Royals' crazy run continues the best story in sports

BALTIMORE – Section 31 at Camden Yards seats 134 people. At times on Saturday, the noise emanating from it drowned out the other 47,000 or so strewn about the rest of the stadium. Most of those in Section 31 didn't know one another. They were from New York and Florida, Kansas and Missouri, all over. This was supposed to be the friends-and-family section for the Kansas City Royals, and in a sense it was. These days, anyone wearing blue feels like family.

So down came the scattered masses, the Royals orphans tired of the dirty looks from Baltimore Orioles fans who couldn't believe what was going on. This Royals team – this group that was supposedly punchless and managed by a nincompoop and in need of some weird extra-innings magic to work its way through the franchise's first October in 29 years – was mashing home runs and watching its manager press the right buttons and about to dispose of the Orioles in nine innings.

Game 2 of the American League Championship Series barreled toward its conclusion, and the loudest voices chanted "Let's go, Royals" for encouragement and "Where you going?" for the fans heading toward the exits. The best story in sports raged on Saturday, the moments getting better, the celebrations more meaningful, the possibilities unimaginable to those who have internalized three decades of sporting suffering.

"I've been waiting my whole life for this," said Mark Kanter, 26, and a moment later he jumped and bellowed with everyone else in Section 31: Greg Holland struck out Steve Pearce swinging, the Royals locked up a 6-4 victory over the Orioles and they ensured a 2-0 series lead heading back home for three games.

Never has a team lost the first two games of a championship series in its own park and recovered, and it's the sort of history that's simultaneously encouraging and frightening, because for all of the faith these Royals have imbued in Kansas City, there remains the fact they are the Royals, a name synonymous with foibles capable of reproduction in only an episode of the "Twilight Zone."

In the middle of the ninth, Kanter's friend Jeff Kaplan yelled "¡Juntos podemos!," a reference only the die-hardest get: It was the slogan of the 2004 season, delivered by manager Tony Pena, meaning "Together, we can." By the end of the season, it was more like: ¡Juntos podemos perder ciento cuatro juegos! – "Together, we can lose 104 games," which they did.

Ten years later, the Royals need only win two of the possible five remaining games against Baltimore, with the next three coming at the madhouse that is Kauffman Stadium. The Royals will go into the game not having lost in more than two weeks, with six consecutive playoff wins capturing not just attention from around the country but admiration for the brand of baseball the Royals play.

They catch seemingly everything hit in the air, run like their feet are on fire and, after a regular season spent mostly in a power blackout, hit home runs in October like all 120 volts are flowing. They've got breakout stars like center fielder Lorenzo Cain, who went 4 for 5 and made what seemed like his 100th brilliant catch this postseason, and Mike Moustakas, the bonus baby who now leads all of baseball with four postseason home runs.

Even Ned Yost, their maligned manager, called for a typically questionable tactical maneuver – using Moustakas to bunt the potential go-ahead run to second base in the ninth inning against Baltimore's fireballing left-handed closer Zach Britton – and not only saw Moustakas lay down a perfect bunt but Alcides Escobar sting the next pitch to right field to score Terrance Gore. Jarrod Dyson followed with an infield hit, Cain scored Escobar on his fourth hit of the night and the lunatics in Section 31 howled with delight.

"I heard 'em," first baseman Eric Hosmer said. "It's exciting for everybody, man. We understand what this means to Kansas City. Everyone's involved in this. Everyone's living it, grinding it out with us. It's finally here. They've obviously waited long enough. You can see how long it's been."

Hosmer saw first hand when he invited fans to a downtown nightspot to celebrate their division series sweep of the Los Angeles Angels and ended up with a tab of almost $15,000 after promising to cover an hour-long open bar. He heard the noise at Kauffman Stadium during that series-clinching win over the Angels, and the sheer madness of the Royals' come-from-behind victory over the Oakland A's in the wild-card game, and Hosmer wanted to say thanks. He still can't forget the sound.

It was unlike anything he'd heard, which isn't saying much, because the Royals and games of import never found themselves in the same Venn diagram until this year. When they did start winning those games, beating Oakland, beating Los Angeles, pushing Baltimore to the brink, the feeling compelled people to do weird things, like lose their minds hugging strangers or their voices chanting or even their jobs.

Vin Porcelli, 21, said he quit his gig as a landscaper in Highland, N.Y., to drive 4½ hours to Baltimore and watch the Royals. During the ninth inning, he said to no one and everyone: "I'm gonna pass out." The games feel that intense, that meaningful, as all the most important sporting events do. And in the case of the Royals, their story, their ascent, is now so intertwined with their fans' that it's almost one and the same.

Section 31 buzzed in the ninth inning, and perhaps some of that was due to the collage of Bud and Miller and Coors cans that lined the ground. More than that, it represented the power of sporting camaraderie, of understanding the excitement of a moment as it's happening. There is great difficulty in that, in trying to reconcile the privilege of watching history with the reality of actually watching it.

No matter what happens, there will be history. Should Baltimore engineer some sort of a turnaround, it will be unprecedented. If the Royals follow in the steps of the 11 other teams that started an LCS with two road wins, they will play in a World Series for the first time since 1985, and that still sounds silly, even to those who dreamed of the day: The Kansas City Royals are two wins from the World Series, and they'll be positioned as the sort of team worth rooting for.

"We don't need the world loving us," Dyson said. "We just need Kansas City loving us. That's it."

There was defiance in his voice, a desire to remember those who braved cold days in the spring and disgusting ones in the summer and stayed with this team that fell into a miserable midseason slump. This, Dyson said, is the best time of his life, and he wants to celebrate it with those who hung with this team, just like this team hung with him.

Dyson was a 50th-round draft pick, the sort who doesn't make it. He did, fashioning himself into a major leaguer, ascending with the dozen or so others who on Saturday carried the Kansas City Royals almost to the brink of the World Series.

"Once we win this series," Dyson said, "what's everyone gonna say then?"

If it does happen – if Dyson's prognostication is more than bluster – they're not gonna say anything. They'll be too busy screaming.