Dearest Joe

I have my doubts that you ever received a genuinely ridiculous letter I wrote to the Kansas City Star a couple months ago in regards to the upcoming renovations at Kauffman Stadium. It began with me drifting in a deckchair suspended by 1985 royal blue balloons, and gradually morphed into an uninvestigated, superfluous rant directed loosely toward the organization in general and the stiffs upstairs about how to really revive 85, bringing back the powder blue, investing in somebody better than Odalis, things of that nature.

In truth, I am a monumental Royals fan. I was one year old when they won the World Series. I have witnessed only suffering in my short lifetime. It’s in my nature that with every loss, I manage to find a way to love the Royals even more. It’s difficult to explain, but the feeling I get sitting down at Kauffman Stadium is basically equivalent to how Neil Armstrong must have felt after winning the most important rock-paper-scissors tournament in all of history against Buzz Aldrin on the moon in July of 1969. Or perhaps it’s because the spirit of open space is alive and well in Kansas City, where Bank of America hasn’t yet conditioned people to wave their credit cards in the face of God in feeble attempts to earn upgraded seats, as they do in my new hometown of San Francisco.

Falling in love with the Royals over the course of the last few years has brought me to the conclusion that baseball truly is among the finest institutions on earth, and a passion that no amount of graduate school might suppress. Here I am in San Francisco, a second year MFA student in creative writing, with an empty typewriter and no Whitman-esque manifestos to spew out, no beat culture seeds to sow, and one year left on a silly degree that may or may not land me in front of a classroom in the next 25 years. Over the course of the last year, I have come to terms with the fact that I may just love to write, and have little to no interest in pretending my stuff is worthy of a new 101 course for snot-nosed, bong-hitting freshman.

The thing is, there aren’t all that many things I love more than baseball. It’s outrageous how much I feel like I have to say about it. It represents an endless progression of American histories, not to mention it’s the best damn game invented. I eat statistics like Chips Ahoy, and it goes without saying that I eat a ton of those. I follow your blog and very recently finished your book, which, like most good books, I found sad and wonderful. The sport of baseball is a harbor for myth, and as a writer you allowed a book on a great man to write itself. I think it succeeds in harnessing some of the great characters, mysteries, and legends of pre-instant-replay baseball, no easy donkey to pin the tail on.

So Joe, I write to you because i moved to San Francisco to think about being a writer. I want to be a creative writer, but never imagined I’d stay a poet longer than a few more years. Now that I’ve reached the conclusion that I love baseball enough that I could spend a lifetime taking it seriously, I have more than one question about what it’s like to a sports writer, and more importantly, what it takes to be a half decent one. While I’ve heard my fair share of don’t-do-what-i-did’s since showing an early interest in writing, I’d still love to chat in some fashion.

While I might be content sending absurd letters to The Star for a few more years, I realized that I had a unique opportunity to contact you on your Barry Bonds quest, which happens to be taking place just a few miles from my apartment. I care more that the Giants are doing worse than the Royals in the standings, but appreciate the milestone about to be splintered, as well as any still-active heroes from my childhood, Rocket included. While I waste a large amount of time as a part-time manager of a clothing store downtown, I intend to get to as many games as possible as Barry seals the deal.

I thought I should drop you a line to say that, if you’d be interested (or bored) enough, I would really and truly enjoy meeting you sometime, be it during a seventh inning stretch at the ballpark or for a cup of coffee (which I don’t drink) to ask you a thing or two about sports writing, baseball, or the boys in blue. I don’t know which games I’ll be going to, or if you even consider the company of twenty-three year old/graduate student/displaced Royals fans, who send odd letters, but if you’re around in the city, it would be an honor to buy you a hotdog. Plus, I bought your book. Needle needle. I’d love to have it signed.

In return I have a baseball autographed by Tim Salmon my stepmom gave me once, a stuffed raccoon from Chinatown, or my gratitude. If any of those sound remotely appealing, please get in touch. Also, I’m including a poem of mine that’s going to be published by a sports journal in Tennessee called Aethlon, about the Kirk Gibson homer off Dennis Eckersley, and what it was like to be a four year old boy in Los Angeles that night. Keep up the great work, and always, always, Go Royals.

Will Weston, San Francisco, CA (720)-480-8401 or westonwr@sfsu.edu

P.S. If this is too much to ask, please forgive me. Maybe next time. That I’m living in a city where you’re covering the biggest newstory in recent sports history on the hometown hero breaking the most eternal record in the greatest game on earth. No biggie.