Champagne Spoiled

It was in the autumn of 1977 that such a thing I will never forget happened. It was October 9, a Sunday. The Kansas City Royals were engaged in potentially the biggest game in its early franchise history, and I had a very unique vantage point from which to watch the game. I had been hired for the summer to manage a security post in the bowels of Royals Stadium. I was positioned as a gatekeeper in front of the Royals clubhouse, and a dozen strides in front of me across the lobby was the door to the visiting team’s clubhouse.  It was my job to be a checkpoint for media, writers, and various muckety-mucks. On this day, the visiting team was the New York Yankees. The winner of this game would represent the American League in the World Series against the National League champion, the Los Angeles Dodgers.

The Royals had home field that day, and they had Paul Splittorff as their starter. Splittorff entered the post-season playoffs after a very good regular season, leading the league with the best winning percentage among starting pitchers. This game held the prospect of being Splittorff’s moment, his legacy. No Kansas City team had ever been to a World Series and the city was euphoric anticipating the possibility. A good performance by Splittorff, resulting in a Royals win, would earn him lasting prominence as one of Kansas City’s sports legends.

During the season, I had gotten to know Splittorff well enough to be on a first-name basis with him. Royals starters would chart pitches during the game prior to their next start. In between half innings, Splitt, as he was nicknamed, would often hop down from his box seat behind the home plate screen and make his way up an access tunnel to the lobby, where I sat listening to the game’s radio broadcast being piped in over the ceiling speaker.  We’d have brief little chats about the game, about hitting, pitching, ballparks, and big moments. It was heady stuff for me, and I always looked forward to Splittorff’s turn in the rotation. 

This was a classically beautiful autumn day and the stadium filled up early. The crowd was fizzing with anticipation as Splittorff took the mound and tossed his warm-up pitches. The game proceeded. As Royals broadcasters Denny Matthews and Fred White called the game, I paced. I bit my fingernails. I leaned into every pitch. I hustled down the ramp to a position behind home plate and watched a few at-bats, then hustled back to my station at the Royals clubhouse door. At the end of seven innings, the Royals held a 3-1 lead. Splittorff was on his game, and the moment was getting bigger and bigger.

Suddenly, a working crew from the network appeared and toted plyboard sectionals and light fixtures into the Royals clubhouse. I looked in to see what was happening, and within minutes, a stage was assembled for the obvious purpose of presenting the Royals with the American League Championship trophy. I then stepped out of the way as a cart loaded with boxes of champagne was wheeled into place as well, the foil on the necks of the bottles gleaming in the glare of the lighting. The moment was at hand, portending a Royals celebration. I could feel my heart thumping.  

Then, in the eighth inning, Splittorff left the game after allowing a lead-off single. It was now up to the bullpen. The Yankees tightened up the game, coaxing a run across, and the Royals failed to score in the bottom half of the eighth. Still with a 3-2 lead, heading into the ninth, there were just three outs to go.

But in the top of the ninth, the Royals bullpen collapsed, and the Yankees rallied for a 5-3 lead. Then, I witnessed a dreadful omen. The network crew reappeared. The stage and lighting were disassembled and carried rapidly across the lobby into the Yankee clubhouse. But the worst of it was watching the champagne being carted out of the Royals clubhouse, the bottles clanking together in cruel distress.  The Royals' speedy little shortstop, Freddie Patek, tried hard but failed to beat out a throw to first base for the third out in the bottom of the ninth, the cruel ending completed.

An hour or so later after the Yankees whooped it up, popped corks, hoisted their trophy, things settled down. No one had told me how long to stay, and one by one, Royals players and personnel had been filing out, the clubhouse door opening and emanating an awful silence from within. I entered the clubhouse to make a final check and see if any media was still present.  I spotted Frank White sitting on the floor in solitude, his legs outstretched, his spikes off, and his jersey unbuttoned. A picture of despair.

And then I spotted Splittorff. Bespeckled in his glasses and dressed in his civies, he was gathering personal effects out of his locker, his season over.  It felt intrusive to go to him, but I did it anyway. I had no idea what to say.  He didn’t notice me at first, but when he did, I reached out to shake his hand. He swallowed hard, and my throat thickened as well.  I teared up. He teared up. We shook hands, the motion solemnly slow. No words were spoken. It was a solemn moment, and the communication between us was pure, simple, and clear. Nothing needed to be said.

I made my way back to the lobby and to the elevator, wiping moistness from my eyes with the heels of my hands.  There, against the cinder block wall, rested the stage panels, the lumber blotted and soaked with damp stains. Champagne.