There is much hand wringing in Kansas City these days.

And the reason for all of those distressed digits?  The 2006 edition of the local baseball team is displaying a disturbing inability to win baseball games.  In fact, the Kansas City Royals are losing so many games so quickly that the MLB record for most losses in a season is already a looming possibility, a mere third of the way through the long season.

It's a disgrace, Kansas City, an absolute disgrace.

Of course, any baseball team can lose a game.  By extension, any baseball team can find itself in a bad stretch and lose a bunch of games.  So, it's not really the losing that is bringing disgrace to the Royals at the moment.  It is the absolute and utter lack of flavor of those losses that is the real shame here.

The 1962 New York Mets lost 120 games, but they did it with style.

Their starting 1B was a lifetime .237 hitter but was nicknamed "Marvelous", nonetheless.  In one game, their "Marvelous" first sacker hit a gapper and lumbered all the way around to third.  The opposing team contended that the hitter missed touching the bag at second.  After a challenge to the umpires, the Marvelous One was called out.  As the manager charged out to protest, he was stopped by one of his coaches.  Turns out, the lumbering 1B had missed first base on his way to third as well.

And the manager who went charging out to second?  He already had 7 World Series rings and his own version of the English language at his command.  In 1962, Casey Stengel was a 72-year-old man who had little left to prove in the dugout but he took over a first-year expansion team and had to watch the worst season in baseball history.  The motives for Casey's willingness to endure the worst after having achieved the pinnacle of his profession are, indeed, perplexing.  But in a way, that was the magic to Casey's madness, as both the high and low of his managerial career are remembered to this day.

They had a shortstop, Elio Chacon, who spoke little English and ended up having to work out a system with the CF, wherein, he (the CF), would make his popup calls in Spanish.  So, the CF practiced the phrase, "Yo lo tengo", in the event he would have to call off Chacon.  Sure enough, the CF cried out, "Yo lo tengo!" and Chacon stopped.  The team's RF, who spoke not a word of Spanish, continued in his chase after the ball and knocked over the CF without hesitation.

They once traded a backup catcher, Harry Chiti, for himself.  That's right, the Mets obtained Mr. Chiti from Cleveland for a player to be named later and...sent Chiti back to the Indians to satisfy the deal.

Now, that's flavor, my friends.  Rich ribbons of smoke from luxurious Cuban cigars in the lexicon of losing.  By comparison, the 2006 Royals are half-a-Marlboro stomped out on the floor of the men's room at a Greyhound bus station.

So, if you are going to lose, Royals (and you are going to lose this season), lose with passion.  Lose with grandeur.  Mostly, lose with style.

Right now, a Kansas City loss is Jeremy Affeldt giving up 7 runs in 5 innings, Angel Berroa kicking the ball around the infield, and Ambiorix Burgos coughing up whatever lead they may have earned in the first place.  And that's somehow far less interesting than a Hall-of-Fame manager guiding non-bilingual players through routine pop-ups and trading backup players for themselves.

2006 Royals, you have a lot to live up to.  Don't disappoint us.

[Author's note: I originally wrote this article for a friend's website at http://thediamondangle.com/archive/april06/puck.html and it has been re-posted here with permission to do so.]

This season the Minnesota Twins are all wearing a patch bearing the number "34" on it in memory of a franchise legend.  And in seeing that number it is difficult to realize that the man who wore that jersey is actually gone.  So, too, is it difficult to see anything else but his trademark characteristic in the mind's eye.

You probably remember the smile more than anything else.

There was glory and heroism in that smile.  In the 1991 World Series, the man with the glorious smile seemed to rise above the limitations his short, stocky body should have allowed.  In one marvelous afternoon during that series, he leapt above the place he was supposed to be while chasing a fly ball from Atlanta's Ron Gant, making a gravity-defying catch against the left-centerfield wall.  And eight innings later he used his greatest attribute, his sheer force of will, to launch a game winning homer.  He gave hope back to his teammates that afternoon.  And he brought a Game 7 with him, which the Twins would go on to win and claim the championship.

And somewhere in that smile, he brought the kind of hope that exists on every baseball diamond.  Hope and renewal are a vital part of baseball, no matter who takes the field, whether it is a bunch of kids playing sandlot or elite professionals playing at the highest level of the sport.  And one man's brilliant smile seemed to embody that powerful part of the game all by itself.

But, on March 6 of this year, that smile went away.  Forever.

Kirby Puckett, who survived a childhood in one of the roughest parts of Chicago, who defied baseball critics unconvinced of his abilities and overly concerned with his unconventional body type, who put a pair of World Series rings on his fingers and a bronze plaque up on the wall in Cooperstown, passed away at the age of 45 after suffering a massive stroke.

And, sadly, his legacy is a complicated one. 

As a player, his skills were marvelous.  He somehow turned himself from a light-hitting rookie who hit no homers in 557 at-bats in 1984 into a run producing terror who hit 20 or more homers six times and slugged over .500 four times.  In the field, he won six Gold Gloves despite looking more like a plucky third-string fullback than a star centerfielder.  And in the post season, he seemed to be able to raise his considerable skills even that much higher.  In 24 post-season games, he slugged at a pace nearly 60 points higher than his career mark, and he was never a part of a losing post-season series.

But he wasn't entirely defined by the entries on a stat sheet.  He was the face of the Minnesota Twins franchise for every singe game and every single inning that he played for them.  And the team's fans adored him like few others.  In fact, he was the rare player who seemed to transcend individual team partisanship.  Indeed, even fans of other teams found it difficult to root against the little man who could. Perhaps, his appeal was best explained by his style of play.  For, he played with a joy that magically embraced teammates and fans alike.  His energy and passion for the game included laughter and celebration.  And fans took to celebrating right along with him.  He was somehow able to distill everything fans treasure about the game of baseball and take those fans along with him as he practiced his magic on the field.  It was a dizzying, fascinating, joyous ride that ended one spring morning in 1996.

After a horrific end to his 1995 season (he was hit by a Dennis Martinez fastball in late September that broke his jaw and burst an artery in his mouth), Puckett seemed ready for another stellar season.  He had hit .360 in spring training but woke up one morning unable to see clearly.  And the one thing a baseball player absolutely cannot do without is superb vision.  When Puckett was ultimately diagnosed with glaucoma, his baseball career was suddenly over.

There have been some who have tried to tie that Dennis Martinez fastball that rode up-and-in and struck Puckett in the jaw as causing his later vision problems (though, I am not sure how an injury to the mouth would affect one's vision several months later).  Some have even unfairly labeled Martinez as the villain in the piece, as somehow responsible for taking Kirby Puckett away from baseball.  But even if there is any sort of plausible connection to be made between the injury caused by the errant pitch and the development of a degenerative eye disease, hit batsmen are a part of the game.   And pitches that sail away from pitchers usually happen more as a circumstance of physics than nefarious intent. 

But the fact that something as energizing and engaging as watching Kirby Puckett playing baseball could just go away was unnerving.  And it was, perhaps, more suitable for some to attribute the end of his career to something that happened on the diamond rather than having to deal with the vagaries of the human body and the even more mysterious maladies that can afflict it.

Whatever the cause, the effect was the same.  Kirby Puckett wouldn't be able to play baseball again and fans would not be able to watch him.  The symbiotic joy his playing days provided turned to symbiotic heartbreak with his sudden exit from the sport.  It was hard to see the images of his tearful press conference where he announced his retirement, his right eye covered by a thick swatch of bandages, and not think about how sad it was for someone who brought so many good things to the game have to leave it under such rotten circumstances.

And without the game, the shadows seemed to overtake him.  The man with the glorious smile seemed to smile less.  He turned to alcohol, which never delivers the comfort it promises.  His once rotund but beloved shape now degenerated into massive obesity.   Allegations of sexual misconduct and a messy public divorce sullied his once-sparkling reputation.  And all the while the place where he found the most joy and solace was not there for him anymore.  That place, the sanctity of the baseball diamond, was out of his reach forever.

A national sports publication delivered another cruel blow by publishing, in painstaking detail, the more unflattering episodes of his life.  The smiling, beloved hero was now being reshaped by some as the unmasked villain.  He was portrayed in some circles as a charlatan who had gained the public trust and affection without revealing his true nature.  But we should all know that nearly everyone resides somewhere in between absolute heroism and vile debauchery, that assigning anyone absolutely one way or the other nearly always isn't a true reflection of that person's character.  But, sadly, we continue to make those designations and we continue to leave some among the wreckage in the wake.

With the game out of his reach, his critics taking his private life apart, and his health failing, Kirby Puckett lost one of the last things he had left.  His life.

But his legacy, while blurred with some parts mistake and regret and other parts heroism and joy, is to be celebrated, in large part, for what he was able to give to the game of baseball.  His days on the diamond should not be completely obscured by what may or my not have happened off of it.  His were bright, glorious days in between the lines.  The happiness he brought to people during his playing days was a real and palpable thing.

His baseball playing brilliance was real.  His kindness to the legions of kids who adored him was real.  His exuberance on the field was real.  His camaraderie with his teammates was real.  And I know that smile of his was real.

Rest in Peace, Kirby.  I hope that smile will endure among baseball fans as a sign of what is best about this game we love.    

With the tentacles of the BALCO investigation that just won't seem to let go, the sordid allegations in the book "Game of Shadows", and the general animosity most fans feel towards him all swirling around the cauldron that is Barry Bonds' world right now, the last thing Bonds probably needs to deal with is the Fat Man's Ghost.  But there it is, the looming specter that is Babe Ruth's legend.  It is the scariest sight an MLB player will ever see and one of the hardest things to nudge by on the way to whatever accomplishment Babe Ruth's name stands in the way of.

And Bonds is not alone.  Roger Maris had to deal with it.  Henry Aaron had to deal with it.  And now Bonds joins the select group of players who have had to stare the Bambino's ghostly visage directly in the eye.

It might be Barry's world and the rest of us may just live in it, but I have a feeling that being Barry at the moment is considerably more difficult than booing him.  However, as the Babe's restless apparition makes yet another appearance on the eve of one of his greater accomplishments being pushed back a notch, I must confess that I am at somewhat of a loss in understanding our continued fascination and nearly religious devotion to Ruth.

Of course, I understand his monumental achievements in the sport.  His were towering, almost surreal career numbers at the time of his retirement.  He out-homered entire teams in his heyday. He set post-season records as a pitcher.  And, most importantly, he single-handedly ushered in a brand new style of play in which sheer, raw power changed games in an instant.  It was Ruth who showed the entire baseball world that a single thunderous swing of the bat could decide a ballgame.

Off the field, Ruth lived as big as he played.  He embraced his dizzying celebrity like few others and rang it for every drop of self-indulgence he possibly could.  His insatiable appetite for alcohol, women, and fastballs on the inner half of the plate never seemed appeased.  He was one of America's biggest icons and never seemed to tire of the blinding spotlight he lived in.

And he did all of this over 70 years ago.

Certainly, one baseball's great charms is the acknowledgement and celebration of its own history.  And George Herman Ruth was unquestionably a central figure in the game's past.  However, at what point does tribute turn to an irrational and overly zealous attempt to preserve his legacy?

Whenever a player has edged towards either of Ruth's most cherished home run marks, his single season high of 60 or his career home run total of 714, reaction has been swift and severe.

When Roger Maris started launching home runs in bunches for the New York Yankees during the 1961 season, he probably had no idea that by season's end his most vociferous opponents would be a ghost, the commissioner of baseball, and his own fans.  As Maris, who had never hit more than 39 homers in a season, approached Babe Ruth's then-single season record of 60, the scrutiny of the moment almost became too much. 

Yankee fans made no effort to hide their preference for Maris' teammate Mickey Mantle and urged Mantle on toward the record until an infection sidelined him late in the season (Mantle finished the year with 54).  To the local media, the shy but sometimes truculent Maris was an easy target.  Rumors of a feud between Maris and Mantle were played up to lionize the latter and villanize the former.  However, the denouement was Commissioner of Baseball Ford Frick's announcement that he intended to preserve Ruth's record of 60 homers if that total could not be matched within 154 games.  The new, longer season now included 162 games, and if Ruth's mark was passed after the 154th game, Frick wanted the new total to stand as a separate record.

When Maris did, in fact, pass the 60-homer mark on the very last day of the 1961 season, Frick did not get his actual wish (his powers as commissioner did not include changing the record book).  However, Maris was deprived of sole ownership of the single-season home run record in the minds of many, nonetheless.  The idea that an asterisk had been placed by Maris' home run total to indicate it had occurred in a longer season than Ruth's mark was believed by so many that it ultimately became recognized as fact.  (Note: No such asterisk ever actually existed.)  So, the Babe got to hold onto his record in the minds of many even after it was surpassed.

But something else surfaced during Roger Maris' home run barrage of 1961.  Many simply did not want to see Maris break Ruth's record, because he was not deemed "worthy" of the honor.  To many, the fact that Maris' skills paled in comparison to Ruth's prowess made it somehow wrong and a dishonor to Ruth should such an inferior player trump the Babe for one of the most storied records in the sport. 

However, when Henry Aaron approached Ruth's career home run mark of 714, the whole thing turned a very different shade of ugly.  Sadly, Aaron was bombarded with death threats laced with vile racial epitaphs.  The very idea of a black man claiming baseball's shiniest individual achievement was simply not tolerable for some.  That he would be taking the record from the Babe himself made it decidedly worse.

To his credit, Aaron persevered and did so with the class and dignity that marked his long and storied career.  However, the fact that as decent an individual as Aaron had to endure such ugliness in the first place is troubling.  Of course, many of those who directed their racist venom at Aaron were of the lunatic fringe: narrow-minded, hateful people clearly on the margins of society.  But there was no denying that Ruth being white and Aaron being black played some role in the resistance of many to enjoy and actively cheer Aaron's pursuit of the record.  Further, the public adoration of Ruth again subjected his pursuer to a "worthiness" litmus test.

Even after Aaron passed Ruth on the All-time homer list, there were whispers that Aaron had passed the Babe only because he'd had several more at-bats to do so.  When Aaron finished his brilliant career with 755 homers, there were some grumblings that he'd been able to pad his career total by being a DH in his final years as a player.

However, in measuring pure quantitative statistics, there is only one thing that matters, quantity.  Simply put, if one player has a higher total of something than another player, he passes that player.  Period.  End of story.

The idea that some extra qualitative metric applies to Babe Ruth's statistics is absurd.  There should be no charisma standard that needs to be met before fans can "accept" a player passing one of Ruth's milestones. 

And speaking of charisma (or lack thereof), Barry Bonds is now standing on the edge of Ruth's home run territory.

Of course, the extra ingredient that gets stirred into the pot is the incredible amount of baggage attached to Bonds at the moment.  Where Aaron and Maris may have been carrying thin briefcases, at most, Bonds is lugging around a steamer trunk.  Allegations of illegal performance-enhancing drug use loom over Bonds as they have few others, and his volatile public persona has turned fans off for years.  He may now be as unloved by the baseball public as Babe Ruth was loved in his heyday.

But it doesn't really matter, because when he hits the 715th home run of his career he will have more home runs than Babe Ruth.  Simple math is all you really need to know to understand the event.  Now, baseball fans do not have to like the idea of Bonds passing the Babe.  Not at all.  They are free to boo to their heart's content.  But they do need to accept it.  And if they are at all decent people they will refrain from the kind of unwarranted ugliness that turned the brightest moment in Henry Aaron's career into a sickening personal nightmare.

Regarding whether or not Bonds' career achievements should "count", that is an entirely different discussion.  In order for them not to count, a mechanism for banishment needs to be firmly in place and another system for the eradication of records needs to exist as well.  Until either of those things are in place, Barry Bonds stays in the major leagues along with all of his stats.  And if such a system is ever created to throw players out of the game and have their statistics purged, it must be a system objectively applied.  So, a beloved ballplayer would get the boot right along with a disliked superstar on the verge of breaking the game's biggest records.

Of course, I am not blaming the Babe himself for the over-zealousness his legacy has taken on.  By most accounts, he was a good-natured, fun loving (if somewhat reckless and self-destructive) galoot whose immense baseball skills were only matched by his embrace of life.  He brought America to its feet with every swing of the bat, and his rollicking, joyous baseball life deserves a special place in not only baseball history but in Americana itself.

However, it is those who use his memory to beat down others that bear the brunt of the responsibility for the ugliness that ensues anytime someone nears one of Ruth's milestones.  And if they had any foresight at all, they would know that the Babe will never be lost to history and forgotten by the baseball public.  His memory will continue to shine no matter.

I think it's high time to let the Fat Man's ghost rest in peace and just let the game play out as it should have all along.