Chapter 1: The K

“Oh, Winter, the places you’ll go...”

Dragon Lady Number One called me at home. Well, she called my cell, which was at home. Nearly midnight on a Sunday in mid-July. Short conversation, “Seven in the morning.” Click.

I didn’t need a ‘Winter, how are you?’ Nor a ‘Would it be convenient to meet Bulldog in the morning?’

I not only wasn’t put off by her preemptive manner, I was encouraged. One of the boys now. So to speak. Nor was I surprised that the Dragon Ladies had all my contact numbers. Bulldog’s staff were as ruthlessly efficient as the White House switchboard.

Vanessa smiled at me from bed. Swept the sheet aside. Terrific smile no matter what the setting. But nude, supine, inviting? She makes my heart race.

Tall, lithe, shapely. Heartbreaker face framed by lustrous black hair. Slavic cheekbones, model’s cheekbones. Get-lost-in-me eyes. Emerald eyes. A naughty smile, gleam in her eyes. I caught a glimpse of my mirrored image as I slithered out of my multi-hued kimona. Not bad either. Blonde, tan, boobs. Not bad at all.

Vanessa whispered, “C’mere, baby.”

I knew the look, the tone. Vanessa was in the mood for some aggressive foreplay. Followed by some aggressive lovemaking. I slipped into her arms just as she switched off the lamp. I turned it back on, “Let me watch.”

“Perv.”

She rolled me on my back, lay down on top. Kissed me deeply. I slid my hands down to her butt, caressed. Vanessa licked the inside of my ear, just right. I was already tingling.

Her tongue traced its way down, no hurry. One nipple, then the other. Her left hand with those long, strong fingers found me. I moaned and opened my thighs even further and lifted my hips up to meet her.

Neither of us played coy; she wanted me and I wanted her to want me. I stared at the top of her head for as long as I could. Then her tongue and fingers brought me to my first climax. I squeezed my eyes shut to concentrate, my fingers tangled in her hair.

No one knows my body, my pussy, my clit, my needs, like Vanessa. I was falling. Falling into helplessness. My body was hers. My mind, my feelings; she owned me.

I was completely open to her. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Everything I had was hers. No, I wasn’t referring to community property. But ... that too.

I was surprised and not surprised to see Mayor Tom Lynch in Bulldog Bannerman’s office. The three Dragon Ladies hadn’t looked up from their laptops as I wove my way through their office to the inner sanctum.

Emile Chanson gave me a nod. He was reading, as usual. This time it was something called Handelsblatt Global. Emile was Kansas City’s man of mystery. A lot of rumors, most of them unconfirmed. He had been in the French Foreign Legion; that much was verified. And had dual citizenship.

Had maybe been in jail; maybe not.

At first, I had thought he was Bulldog’s driver. Well, he was that. But a lot more too. Associate? Without doubt. Compeer? Maybe. Bulldog’s boss? Who knew?

Mayor Lynch held both my hands, gave me a double-cheek kiss. I’d done him a family favor once; neither of us had spoken of it. No need to. He appreciated my work, I appreciated his appreciation.

Tom looked like a politician. A modern one anyway. Tall, shoulders, handsome in a non-threatening way.

He was nearing the end of his second term; had already announced for Governor. He’d been a respected mayor; would probably run the state with the same pragmatic, bipartisan efficiency.

His challenge, his problem, was that he had a ‘D’ after his name. A sort of political Scarlet Letter in some places these days. Like in a large swath of the Midwest.

I turned to Bulldog who smiled and nodded me to a chair. One of the boys.

Emile continued reading, but he wouldn’t miss much. Wouldn’t miss anything, in fact.

Tom remained standing. “Winter, we may or may not have a problem with the Royals.”

What? Baseball? How the fuck do the Royals have anything to do with the governor’s race? Remembering my new maturity, I held my tongue and waited for the rest of it. Out of character, but ... whatever.

Bulldog didn’t usually deal in non sequiturs, “How is Walker?”

Huh?

“Fine. You know... 15.”

Emile turned a page.

Bulldog said, “You don’t follow sports.” It wasn’t an accusation; merely an observation.

“No. I mean I was happy when they won the...” momentary brain freeze... “World Series. Great for the city.”

Tom glanced at Bulldog. Maybe this was a mistake. Bulldog pressed on. “One of our best players, Sandy Seaver, is faltering this season.”

From across the room, Emile said, “And August — September of last year.”

Tom said, “Players have ups and downs. All of them. Nothing unusual about that.”

“Okay.”

“But Bulldog and Emile think ... well, something is off about Sandy’s ... performance. He’s a reliever. Know what that is?”

“A pitcher.” Thank you, Walker.

“That’s right. Sandy comes in during the middle innings. Usually that would be the fifth, sixth, seventh innings. But Dutch saw something in Sandy and brings him in later.”

Bulldog said, “Seaver is the set-up man. Gets through the eighth inning and turns it over to Mariano.”

Tom said, “But he hasn’t been making it through the last couple of innings as easily as usual. He doesn’t miss often, but ... well, it could be nothing. Just a blip.”

Bulldog said, “Emile has the stats. Check Seaver out.”

Emile walked me to the elevator, “We heard a whisper about Sandy Seaver. You need to focus on the people involved. We looked at hits and runs per outing. And also per inning, per batter, per pitch. Something may be off. But, like always, it boils down to the human element.”

I’d figure out what all of that hits and pitches stuff means later.

The City Hall elevator door opened. Emile said, “Work it when you can. Seven hundred a day. Run expenses through Edna.”

Dragon Lady Number One.

Emile said, “If there’s a problem, we need to find out. But it’s more important to get it right than to get it fast. Fuck the election.”

“Winter, I had a hard-on like you couldn’t believe. A blue-ribbon throbber. Last night...”

“Joey, I’d rather hear about it in person.” Keep me from having to sit through everything twice.

“Huh? Oh. Sure. Tonight?”

“Ten. Last Call.”

Vanessa smiled at me, “Joey Viagra?”

“Joey Vee.”

“More erection anecdotes.”

“Ooh, la!” I’d been practicing my French.

Joey was a Winter Irregular who, along with a raggle-taggle crew of a dozen or so other miscreants, kept me plugged into the nether side of Kansas City. The Missouri one, not that festering-sore of a state, Kansas. Fucking Kansas. Although Missouri had recently run its governor out of Jeff City. And that’s pretty hard to do with a Republican these days.

Pilar said, “Will you eat here first?”

“God yes. Last Call has a menu, but I’ve never seen anyone actually eating there. Microwave burgers and pizza slices. Pickled eggs that look like they belong in Hatshepsut’s tomb.”

Walker said, “How does a Jucy Lucy sound?”

Hobo perked up. The Proper Villain pretended to be asleep.

I gave my son Tony the Tiger, “Grrrrrrreat.”

He and Pilar glanced at each other. Cultural touchstone probably went right over their heads. Another failure by the local school system.

Vanessa smiled at me and took my hand, “Let’s shower, you have a couple of hours.” This time the kids studiously didn’t look at each other. Lately Vanessa and I have been going through a decidedly ... romantic period. Our Wrigley loft is huge — 120 feet by 80 — and it’s mostly one open room. So when she and I ankle off toward privacy ... well, it’s pretty obvious.

We were soaping each other — vanilla — and I said, “Are they becoming ... prudish?”

“Nonsense. They’re in awe of us.”

“As well they should be.”

Vanessa slid a soapy palm up the inside of my slippery thigh. Just ... just ... there!

“When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie...”

Joey Viagra was already waiting for me. Of course. I would pick up the tab. I couldn’t tell for sure in the perpetual dimness of Last Call, but his drink looked darker. Probably a double. At least.

I carefully wiped the lip of my Heineken Dark. No glass, thank you. The bartender, Dolly, had a habit of using his once-white bar rag to wipe the glasses dry when he took them out of the dishwasher.

Dolly answered the landline, “Last Call, he isn’t here.” Click.

As usual, Tiny was lumbering over his diet drink — a stein of Old Crow on the rocks with a shot of Bud Lite back. Four of the regulars sat to his right, hunched like crows, staring at the same bottles lined up in front of the same dingy mirror.

Joey said, “Last night, me and Mary Sue smoked some tree. She likes to mellow out before I bone her. Then I get going and she grabbed hold and told me she’d never seen anything like it.”

And we were off. Five or ten minutes of rapturous self-love. Even though I’d never — Praise the Lord! — seen Joey naked, I felt as if I knew his penis intimately.

I half listened... “So, number three is coming up ... Mary Sue is sobbing ... it’s fatter than ever ... I’m enjoying another slice of Y-bone steak...”

Eventually, he’d wind down and get to the point of this West Side do-si-do. Ninety percent, probably more, of what I picked up from my Irregulars was of no use. No direct use. But patching together this rumor from River Market, that piece of gossip from Raytown, a whisper from Waldo ... well, patterns emerged. A pastiche began to form.

I didn’t have the network that a Bulldog Bannerman had. He’d built his whisperers up over the decades. But I didn’t need the kind of big-picture overview that a city fixer like Bulldog does.

“‘Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli That’s amore That’s amore That’s amore.”

Dino came to an end just as I heard Tiny say, “Where do corks come from?”

First crow, “Corks?”

“Like, you know — fancy wine.”

Fourth, “Europe? They’re pretty fancy up there.”

Second, snorting, “Europe? The fucking IQ level in this place...”

Fourth, defensive, “Yeah?”

Third, peacemaker, “Nah, not Europe. Ireland. Ya’ never hear of Cork County?”

Tiny, nodding, “That’s right. That’s where that Chicago mayor was from.”

Vanessa and I no longer discussed it, but we had a ... pervasive awareness of how blessed our family was. Walker and Pilar. Vanessa and me. We loved each other, no question.

But — and this is not remotely true for a lot of families — we also liked each other. And what a difference that can make.

Wrigley Hotel alliances formed and re-formed, shifting subtly. Among the permanent guests, Nature Boy’s sister, Edwina Rowbottom, had moved in, full-time, with shy little Wally Maypole.

Now I’ve long been a ‘pussy solves a lot of problems’ gal. And this optimistic philosophy seemed to be holding true. Edwina still shared driving duties with her brother, but spent every night with her new boyfriend.

Pilar gleaned the latest from Edwina and kept our family up to speed. “Wally isn’t that well endowed, but he has more enthusiasm than anyone Edwina’s ever known.”

Walker perked up. Vanessa winked at me. The lad was always available for size reassurances. And — I say this not just because I’m his mom — well, he had nothing to worry about. Almost nine inches. I mean, according to Pilar. Of course, I wouldn’t know from firsthand experience. I am his mother after all.

Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna — rightful heir to the Romanov throne — continued to take the hallway air with Nature Boy. They strolled, arm in arm, up and down the corridors. Pilar often sent Hobo and the Proper Villain to accompany them.

So far as I know, no one has commented on Nature Boy’s daily erections. I guess once Wrigley World became accustomed, if not inured, to a nude elevator operator ... well, what’s another few inches?

Matt Striker was gone. To that distant bourn from which no traveler returns. Murdered; I saw him killed. For a while I was lost in the Bardo. I felt that strange, almost serene calm that follows utter despair.

But I’d been pulling myself out of the pit. For my own sake of course; I still had a re-emerging appetite for life. I needed to resurface for my family as much as for myself. Especially for Walker, who felt some understandable, but unnecessary, guilt for having been less than enthusiastic about the idea of Matt and me. As a couple.

He realized now that he’d been a bit silly — no man, no person — will come between Vanessa and me. Walker had admitted as much one night — pillow talk.

Which helped to explain my son’s ... apparent enthusiasm for, or at least acceptance of, a guy, a new guy, in my life. Everyone met Clint Callahan when he came to our loft for dinner one night. Quiet, like Matt. Strong chiseled features. Thick through the shoulders and chest. Hard looking. Piercing green eyes.

What I liked about him was his insouciance. He didn’t feel the need to prove himself. He was a respected FBI Agent in the most sought-after field office in the country — New York City.

I had met Clint through Ash Collins. And Clint had cheerfully done me a pimp favor on an earlier venture. I returned the courtesy — he got to bust three scumbags in a high-profile Big Pharma case.

One problem with Clint, with Clint and me, was the wedding band around his ring finger. Now, pre-Vanessa I’d had flings with a few married men. Usually one at a time. As long as they understood — and I understood — it was for giggles. For sex. For fun.

The first time Clint and I met — cheesecake at Junior’s — he asked me if I fooled around. I thought: men. But still, I kind of liked him, his confidence. His straightforward approach to life.

When he came all the way to Kansas City — I’m pretty sure just to see me — well, that said something. I’m not sure what, but something. I mean if a guy’s on the hunt ... god, New York City. Today’s pick-up culture. Clint didn’t need to fly over a thousand miles just for some pussy.

Although ... primo...

Walker: “Guy walks into a bar in Alabama and orders a Cosmopolitan.”

Pilar: “You’re not from ‘round here are ya?”

Walker: “No, I’m from New Hampshire.”

Pilar: “Well, what do you do in New Hampshire?”

“I’m a taxidermist.”

“Huh?”

“I mount dead animals.”

“It’s OK, boys! He’s one of us.”

Walker and Pilar, holding hands, bowing, “Thank you, thank you, we’ll be here all week. Try the veal.”

Vanessa and I are hardcore shoppers. Spur-of-the-moment shoppers. We’ll hit the brakes and skid-turn at the first glimpse of an Estate Sale sign. Once we made the tactical mistake of pulling up in her British racing green XKE. She had to stand guard over our treasures while I raced back to the Wrigley and swapped green for red. Even with my F-150, we had to make two trips.

Fortunately our loft is commodious enough to accommodate some serious impulse buys.

Lately I’ve been having a great deal of fun with Amelia Baxter, the mixologist Vanessa was finally able to lure to Euforia. Now Amelia may be ink and piercings, but she is one professional bartender. Good with customers, kind to the staff. And knowledge out the old ... what’s another word for wazoo? No, nothing vulgar. Louts.

I had glommed onto a post-Prohibition bartender’s guide at a Ward Parkway estate sale. “Just Cocktails” from 1936. Illustrated.

Folks must have been so relieved to see booze back on the menu that things got a little crazy. The men behind the stick started concocting gonzo cocktails long before Sex on the Beach and its cousins washed ashore. Even though SoB is recognized by the International Bartenders Association.

I bellied up to the bar and smiled at Amelia, “I’d like a Soul Kiss please.”

Several Euforia regulars perked up.

Amelia looked off into the distance. Mental Rolodex. She smiled at me, “Ah, whiskey, dry vermouth, orange juice, Dubonnet. Coming up.”

Fuck! Haven’t stumped her yet.

Twinkle Toes, Sweet Patootie, Fan Dance. I thought I had her at Mattress Molly, but Amelia just smiled, “Gin or vodka?”

While I am a professional detective, licensed, I look for life-equilibrium. Balance. Family of course. The stunningly gorgeous Vanessa. Our son, Walker. A genuinely, generally, good guy. His girlfriend, Pilar. Of course, her border collie, Hobo. And the Proper Villain, a three-and-a-half legged cat who never leaves Hobo’s side.

Our magnificent floor-through loft. The fifth floor of the completely restored six-story Wrigley Hotel. In the now chi-chi artists’ district called the Crossroads. Just south of downtown Kansas City. The one in Missouri, not that sebaceous cyst of a state across State Line. Fucking Kansas.

The kids are back in school. Vanessa is running her Piedmontese restaurant, Euforia. Hobo and his pal have the run of the Wrigley.

Our house elevator operator, Nature Boy, is on duty. Often with his sister, Edwina Rowbottom. When she’s not living in sin with another permanent resident, Wally Maypole.

The Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna, holds regal sway over her domain. She has a gentleman caller, a professional driver named Mr. Lurch. Mortimer.

One of my Irregulars, Buster Fagin, commented on all the hookups, “It’s turning into fucking Saddam and Gonorrhea around here.”

Myself, I’m ensconced in a small office in the resurgent stockyards. With a private bathroom. Office, not the other.

So ... work and family. But more too. Life, I guess. Yes, everyone has one, to a degree. But we try to keep ours lively.

Vanessa, who can do about anything she sets her mind on, made a move a while back. She transferred from UMKC — business major — to KCAI. The nationally-recognized Art Institute. Sort of nationally-recognized.

With blinders on, it didn’t make much sense from a career perspective. But Vanessa had been a local restaurant superstar before she even passed her GED. And, as I told her, “You don’t need to understand any more from a business perspective. That’s why god, in her wisdom, delivered us to Gertie Oppenheimer.” Our chain-smoking, hard-driving, financial advisor. Retired to KC from Chase in NYC.

No, Vanessa had, mid-career, decided to become an interior decorator. Certified — American Society of Interior Designers. ASID. The certification process would take a while. And would require quite a bit of experience within the discipline. She was currently considering three apprenticeship offers. We’ll see.

Not instead of Euforia, in addition to. Lina Paloma -- Pilar’s mother -- was the restaurant’s hands-on manager and could run things on those days when Vanessa wasn’t around.

Now had it been anyone else in my family, say Walker, there could have been a conflict. Because I had a pretty good eye myself. Our loft looked terrific before I married Vanessa. Looked even better now — we’ve both continued to tweak, add, subtract.

But, I had to admit, that Vanessa has a more sophisticated eye. For example, she brought in a new chair a few months ago. What a knockout! Bright yellow, tall back, privacy sides. Designed for Messina by a studio in Seville that I’d never heard of — PerezOchando.

Then, last week, another chair, completely different. Bold upholstery patterns and colors. With hand-laced cord threads between the arms and the seat back. Peek-a-boo. The chair is called Sly from another company I’d never heard of, Adrenalina.

Neither chair remotely matched the other one, yet somehow they were simply stunning together. Around a low-slung hickory coffee table.

Vanessa’s newest inspiration is a Greek designer, Eirini Giannakopoulou. A woman who co-designed the new interiors for the Hotel les Cigales in Nice.

Vanessa said, “Look at the room symmetry — boxy daybeds, round mirrors, triangulated wardrobes. I’m going to rethink Euforia.”

Clint Callahan had been ... um, flirting with me long distance. Concern? That gold wedding band on his ring finger. Because the proprieties will be observed, I’d had to discourage him. Well, perhaps ‘discourage’ isn’t the operative word, not precisely.

Okay, I’d been flirting back, but only in a completely lady-like style.

“Wassa matter, Clint? They run out of pussy in New York?”

“Nice talk.”

“Nice avoidance.”

“My mother taught me manners.”

“Good save, Gretzky.”

There are a couple of necessities that I never go without — high-waisted leggings and pedicures with a peppermint oil foot massage. Vanessa and I are on the same page, although she sometimes goes for lavender.

Pilar was a little slow to catch up, but she’s getting there.

Toss in Walker and all four of us also enjoy full-body massages at Wendy’s Salon.

Okay, I know we’re not a traditional, Norman Rockwell, family. We don’t sing into hairbrushes. Well, Vanessa and Pilar do. Showoffs.

Pilar waited until we were alone. “Winter ... er, you and Vanessa...”

“Yes?”

“Your arrangement, sex, is kind of ... you know with Matt ... it doesn’t seem exactly...”

“Fair?”

“Well, it’s none of my business, but...”

“Sit down, honey.”

I took both her hands in mine, “I like guys. Not tons of them like when I was younger. Before Vanessa. But I’ve always liked being with a man. Vanessa knew that, even before I asked her to marry me.”

“But isn’t it like a double standard or something?”

“I suppose. Looking from the outside, yeah. But if you could see inside Vanessa’s heart ... it’s full of love for me. I’m all the lover she wants. No men, obviously. Of course she could change her mind about another woman. Could happen.”

“What if she did?”

“I’d live with it. Find a way.”

Pilar was thoughtful for a while. I knew she wasn’t really asking about Vanessa and me. Well, she was, but only for her own personal perspective. Hers and Walker’s.

She said, “It’s not like you cat around all the time. I mean there was Matt.”

I nodded.

“And maybe Clint.”

I nodded again.

“But Vanessa is always number one.”

I smiled. Pilar was sharp. She’d cracked the code — Vanessa and I love each other. I fool around. Vanessa and I love each other.

Pilar’’s challenge would be to determine how she and Walker really felt about each other. Beyond puppy love and sex. Now, are Vanessa and I the perfect role models for them? Of course not. But what Pilar took away from this discussion, and others like it, was that each one of my extracurricular activities was with the full understanding and blessing of my love.

The Royals tickets were hand-delivered to me at my Exchange Building office. The young woman, business attire with a motorcycle helmet under her arm, wouldn’t accept a tip.

The FedEx-type envelope was thick. Two tickets for each remaining Royals game. Home and away. Starting July 20, there were eleven games left in the month.

Also, two tickets for every game in August and September.

October was, thank-you, Walker, for the post-season. No need to wait for those playoff tickets to be printed — the Royals were in the doghouse. As we say in the clubhouse.

I shuffled through the three stacks — July, August, September. The seats at the home games were all over the map. Walker tour-guided me — online — through the seating chart. Kauffman Stadium is a ways east of My Kansas City, but that’s okay. I’m used to working in foreign climes.

My son could barely contain his excitement, “Look at these! They’re $500 tickets!”

“For baseball?”

“They’re Crown Club seats!”

“Down, boy.”

“Winter.”

“What about the other tickets? These two are $19.”

Tainted by exposure to the Crown Club, he sniffed, “View Level, nosebleed.”

“Okay, I’ll just toss them.”

“Winter!”

There was a handwritten note from Bulldog — ‘give away the tickets you don’t use.’ Waste not...

Pilar asked, not unreasonably, “Why did Bulldog hire you? You don’t know any more about baseball than I do.”

True enough.

Vanessa placed her palm over the back of Pilar’s hand, a sort of pay-attention gesture. “Pilar, Winter has worked for Bulldog before.” Silicon Valley. And the mayor’s daughter.

Vanessa said, “He hired her for her ... smarts, her talent, her ... tenacity. He knows she’ll get up to speed on baseball, learn as much as she needs to.”

Walker, smartass, said, “And she’ll forget everything she learns. I’ve taught her and taught her — in one ear and...”

I smacked the back of his head.

Pilar said, “Papi.” Enough.

Vanessa said, “Bulldog hired her because she’s Winter Jennings. If she needs to, she’ll find some baseball experts. There must be plenty of them around.”

Pilar was listening hard. So was Walker. Hell, so was I.

Vanessa said, “A baseball expert isn’t going to find out what’s going on. Not the real skinny anyway. He may be able to explain what’s happening. But not why. Not who. Not what to do about it.”

Pilar said, “Oh.”

Walker was trying, trying hard, to sell me on the idea of baseball.

“Winter, it’s the only sport where one guy goes up against an entire team.”

“Liar.”

“No really. Look at this clip. See the batter.” He pointed so Ms. Slow-in-the-Head would get it.

“Everybody else on the field is trying to get him out. He’s alone.”

“Who are those padded guys?”

“Umpires. Like Referees.”

“Zzz.”

The Royals need-to-know team was limited to four people. (Besides myself and whoever in my family I blabbed to.) Mayor Tom Lynch, Bulldog Bannerman, Emile Chanson, and Chip O’Grady. General Manager of the Kansas City Royals. A major league baseball team in the American League. Central Division.

Even O’Grady wasn’t aware of my real mission — finding out what, if anything, was going on with Sandy Seaver, ace middle reliever. Hey, I’m learning the lingo; might even come to enjoy baseball. Team sports. Well, probably not, but that’s okay.

Walker could not be more excited. So I may as well channel some of his energy to the cause. My cause. I tasked him with finding a Royals organization chart. Done.

Kitchen table. “Margaritas please.”

I’d studied corporate bumf before. Insurance companies, health care, pharmaceuticals. It was probably interesting to the people whose names appeared in the slots, but from the outside ... zzz.

The owner of the Royals — David Booker — was Chairman and President and CEO. He and his wife were both on the four-person Board of Directors.

Chip O’Grady, in addition to being GM, was a Senior VP. Pretty heady for someone that young — 41.

There was one other SVP — in charge of business operations. That sounded sort of non-baseball to me.

The Royals had tons of regular vice presidents — personnel, finance, communications, baseball operations, marketing, community relations. And, of course, a General Counsel.

One thing surprised me — the scouting operation. It was vast. The top guy, Douglas ‘Duke’ Arlington, was the general manager of Scouting & Player Development. I thought of him as Head Scout.

Arlington had a large management portfolio, as we in the biz world say, scouts here there and everywhere. International, Pacific Rim, Latin America — layers and layers of professionals dedicated to finding and developing talent.

Walker said, “Live by scouting, die by scouting.” He’s 15.

I had to admit it was kind of fascinating. And I hadn’t even been to the ballpark yet. The overall personnel diversity of the Royals roster impressed me. Just a sampling...

> quantitative analysis
> video coordination
> behavioral science
> leadership development
> sports science
> infield coordinator
> conditioning trainer
> instant replay coordinator
> strength and conditioning coach
> rehab therapist
> dietitian
> chiropractor
> social media
> event production
> corporate sponsorships
> broadcast sales

It’s not a little boys’ game anymore.

Pilar didn’t much show it, but we could tell she was a little off. Vanessa said, “What’s the matter, honey?”

“Nothing.”

We waited.

Pilar sighed, “It’s nothing really. We had another lockdown drill this afternoon. Some of the young kids get upset.” Shrug, “Nothing can be done about it. It’s our reality.”

Walker said, “We’re part of the Sandy Hook and Parkland generation. It is what it is.”

Columbine. Sandy Hook. Parkland. Shorthand every bit as recognizable as the Twin Towers. Schoolchildren growing up who have never not known lockdown drills. Starting in kindergarten.

Emile drove me out to Kauffman Stadium for my first look at ‘The K’. It’s named after the pharmaceutical exec — Ewing Marion Kauffman — who founded the team and eventually left it and the stadium to the city.

And that was only part of his legacy. He had started a school and a major foundation. But the most notable landmark was the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts. An architectural marvel that some compared to the iconic Sydney Opera House.