In a bunker with the Royals

Oppressive and thick, I knew this air immediately. "Tornado humidity," I said to the person walking next to me, as I left work a little after 5:00.

I was right. The tornado sirens started blaring shortly after I got on the road. Stuck in traffic, halted in a torrential downpour, I called the daughter who was home alone and told her to save herself. Which means get into the bathroom and put a pillow over your head, because we don't have a basement (in Kansas!) and hope for the best.

It was a game day. The Royals were out at the K, but the storm was headed their way and soon everyone would be told to evacuate the stadium.

Which brought to mind this dream scenario:

Imagine you went to a Royals game, but you got there insanely early because it was Free Yordano Bobblehead day and you wanted to be at the head of the line.

And as you were waiting, the sky darkened and the wind picked up and the game was called. But you were told it was too dangerous to leave, and you were hustled into the stadium's storm shelter.

"Are the Royals here? Am I going into a shelter with the Royals?" you gasp, nearly foaming at the mouth. But you are told NO. The Royals players have their own private storm shelter, so no way are you going to get to ride out a storm with the boys in blue. So you and the several thousand others who have shown up early for a Yordano bobblehead also are escorted down some back stairwells to the bowels of the stadium, at a safe distance, you are told, (safe for them) from the Royals.

But on the way down you notice a door that nobody else seems to pay any mind. The door has a silhouette of a ball player on it. That's all. Just a silhouette, no words. So when no one's looking, you quickly open the door and slither through, and pop into a room brimming with Royals! They are all there--- Lo' Cain! Hos! Moose! Gordon! Esky! Salvy! Infante! Davis! Duffy! Young! Yordano! With a real head, that is not bobbling! Guthrie! Herrera! Holland! And the bench-warmers! And some random minor-leaguers! You have found the Royals storm shelter!!

They are startled to see you enter, but when they see that it's just little ol' you, they welcome  you. They are sitting on coolers of beer, coolers that live there for that purpose. When they get the word that the game will be cancelled, they will break out those beers.

You are at a loss to know who to sit by. You start to say, "How 'bout them Royals?" But you catch yourself and instead say, "So, how 'bout you guys?"

They are all looking sharp in their spanking clean uniforms, the crisp white ones you love the best.

Suddenly Yordano's very steady head swivels and cranes upward. "Is that the all-clear?" he asks. "Is it?" Another one pipes up. "Can we finally get out of here?"

But no one can hear if it is, because you are doing everything you can to drown them out, by screeching at the top of your lungs, a rousing rendition of  "Take me out to the ball game..."