Dear journal,
It’s been more than a year since my brother and I stepped through the gates of Kauffman Stadium for the Salute to the Negro Leagues game. That night, the Royals weren’t the Royals. The Astros weren’t the Astros. For a few hours, they became the Kansas City Monarchs and the Houston Eagles, stepping into history under a heavy September sky. The players wore uniforms stitched with memory, and the air felt thick with reverence — not just for baseball, but for everything baseball carries: struggle, hope, pride, and community.
Kansas City is a baseball town in its bones. It always has been. Satchel Paige, Jackie Robinson, the Monarchs, Buck O'Neil — their stories are in the streets and the fields, in the old brick of 18th and Vine, in the halls of the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. Buck used to say, "You can't hate a man once you know his story." Sitting beside my brother that night, I felt that truth settle in. Baseball has always meant more to me than just a game. It’s where stories live — passed across generations, bridging divides, stitched together with innings and memory.
Tonight, we found ourselves back again. Different year, same teams. And yet, in my heart, it was still Monarchs and Eagles.
I'd had my eye on a commemorative bat for a long time — something to bring home from one of these nights — and tonight finally felt right. I thought I knew what I was coming for. But tucked away, almost like it was waiting, was something even better: a limited run of bats from that game — our game — made more than a year ago. Only fifty existed. And there, somehow still there, was bat #42. Jackie’s number. Jackie, who was a Monarch long before he ever wore Dodger blue.
I knew then. Some things you find. Some things find you.
I’m not someone who clings to possessions. Most things come and go. But every once in a while, something carries more than just its own weight. It carries a night with my brother. It carries the spirit of Kansas City. It carries the long road so many players walked so the game could become what it is today. This bat isn’t just wood and paint. It’s memory made solid. It’s the feeling of a night at the ballpark, the crackle of connection between past and present, the quiet joy of belonging somewhere.
Tonight, I carried that bat home. It has a place now, not just on my wall, but stitched into the fabric of my life — a reminder that baseball, at its best, is about people, places, and the stories we honor by carrying them forward.
Buck O’Neil said once, "Waste no tears for me. I didn’t come along too early. I was right on time."
I think that’s true of nights like this, too.
Some moments find you exactly when you're ready to understand just how much they mean.
Always,
Dave