RICHARDSON, Texas — How are we even here?
Seriously. How?
I mean, the Texas Rangers just had a giant parade to celebrate winning the World Series.
Is this real life?
The Rangers are the official intergalactic baseball champions of all humanity, and I still can’t fathom it.
As the great Rod Kimble once asked, “Is this some sort of interactive theatre art piece?”
It all feels beyond surreal to me. The baseball world has never really shown the Rangers much respect -- and understandably so. This is a franchise that hasn’t often had Halloween party conflicts, y'know? Their Octobers have typically been pretty wide open.
Patience.
Loyalty.
Diehard Rangers fans will acknowledge that. These fans have stayed patient and loyal throughout the years, passing that extreme long-shot, eternal underdog, Hail Mary hope baton from generation to generation.
Actually being alone with our quiet, reflective thoughts while sitting up at the MLB mountain top and looking down on the rest of the baseball world? That has never been our reality.
Not until now. Not until right this second, really.
I didn’t dare get my hopes up during this postseason run. Because I knew better. We all did.
We remembered getting our hearts violently ripped out from our chest plates in 2011, right when we were centimeters away from experiencing maximum-level joy. We learned something that year: Premature celebration risks potentially angering the baseball gods and bringing forth a powerful, soul-crushing jinx.
And so we basically watched every pitch of this 2023 playoffs through our fingers while hiding under a table in the fetal position -- right up until the sounds of celebration brought us out.
Wait.
Us?
We won?
Yup.
We really, really did.
What a glorious feeling.
What an emotional time. That's something I didn't expect. I've mostly been able to hold off allergy-induced, onion-cutting eyeball waterworks when discussing this euphoric baseball trance we all find ourselves in these days, but it all just hit me right now as I sat down to write this piece.
Suddenly, I feel the entire journey.
I think we all do. We feel the weight of the lost loved ones with whom we once shared this great Rangers baseball odyssey.
For many of us, that specifically means our fathers.
It does for me.
The late, great Bill Rogers.
My love of Texas Rangers baseball goes way, way back — almost to birth. And for a guy with far more gray in my beard than I’d like to see, that’s saying something.
I was two years old when the Rangers came to Arlington in 1972. I was five years old, and already a kindergarten menace, when Rangers catcher Jim Sundberg made a promotional appearance at my very own Dartmouth Elementary School in Richardson.
Since baseball was dad’s favorite sport, we’d often load up our version of the Griswold family truckster and make the near one-hour trip each way to watch the home team play the great game out in Arlington.
My two brothers and I were hooked early on.
You could say it was in our DNA.
My parents later told me that, as a tiny, young lad in my post-toddler sports awakening, I refused to take off my baby blue Jeff Burroughs promo T-shirt that I’d gotten (I believe for free) out at Arlington Stadium. I’d rock that sweet shirt with the classic red-billed Rangers cap, a trusty pair of matching light blue Toughskin Jeans (likely fresh from the Sears at the exciting new Richardson Square Mall) and the unauthorized use of my older brother Tony’s oversized big, black Adidas cleats just about every single day after school.
(By the way, that exceptional mall -- where I first experienced an actual arcade, a strange new chicken place called Chick fil-A, a giggle factory called Spencer’s Gifts and a beverage nirvana called Orange Julius -- was officially demolished in 2007. The same year, my middle child was born. He got his driver's license last week. As the lead singer of Spinal Tap once said: “Too much. A little too much [bleeping] perspective.” But back to the '70s.)
Out in the finely manicured, sidewalk-dividing, tiny front yard of our 1,632-square-foot slice of suburban paradise, a very small and very young version of me would pretend to win it all for my Texas Rangers over and over again.
There’s a picture of me incorporating a young, diaper-wearing rookie into my game (my younger brother, Jonathan) at some point around 1976 or so. Later that night, it’s quite possible that we went out to support our big bro at the tiny YMCA little league field off Custer Road where he religiously wore No. 11 to support his personal childhood hero, Rangers shortstop Toby Harrah.
What I'm getting at is this: For me and my brothers, the dream of this championship started very early in life.
We just had no clue how long of a wait we were in for.
Patience.
Loyalty.
As the '80s approached, we’d collect baseball cards and cherish pulling our beloved Rangers players out of fresh packs.
Imagine our confusion when Bump Wills' 1979 Topps card showed him playing for the Blue Jays. Was this disrespect? Whatever. We rolled with it.
We weren’t getting cards as collectables to keep in pristine condition; if we got our hands on them, we’d immediately put them "in play."
We’d create little floor games where we’d smack marbles with pens and flip the cards on defense. If the marble happened to land directly on a card, that was like catching a line drive. Listen: These were the days before video games, and we were little baseball fiends. I am well aware that, for a kid in 2023, playing just one game of our beloved "marble ball" would feel like serving a three-month sentence in a youth detention center.
But times were different then.
We’d spend hours in multiple backyards playing high-level Wiffle Ball with neighborhood buddies. Scientists estimate that it’s unlikely that anyone on Earth has played more Wiffle Ball than me and my brothers. There I’d be, standing upright in an imaginary batter’s box, pretending to be Larry Parrish, somewhat unaware of the talent gap between my favorite Rangers slugger and George Herman Ruth, Jr.
In the hottest days of summer, those important plastic bat-and-ball games would spill over into someone’s pool. We called it "PABL" -- the Professional Aquatic Baseball League. Other times, we’d find ourselves at the Twin Rivers batting cages on Belt Line Road, hitting little, yellow, Deathstar-like rubber balls back at a robotic pitching arm.
In addition to all that offseason activity, we of course had our own far more official Little League adventures in RSI (Richardson Sports Incorporated) Baseball at numerous cookie cutter orange-dirt diamonds partially enclosed by chain-link fences. I can still visualize the paper thin, white-stripped, extremely stale taffy sheets and extra large pickles in the half-ass concession stands that we stalked while attending games of our siblings.
My older brother was born in '67, me in '70 and my younger brother in '75. Despite the fact that our parents came from very little in Roswell, New Mexico, and that our dad was hustling his butt off to carve out a career, he still made time to coach all three of our little league baseball teams at different points.
Honestly, I think it’s where I saw him at his happiest.
Every bit of that year-round childhood baseballing love was fueled by sporadic trips to Arlington with our dad to watch the good guys play. The baseball cards, the Wiffle Ball and little league action, it was all part of our baseball family lifestyle.
The Texas Rangers were the sun in our baseball solar system. Whether listening on the radio, watching on TV or going to the games in person, we were locked in.
Everything else in our baseball life orbited around our home team dream.
The players we idolized over the years ranged from George Wright to Al Oliver to Richie Zisk to Gary Ward to Buddy Bell to Pete O’Brien to Oddibe McDowell to Steve Buechele to Pete Incaviglia to Raffy, Julio and, the Chosen One himself, Ruben Sierra.
Looking back, I have a hard time organizing the players in chronological order. It’s just one big blur of Rangers superfandom.
I owe my dad for all of that.
Sure, we watched games on TV, but dad taught me there’s something extra special about listening to baseball on the radio. It bonds your soul with the game -- especially when Mark Holtz and Eric Nadel are your cosmic tour guides.
I can remember hugging my dad when the Rangers signed a soon-to-be 42-year-old baseball legend named Nolan Ryan. I think I was 18.
We weren’t hugging a lot back then, and it was all my fault. I was a certified bonehead who stiff-armed all good advice and was dead set on learning every single life lesson the hard way. My dumbassery pushed the limits of my dad’s patience during those years. We argued a lot. Like, a lot.
Somewhere around the time Pudge, Juando and Dean Palmer were emerging, I dropped out of college to be a rapper. I really had life all figured out. Why on Earth would I need my dad’s advice?
Despite it all, no matter how tense things got between us, we always had the common ground of Texas Rangers baseball. Even during the most challenging times, my sweet mom — ever the peacekeeper — would suggest I come over to watch a ballgame with dad.
And so I would.
In those moments, we could set aside our grievances and celebrate the fact that we had the best catcher in baseball history on our team.
There was no arguing, no bickering.
There was just baseball.
Though I tested our relationship with my extreme stupidity, my dad somehow stuck by me -- thanks in large part to those Herculean efforts and ballgame watching session suggestions from my mom.
Patience.
Loyalty.
Despite the hiccups in my relationship with my father, our mutual affection for Texas Rangers baseball — and the powerful connection it created — never skipped a beat.
By the late '90s, I finally had my act together as a responsible human person. I graduated college 10 years after high school -- and, no, I’m not a doctor.
As I approached 30 and finally haphazardly ventured into “real life adulthood”, that Rangers love continued on with those stellar teams of the late '90s. That group actually did the seemingly impossible just by reaching the postseason -- only to immediately get obliterated by the mighty New York Yankees all three times.
It took so so very long to get that close, only to be outmatched on an absolutely epic level.
Sadly, it felt like we simply didn’t belong.
As that particular Rangers era concluded, it started to feel like it might not happen for our team -- ever.
When the 2004 Texas Rangers won 89 games under skipper Buck Showalter and finished 3rd in the AL West, it would be my dad’s final season to cheer on his beloved Texas Rangers.
In February of 2005, dad suspected that he had the flu, so he went to a nearby "doc-in-the-box" to get looked at. It turned out to be pancreatic cancer.
He died 28 days after his diagnosis.
To say our family was devastated is an understatement.
Then we had to eulogize him. What a task. How do you take something as important as your father’s life and condense the story down to seven to 10 minutes? You focus only on the things that mattered most.
At dad’s funeral, a common theme that easily stood out in the heartfelt eulogies from all three of his grieving sons was immense gratitude for the time he invested in coaching our little league baseball teams.
During those incredibly important years in our lives, our dad was there for us. He was hitting ground balls to infielders at practice. He was at his desk at work, filling out line up cards on gameday. He was in the dugout yelling "Rock and fire!" to his pitchers and "Ducks on the pond!" to his hitters.
He was present.
And so was baseball.
Patience.
Loyalty.
The love of the game that my father instilled in me eventually carried over to my own kids. We’ve played a ton of Wiffle Ball together. We’ve collected baseball cards. We've played 'MLB: The Show'. And, yes, I made damn sure to coach their Little League teams.
And, just like my dad did with me, I've made a point of us attending Rangers games together over the years.
There’s something incredibly special about the sparkle in a kiddo’s eyes as they take in all of the magic and majesty of an experience at the ballpark -- especially at night.
Yeah, there were some day games where our whole entire sun-scorched family looked like we were eating hot dogs in a sauna out at the Temple. But, hey, watching the game in a giant 108-degree toaster was a right of passage for this family!
As my sons got older, each played select baseball — probably far too much. I’m likely guilty of over-baseballing their young lives.
And that's not even to mention that I began a full-time career in (mostly sports) radio back around 2008.
When the Rangers took back to back trips to the World Series in 2010 and 2011, our radio show had the honor of covering those Rangers teams at very close proximity -- from spring training to the final out.
Each time the Rangers won a postseason series in that early '10s run, I was flooded with emotions while thinking about my dad. With each major milestone those teams achieved, a massive wave of powerful history would wash over me. I’d remember the past while basking in the present -- the two were inextricably tied to one another.
As a lifelong Rangers fan, I had to pinch myself: I was suddenly in the clubhouse -- me? really? -- covering every single game. I developed relationships with key players, coaches and front office folks.
I couldn’t help but wonder what my dad would make of that utter ridiculousness.
Despite how close the Rangers got those two seasons, especially being one strike away in 2011, it all still felt to me back then like it just wasn’t meant to be.
Don't get me wrong: To get to the World Series in those back-to-back years was obviously incredible -- a feat roughly 40 years in the making. And, yes, the pain of getting that close only to lose was taxing, to say the least. Making things worse, though, was just how quickly the most promising era of Rangers baseball — where it looked like we might actually be annual contenders — was over and gone.
But it made sense. When the full tear-down-and-rebuild mode was soon engaged by the front office, I think we all pretty much got it. It probably helped that a decent amount of the team's necessary losses in this tried-and-true rebound recipe took place during a pandemic, when losing a bunch of baseball games wasn’t really on a lot of our radars.
Then, suddenly, an ownership group that wouldn’t often break out the checkbook started to make big noise with some major headline free agent signings. And they spearheaded the construction of a gorgeous, new stadium where actual, ice-cold air-conditioning was operational. They invested, too, in a minor league system full of high draft picks.
Was that hope and promise we were feeling again? It'd been so long. But the Rangers fan base began to take notice that future happiness was percolating. Good times were very possibly circling back around our way.
But when?
2024?
2025?
Candidly, I didn’t expect it to be this season.
Patience.
Loyalty.
The 2023 Texas Rangers came out of the gate so damn strong (40-20) while overcoming seemingly catastrophic injuries to their two best players — deGrom (out for season) & Seager (31 games).
Once again, it felt good being a Rangers fan.
Then that red hot start was followed by a losing record over their final 102 games. And, y'know, that felt less good. But it definitely felt like being a Rangers fan!
The way it started felt like fool’s gold. This team, I think we all realized, was flawed. They had a historically untrustworthy bullpen. Their last-minute fumble fart while trying to secure the division was brutal.
Sure, they made the postseason by the skin of their teeth. But it felt a million miles removed from that scorching hot start earlier on in the year.
At least we could hang our hats on the future finally being bright again. Still, I think most of us were guarding our hearts with extremely low postseason expectations.
Then we rolled Tampa.
And we crushed Baltimore.
And we slayed the dragon by winning all four road games in Houston.
El Bombi pimped monstrous hulk bombs. Corey Seager looked (somehow) underpaid. Little baseball baby Evan Carter immediately proved he belonged. Big Game Eovaldi dominated. LeClerc put in LeWork!
And Arizona tumbled, too.
Somehow, this group -- this unlikely group that went 50-52 in its last 102 games! -- won it all.
They went 11-0 on the road in the playoffs.
They took the freakin' World Series.
They became world champs. Champions… of the world!
It still feels like a dream.
Patience.
Loyalty.
It caught me totally off guard.
I feared the relentless hurt of baseball heartbreak so much that I never allowed myself to imagine the Rangers winning it all.
And then they did.
On Friday, my 18-year old son skipped school to attend a championship parade in Arlington -- for the team his grandfather loved so very much.
Sadly, my son never got to meet my dad. But, as my dad laid in his hospital bed facing the end of his life in March of 2005, I was able to tell him that my wife Kat was pregnant.
Tears rolled down my face as he told me that I’d be a great father to a child that we both knew that he'd never have the honor of meeting.
I certainly hope his prediction was right.
A few months later, Maximus Henry Rogers was born. Coincidentally, he shares a birthday -- October 20 -- with my mom. It's no accident, however, that he shares his grandpa’s middle name.
And it's simply a blessing that he shares both his dad's and his dad's dad's love of the Rangers.
Why does this championship feel so incredibly meaningful? Why does it feel like far more than just sports?
That's easy. It's because, on Nov. 1, 2023, a generational investment in Texas Rangers baseball finally paid off in the biggest way for families all across DFW.
Patience.
Loyalty.
I just wish all the dads who got us to this point could've seen it themselves too.
Part of me likes to think they maybe did.
The rest of me knows it.
Ben Rogers is the co-host of 'The Ben and Skin Show,' which airs 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. weekdays on 97.1-FM KEGL The Freak. All segments can be found at BenAndSkinPodcast.com.
