. And I can't pick against my heart. And I'm not a multi-task, multi-bracket kind of guy.

I pick Kansas to win every year, because that's what I want to see happen. So if historical odds ring true, Kansas will not win the title again for another 18 years. But it would be treasonous to pick another team to win--even if that's what I thought would happen. I'd rather lose with dignity than win in Benedict Arnold fashion.

This emotional roller coaster bleeds over into non-Kansas games as well. If I'd like to see Cornell beat Temple (I do) then I'll pick Cornell to beat Temple (I did--and this tip is free with the purchase of this column).  Similarly, if I want to see Missouri (the lower seed) beat Clemson (the higher), I'll pick it that way--and did (another free tip).

I believe it's folly to pit a bracket against the heart. Why root for the team you think should win over the team you want to win. It's tantamount to the Biblical mandate of not acting contrary to conscience. Well actually that last statement is a little extreme. It's not that bad but it's not good. The reality of this approach, however, as it has established me as a perrinial loser in any and all Bracket Challenges in which I enter. I'm starting to get invites to participate in such challenges from all over the world. My participation in your pool ensures that you will not come in last place.

Another thing I avoid at all costs is filling out multiple brackets. I can't even keep track of one, let alone forty-five. I wonder how many possibilities there are of winning brackets in a field of 65? How many brackets would one have to complete to ensure a winner? Probably more than there are dollars in the Federal Budget Deficit, or its sister metric the National Debt.

But I don't want to be conflicted with numerous possibilites and combinations of wins and losses. I'm going to pick a bracket and stick to it. I won't look to the left or to the right.

My eyes are on the prize, and I'll sleep well keeping track of one bracket that reflects the sum total of my basketball heart, even if it means I've checked my brains at the front door.

Follow your heart young man, follow your heart. If you do you may not win $5 in the office pool, let alone the ESPN Bracket Challenge.  But you will have your dignity, and you won't be conflicted between your alma mater and a number one seed.

And you'll be true to your school--just like the Beach Boys.

Scott Drew and the Jayhawk Pre-game Video

In the interest of full disclosure, I should reveal that I have a degree from the University of Kansas. But I've also long admired Baylor Basketball Coach Scott Drew. So I watched with interest last night as Drew pulled his team off James Naismith Court just after they were introduced at Allen Fieldhouse. Drew apparently gave his starters final instructions in the much quieter hallway underneath the Fieldhouse stands. This decision ruffled more than a few Jayhawk feathers, however, as Drew's pregame talk was held during the Kansas player introductions and viewing of the Jayhawk pregame video.

I thought Drew's move was sheer coaching genius, and I'll bet he'd been planning it since he walked out of the building after a 100-90 loss February 9, 2008. I've watched a number of games at Allen Fieldhouse over the last several years. The pregame video is like nothing I've ever seen. It gives goose bumps to the most stoic college basketball fan. It's a fascinating, motivating, comprehensive history lesson in Kansas basketball. Even those who aren't Jayhawk fans usually watch it with at least a modicum of admiration and awe.

The video is designed to reinforce KU's traditions of All-Americans, conference championships, Final Fours, and national titles. But lets face it, the video has two other, perhaps primary, purposes. The first is to get the crowd as jazzed as possible, to create a euphoria and decibel level that will dizzy the opposition until the first television timeout. The second purpose is to intimidate the opposing team as much as possible, and the video does that, par excellence. I've observed several teams which have come into the storied arena with video cameras and picture phones, appearing to believe they are fortunate just to be able to suit up in the place (some, undoubtedly are). They've then watched the pre-game video with their heads cocked, looking upward to the scoreboard in a trance-like state. Then they've promptly been run out of the gym.

So to the Jayhawk fans that feel like Scott Drew dissed them and Coach Bill Self's team, I say: let's get over ourselves. Scott Drew came to Lawrence as a man on a mission. He was on a business trip, and he did not feel obligated to participate in Kansas's pre-game pep rally. Perhaps he'd learned something about his teams in previous contests at Allen Fieldhouse. Perhaps he'd seen in his players' eyes not a steely resolve to win, but instead a fear that they were to become yet another notch in the storied program's belt.

Since when should we expect any team to participate in the other team's lovefest? Scott Drew is obligated to take every fair, legal, and ethical measure necessary to give his team the best chance to win. I don't see how subjecting your team to "The Video" does that. This isn't the Harlem Globetrotters vs. Washington Generals. These guys don't hang out together after the game. They don't ride the same bus or fly the same airplane. No one should be forced to join the other team's admiration society. Kansas fans shouldn't expect any team to bow down to the statue of Phog Allen.

I'm sure Drew would have preferred to not co-mingle missing the video with missing the Jayhawk introductions. The two are almost inseparable, however, so that would have been difficult. And, the jury is still out on whether or not it ended up being a good move in the end. Kansas's Sherron Collins's outstanding play last night was reportedly fueled by the perceived disrespect Baylor showed by skipping the video. Other teams may decide to skip the video at their peril. Be that as it may, Baylor schooled the Jayhawks in most phases of the game during the first half. They bettered Kansas in many of the game's final statistical categories as well. The Bears were the first team to shoot over 50% from the field (52%) against the Jayhawks over Kansas's last 92 games. They almost ended the Jayhawks' home court winning streak at 52. So despite irritating Collins (and apparently Self), Drew's decision still probably gave the Bears their best chance to win.

I must say I think the issue going forward is not whether or not the other team is watching the Jayhawk pre-game video. The issue, instead, is whether or not the Jayhawks should be watching their own video. No matter how storied a program, the only game that matters is the next one. It appears the Jayhawks sometimes think watching Mario's Miracle or Danny and the Miracles is enough to make the other team take a dive. Scott Drew proved it is not.

The Jayhawks should bask in their tradition but forget about it come game time. They need to do that before their upcoming Big Monday contest with Missouri. Fortunately I get to go to that game as well. It will be interesting to see whether or not Mike Anderson and his Tigers will hang around after they're introduced. And it will be equally interesting to see whether or not the Jayhawks think the video will be enough to get them their 54^th consecutive win at home. To do so, it may take an effort superior to the one Kansas delivered last night against Baylor.

Colt McCoy and the Rock

I am not a fan of the University of Texas, and  I wasn't necessarily a fan of Colt McCoy as he suited up for the BCS Championship game against the University of Alabama last week in Pasadena. I wanted Texas to win the game, but my interest in that outcome came from a moderate allegiance to the Big XII Conference and a moderate distaste for Alabama given my wife's family's ties to Alabama's arch rival Auburn.

I had cautiously admired from a distance the outspoken brand of Christianity practiced by McCoy and his fellow quarterback from Florida, Tim Tebow. They seemed to be the real deal, never neglecting an opportunity to give glory to Jesus Christ. Those opportunities were fairly prevalent as they have torn through most of their opponents over the last two-to-three seasons.
But in my observation the relationship between sports and Christianity has always been a bit tenuous.  Athletes point to heaven after home runs and touchdowns and field goals as if God had just pulled some sort of cosmic lever, thus changing the outcome of the game, ushering in their success not unlike the bartender in a Buffalo Wild Wings commercial. After these wins the glory would also be given to "God," but it is often uncertain whether that "God" was the Sovereign King of the Universe as revealed through Jesus Christ or simply some nondescript deity fashioned in the player's image. So any spiritual reference uttered by an athlete, no matter how apparently solid, was usually sifted through my suspicious grid.

My own personal experiences had reinforced this disconnect. I'd been party to numerous pre-game prayers designed to curry God's favor in the imminent contest. These were usually vain repetition, verbal insurance policies designed to cover the proverbial bases of preventing injury and pleading for victory. During and especially after the game, God was usually forgotten. There appeared to me no motivation to pray had it been known beforehand that we were going to a.) win the game, and b.) be injury-free.

In an article entitled God is the Gospel, Minneapolis-based pastor John Piper discusses how people often do not want God for God, but simply want him for the benefits he might provide them. He observes how many desire forgiveness, or a job, or a spouse, or to be healed from a disease--all reasonable things to seek--but they don't seem much to want God. He appropriately questions the efficiency and efficacy of these motives and provides these chilling words: God will not be used as currency for the purchase of idols.

But do we do that? I have. I've wanted God to close a real estate deal or give me a listing or help me shoot one last 74 without really wanting Him, for Him. I'd like to sugarcoat it, but I can't. That's idolatry. I might as well worship a golden calf. And my assumption is that many athletes, not unlike us, simply want to leverage their relationship with God to secure their earthly desires, their earthly fames and fortunes.

This assumption is bolstered by the conspicuous absence in sports of Christians giving glory to God in defeat. In fairness, we don't usually care much what the loser has to say and the networks don't always seek out comments from losers. After all, they're losers. What do they have to offer us? And, often defeat is so stunning, so painful, that it renders a believer speechless. In some small way, even the strongest believer probably expected God to come through for him, and doesn't know how to explain why He didn't. This is understandable, but in some cases I fear defeat exposes a counterfeit faith that was only manufactured to engender God's blessing. A faith that may have only been legal tender at the idol store.

Enter Colt McCoy on January 7 in Pasadena.  McCoy took five snaps from under center before leaving the game with a nerve injury in his shoulder. He couldn't feel his arm, so he was forced to watch the final and most important game of his career from the sidelines.  He had to watch his inexperienced understudy compete gallantly but unsuccessfully in their 37-21 loss.

When interviewed after the game, a devastated McCoy took a few seconds to compose himself, then said, "I always give God the glory. I never question why things happen the way they do. God is in control of my life, and I know that nothing else, I'm standing on the Rock."

How refreshing. McCoy's "Rock" is Jesus Christ. In Matthew 7 and Luke 6 we find the "Parable of the Two Builders." In both these passages, Jesus speaks of the wisdom of the man who follows obediently after Himself. Jesus says "the man who hears My sayings and does them...he is like a man building a house, who dug deep and laid the foundation on the rock. And when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently against that house, and could not shake it, for it was founded on the rock." 

The wise man who built his house on the rock is contrasted with the unwise man who built his house on sand. When the floods came upon that man, "the winds blew and beat on that house; and it fell. And great was its fall." 

The Apostle Peter calls Jesus Christ "a rock of offense." (I Peter 2:8) Indeed He is. I observed some Facebook animosity this season spewed toward Christian athletes, particularly Tebow. I believe the venomous comments were grounded in the "offensive" way in which the players like Tebow and McCoy proclaim Christ—their Rock.

An equally memorable depiction of Jesus Christ as the rock is found in the 1836 hymn by Edward Mote called The Solid Rock. The hymn is based on the parable of Matthew 7:24-27 and its chorus reads:

On Christ the solid Rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

McCoy of course is fallible but he challenges me to live a genuine faith, a sincere pursuit that looks the same in season and out. A faith that is identical in winning and losing. A faith that is not shaken by anything the world can dish out because it comes from a world that is wholly other than this one. In this lifetime, we'll undoubtedly have more opportunities to give glory to God through disappointment than through triumph. And the trials, disappointments, and even devastations we experience are the crucibles through which God's grace shines most brilliantly. It's through these experiences that we learn to want God, for God, and we look to the eternal at which we may now only glimpse dimly.

May we too follow after and cling to the Rock, certainly in victory, more so in defeat. All other ground is sinking sand.

Blackout a Possibility for Chiefs-Bills Game

http://www.kcchiefs.com/news/2009/12/10/chiefs_get_another_24_hours_to_sell_out_sundays_game/

Dear Yankees: What took you so long?

In the wake of the New York Yankees' World Series  win over the Philadelphia Phillies, one question shouts for an answer: What took them so long?

The Yankees' win in this year's Series marks the end of a nine year drought. Nine years of futility from a team which perennially has the highest payroll in Major League Baseball. The Yankees' 2009 payroll exceeded $200 Million Dollars--almost $7.5 Million per player. This amount is high enough when standing alone, but when one considers that the New York Mets were  a distant second at about $135 Million ($4.85 Million per player), the difference is staggering. The Mets would have had to have spent 150% of their 2009 payroll to be on a level playing field (pun intended) with the Yankees.

The payroll differences between the Yankees and other teams have been pretty consistent over the last few years. The Yankees were either just below or just above the $200 Million mark for the years 2006-09. During this same time period the teams which had the second highest payrolls--the Mets, Tigers, or Red Sox (twice)--have trailed by a range of $60-80 Million (about 30-40% less) each year.

So what's my point? Is this just a rant from a Kansas City Royals fan who endured losses for three straight years to the Yankees during the 1970's in the AL playoffs? Is this just one more whine in the large market-small market debate? Is this simply another spew of Yankee-hating venom?

Well, yes. But it's more than that. I believe it's an absolute joke that since 2000 the Yankees have only appeared in three World Series and have only come home with one crown. In one of their World Series appearances during this decade they lost to the Florida Marlins, whose payroll at the time was either the lowest or among the lowest in baseball.

What guy couldn't put together a championship fantasy team if he were given the first 15 picks in the draft? The Yankees should be able to win with Walter Matthau managing them. They have three sets of murderers' rows in their line-up. They have pinch hitters who would make the All Star team with the Royals. They can afford to pay their bat boy seven figures annually.

So the way I see it, the most prevalent emotion tonight in the Yankees' locker room must be that of relief. It seems odd to say it about a team that has 27 World Championships, but this win had more of a feel of getting a monkey off the Yankees' back than anything else. Simply put, if you spend $60 Million more on your players than the next closest team, you are supposed to win. It should be news only when you don't win.

Deep down, if I'm a Yankee, this victory is a bit tainted. Can you really get the maximum satisfaction out of winning when you assemble a team in the same fashion as the Little League coach who gets all the best players' dads to coach with him or sponsor the team so they could stack the proverbial deck? Something seemed wrong about that picture when I was a kid and something seems wrong with the picture we saw tonight.

I don't have a solution for this situation. I'm not advocating a salary cap or revenue sharing or some other measure that would curb the Yankees' earning power. These arguments have been made ad nauseum and don't seem to go anywhere.

Maybe the solution lies with the Yankees themselves. Perhaps if the Yankees win a few more in a row, Johnny Damon or Derek Jeter or A-Rod will decide that winning when you're always supposed to, winning when you're outspending the rest of the league anywhere from 6:1 to 3:2, winning when the outcome is less in question than that of an All Star Wrestling match, isn't that much fun. Maybe....

And when winning that way quits being fun for them, maybe the World Series will start being fun for me again.

6.7 Seconds

Note: This post features a short story by an up-and-coming writer named Olivia Finley. Yes, she just so happens to be my daughter. This is a great little story that was the product of an assignment in her college class called Writing Fiction. Since it's a story about a football game, it was fair game for publication on this blog. It is reminiscent of other great football stories like Remember the Titans or Friday Night Lights. Like those stories, it's as much about the people as it is the game. I find it astonishing that someone who has never played the game competitively could write about it so accurately and with such intensity.

I think you'll like this story. Let me know if you do by leaving a comment.

Grace and Peace,
Greg

P.S. She didn't want me to post this, but it was my job as her father to do so....

6.7 Seconds
by Olivia Finley

The small town of Stamps, Arkansas was having an unusually cold night, even for November. Out of the 1,910 total population, 1,905 people had gathered at Millbrook Stadium to watch their hometown Express play the Hershburn High Panthers. It was the district playoff game and the Express remained undefeated. So did the Panthers. The victorious team would continue on to State. The hype and competition were nearly tangible.


As a small town, Stamps tended to go through cycles of fads. Several years earlier, a visitor couldn’t walk down Main Street without seeing at least eight people wearing a faux leather jacket with “The Sopranos” imprinted on the back. Not that anyone particularly liked the show, but the jacket had a tough and dangerous tone to it that no one could pass up. And one year after the jackets, every diner in town was serving peanut butter and pickle sandwiches. The general population also ordered a side of jalapeno and blackberry coleslaw for an extra seventy-nine cents. Fortunately, neither the jackets nor the sandwiches lasted long. But throughout Stamps’ mindless wanderings from trend to trend, one thing had remained steadily at the forefront of their thoughts: football. They loved their football. In the town’s eyes, a battle on the gridiron was the equivalent to Roman gladiators, a life or death event. Stamps had a football tradition rivaling that of a Texas high school. It was what steadied and unified them.


The hype and competition were nearly tangible. There were 6.7 seconds left in the fourth quarter. The game had been a close one. Both teams had played exceptionally well and the score was 12-7 Express. The Panthers had the ball at the Express’ four yard line. It was fourth and goal. The Panthers had to go for a six. All the Express had to do was hold them and they would advance to State. Steamy faces glared at each other from both sides of the line of scrimmage.


6.7 seconds.
Blake Thomas couldn’t wait for the game to be over. Blake was a linebacker for the Express, and this was his senior year. He had played all the way up from tiny tot football and was ecstatic about being done. Although Blake was a good player, it was his father who had a love for the game and forced him to play. Blake didn’t necessarily mind football; it was good exercise and usually enjoyable, but he had always wanted to pursue music. He had dabbled around in guitar and cello throughout junior high and high school, but football had never given him a chance to truly excel. So when the season was over Blake was going to dive into serious music lessons and see where that took him.
“Blake, come on man, get focused,” a fellow lineman called over to Blake. He snapped out of his musical daydreaming with a quick double blink. He heard “Crazy Train” being played over the crackly speakers. He listened to the rest of his team on the sideline pounding their thigh pads with a heavy and steady rhythm.
“Hold that line,” the cheerleaders chanted. A siren wailed in the background.


Steamy faces glared at each other from both sides of the line of scrimmage. The crowd in the stands huddled together for warmth. Wispy clouds rose from cups of hot chocolate held by gloved hands. Red noses stuck out from beneath brims of furry hats, and watery eyes looked intensely at the field. The town wanted this game. Although Stamps had a history of winning, they hadn’t been able to grasp the state title in five years. This was the first step up to the pedestal. Everyone knew winning State would cause a celebration bigger than any holiday in the little town. The parents, the coaches, the players: they all knew it. Back on the field, the defenders shifted their weight from side to side in anticipation. Mouth guards clicked against teeth as they were popped in and out.


6.7 seconds.
Dallas Andrews, the Express’ quarterback and a senior, stood on the sideline praying to someone that the defense would hold. He was too entranced by the tension to join his team in the yelling and pounding. Instead he whispered, “Be firm. Don’t let them move. Be firm. Don’t let them move.” He said this, half hoping it would supernaturally empower his teammates, or maybe cause a brick wall to appear where players once stood. Dallas had adopted the town’s view of football at the age of six, when his father first threw him a foam ball. Ever since then he had worked his hardest to become the best. He had earned the position of the Express’ starting quarterback as a sophomore, something he wouldn’t let any of his fellow players forget if they questioned his authority. And he wanted State more than anything. He wanted to go out in a riotous fashion, being remembered as the guy who led his team undefeated to the championship. He’d be holding the trophy in the picture that would go in the hallway trophy case in school. And he knew that was about all the fame he would ever have. Dallas understood that he wasn’t a smart kid; he struggled in all of his classes and had no college future. He was too small to quarterback at a university. He knew he’d be the seventy-five year old man sitting on his front porch with his buddies, recalling every play they ever executed in high school. He’d stay in Stamps his whole life and probably work in the feed store or at some other low-paying job. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be a farmer. Was it too much to ask for that patch on his letterman’s jacket? These thoughts rumbled through his head as his eye was caught by light flicked off a cheerleader’s gold pom. The aroma of upturned dirt and grass seeped up into his nose. “Don’t let them move,” he said. It started to rain.


Mouth guards clicked against teeth as they were popped in and out. The Stamps High faculty members had a reserved area in the bleachers and were sitting there looking critically at the players and coaches below them. Only they knew the true importance of this game for their head coach, Daniel Shaw. Although he had taken the Express to many victories over his eight year coaching career in Stamps, the fact that he hadn’t won a championship in five years was disturbing to the townspeople, and more particularly to the school’s authorities. If this season was, in their words, a failure, he would have to be let go. No one wanted this to happen. In fact, everyone loved Coach Shaw, but no one cared about character when the trophy case was empty. They would do what had to be done. The principal scrutinized the field, knowing his decision would be made by the next play. The players assumed the three-point position.


6.7 seconds.
Coach Shaw looked from his clipboard, to his shoes, to his players on the field. He loved those boys; they were his family. He had moved to Stamps nine years earlier to get away from the house where his wife died. He didn’t have any children, or any attachment to his former residence in Little Rock, so he left and found a small house in quirky little Stamps. Nothing there was entangled with memories. He liked that. Soon word got out around town that he had coached football at Valleypoint High School, one of the best schools in the state and known for their excellent athletic programs. Stamps’ school board intended to fire their current head coach because his win-loss record wasn’t up to par, so they needed a replacement for the next season. Daniel Shaw was their first choice and he needed a job. He gladly accepted and finished his first season with a state title. The school board reveled in its fortunate decision. Coach Shaw had had many successful seasons since that first one, and even won another championship two years later. He invested so much time into his players on and off the field that they thought of him more as a father than anything else. He taught his boys that winning was important, but not if it was attained without sportsmanship and good character. Coach Shaw wanted his team to succeed that night; however, he would still be proud of them even if they didn’t win. He looked up to the black sky after he felt a rain drop hit his hand. “Nothing like trying to stop them in the mud,” he said to his defensive coordinator. He returned his focus to his players and smiled. “Let’s go boys,” he thought to himself.


The players assumed the three-point position. Muscles tensed. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation. The past three downs the Panthers had attempted running plays, all of which had failed to reach the end zone. The defense knew a pass was coming. The Panthers’ quarterback grunted “Blue 22, hut hut!” The center safely hiked him the ball and the quarterback stepped back to throw. The defense backed up to cover the pass. That’s when the draw happened. Out of nowhere, the running back sprinted toward the quarterback and took the hand-off. He then angled agilely across the goal line for the six winning points. The buzzer sounded. That was the game; the Express had lost. After shaking hands with the Panthers, Coach Shaw gathered his downcast team around him. “Listen boys,” he said, “You really proved yourselves out there tonight. I don’t want you to think about what you accomplished on the scoreboard, but what you accomplished on the field. I couldn’t be happier with the effort you put forth this game and the entire season. I know this is a disappointing loss, but it’s not the end of the world. I won’t keep you boys because I know me lecturing is the last thing you want to hear right now. So let’s keep working and we’ll get them next year.”
Next year.

The Twinkies and Greinke

My brother is on an Alaskan cruise, so he gave me a week's worth of his Royals season tickets. In the spirit of Beaver Cleaver, my immediate reaction was "Gee Wally (not my brother's real name), do I half ta go?" I endure enough pain, torment, and blown saves during the day not selling commercial real estate, so I was not necessarily excited about continuing the frustration after hours at Kauffman Stadium.

As it turned out, I could only go to two of the six games, the first being this past Sunday where my expectations of utter frustration were fulfilled. Among other things, I was treated to the Minnesota Twins' 8-run 7^th inning which featured Michael Cuddyer's two home runs, a feat not accomplished in the major leagues since David Ortiz did it for the Red Sox last year. I also endured the Royals feeble attempts at a sacrifice bunt while observing the Twins' perfect execution of this most basic of baseball fundamentals.
Other lowlights included a drunken Twins fan who insisted on remaining shirtless for most of the game. He kept waving his Twins hat throughout the game while turning around so that the sun could fully burn his massive girth. To my surprise, when he finally put on his shirt it was a George Brett Royals jersey. I'm not sure to whom the most dis-service was delivered. Was it the Royals jersey to the Twins cap or the Twins cap to the George Brett jersey?

To pass the time I surfed my Blackberry to see how many games the Royals were out of first place as I wondered if they had yet been mathematically eliminated. I then learned from mlb.com that the Royals were about 19 games out of first place and maybe five games out of 4^th place in the AL Central. They own the worst record in the American League but are some three games better than the Washington Nationals of the National League. As if this were not depressing enough, I saw that the Royals were 24 games out of the wild card playoff race. So let's get this straight, it is five games harder to be the 4^th best team in the American League than it is to be the Division leader and presumably third best team? Oh well, at least we're better than the Nats.

When the game was over the drunken Twins fan pulled a little broom out of his back pocket to celebrate his team's sweep of the American League's worst team. It was a little wimpy broom, smaller than the whisk broom that the umpires might use during the game. Although it takes a little nerve to bring any broom to the opposition's ballpark, if you're going to be that brazen you should not apologize for it with a whisk broom and come with an industrial strength broom. Crocodile Dundee would have not approved. But this guy had the ultimate defense. If anyone ever considered hitting him he'd pull out his George Brett jersey. A Royals' fan hitting someone in a George Brett jersey is worse than a guy hitting a girl with glasses. It simply cannot be done.

Mourning turned to dancing though when I went to last night's (Tuesday's) pitching gem offered up by the Royals' ace, MVP, all-world, hope-for-the-future, and walk-on-water stopper Zack Greinke. Greinke amassed 15 strikeouts during his 8 innings of work. This total eclipsed his previous personal best of 11 K's and broke Mark Gubicza's Royals' record of 14 set in 1988.

Greinke has changed the way I watch a baseball game at Kauffman. I used to plan trips to the bathroom, concession stand, and miniature golf course around the opposing team's at-bat. I used to want to watch the Royals attempt at offense and wasn't too interested in watching them in the field. After all, I know what it looks (and feels) like to miss a cut-off man. However, with Greinke on the mound, I now will not leave my seat while he is pitching. I'm content to hear the Royals at-bat over the radio play-by-play in the men's room or watch it standing in line at the concession stand. I'll be perfectly fine missing a grand slam or a hit-and-run or even a perfectly executed sacrifice bunt, but I won't miss a Greinke pitch. They are too beautiful to watch, especially the slider that was responsible for most of last night's strikeouts.
Greinke has become a sport within a sport. His pitching is so phenomenal that you forget that he's a play within a play. He's a Mid-Summer Night's Dream. And even though the Royals are entrenched in a bomb of a 2009 production, the Act that is Zack Greinke stands alone.

And last night, that was enough.