Grande latte, shot of George Brett
Approaching my favorite coffee shop this morning, eager to down a working-for-the-weekend triple-shot, I saw that finding a place to park wasn’t going to be easy. One groggy three-point turnabout later, I saw the reason for the traffic jam: George Brett.
There, on the patio in front of Westwood Hills’ Hi-Hat, taking his morning cup of pine tar with a posse of middle-aged clubhouse types (each of whom must have driven there in a separate car), was the hall-of-famer Bill James has called the best baseball player he’s ever seen.
Even though he wasn’t delivering a profanity-laden invective, even under a one-size-fits-all white ball cap, there was no mistaking Brett: those sharp blue eyes, that craggy face, that unsmiling readiness to engage. He was more godfather than buddy, listening to his tablemates’ stories instead of talking himself. (In the only part of their conversation I overheard, one of Brett’s friends seemed to be outlining his views on when not to submit to a Breathalyzer.)
Somehow, despite having lived here my whole life, this was the first time I’d seen Brett in person and off the field. I ordered my drink, and for a moment, nostalgia took hold. I thought about the summer of 1980 and Brett’s chase for .400. I remembered childhood dinner-table conversations centering on the man — his press, his hitting, his hemorrhoids. The playoffs, the Yankees, the World Series.
But mostly I thought about the way Brett has, with seeming effortlessness, spent his retirement obliterating decades of good will toward him. At least the last year, and my good will. Plenty of ex-jocks fail to outgrow the self-regard that helps them fill out a uniform in the first place. But KC isn’t home to that many living legends, so every man-child tantrum and renunciation of potty training goes down pretty hard.
As I left the Hi Hat, I realized there are two kinds of hometown heroes. There’s the kind you can approach with a discreet “thanks for everything” (we should all be too old for autographs) or just raise your latte to. And there’s the kind you wanna get the hell away from, before they figure out you’re media and chase you with a pecan roll. Thanks for the powder-blue parts of my childhood anyway, George.
