I grew up knowing Kansas City for two things: baseball and barbecue. 

And the music. It was a jazz and blues city. It was Charlie Parker. I say this like I know it. Dad knew it and played it. The band was punk rock by look and sound, but there was more to Spin Cycle. Rolling Stone, channeling the sicko spirit of Lester Bangs, said it was like Iggy chased a plate of B.B. King with a bottle of Dire Straits, got an enema of The New York Dolls and MC5, and shit out Spin Cycle. 

They weren’t far off. Listen for yourself. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have their father live on through hundreds of recordings available at the click of a button. 

In ‘90, Spin Cycle played The Phoenix, an understated venue for their over-the-top show. The club was located on the first floor of the Phoenix hotel. I remember dark wood and tight spaces and Lawrence aka Larry, Spin Cycle’s drummer, yelling at Dad from the end of the bar, “What the fuck did you get us into this time, BC?” 

What he’d gotten them into was the relaunch of the Phoenix’s music scene, thanks to a favor owed to their manager, Deacon McCurdy. Deacon wasn’t the first black man I’d ever met, but he was the first I ever knew. He had a thick mustache and always wore his shirts buttoned to the top, tie or no tie. Bassist Paul Newman (“no, not that Paul Newman”) made it a bad habit to unbutton the top button whenever Deacon wasn’t looking, which was often, because Deacon was the hardest working man I’ve ever met, then or now. Always on whatever phone was available: phone booth, restaurant, behind the bar. He owned a cell phone, one of the old job’s big enough to call missile strikes. What I thought of as a Zack Morris phone. But he only used it in extreme situations. 

“You know how much this thing cost, Fender? Try four grand. Fifty cents a minute adds up, Buck. One day they’ll fit in your pocket and you’ll talk for a day and a lifetime with no extra charge. That day is not today. Do me a favor, will ya? Go find your dad and get him away from those pretty ladies.”

All that work and dealing with Paul’s button trick and he never sweated. Skin as dry as aged leather. 

The opposite of the sopping wet Spin Cycle members when they exited the stage to a chorus of “One More Song” and “Pump me a baby, Brett!” 

“Everyone loves you,” I told Dad once when playing cards on the bus en route to another city. 

“Everyone thinks they love me,” Dad said, and his tone was the one I used after Laramie dumped me. “Until they don’t.”

That’s what I thought about while leaning on a railing behind the outfield bleachers inside the Royals ballpark, Kauffman Stadium. The Tigers were in town. Both teams were average but it was still early in the season, so the stands were three quarters full. I bought the cheapest ticket they had and walked around the ballpark, basking in the sights and sounds of the season. The old timer uniforms and ball caps. The thwap of ball into mitt. The bat cracks echoing through the stands. The night sky blue on black and colored by the lights and the occasional white ball rocketed towards outer space. The dream fields of green. The red dirt. The water fountains spurting water in right centerfield. Fogerty’s “Centerfield” playing in my head before it came over the speakers. Vendors hauling coolers on their shoulders in the heat of the night like strongman competitors. The smells! Meat rotating on a wheel. Buttery popcorn. Sweet cotton candy. The quiet tension inching towards intensity. 

“Good game so far,” a female voice said, close enough that I flinched. 

It was the too cute for me woman. She’d changed into jean shorts and a navy Tigers tank top. A Tigers hat hid her messy blonde hair from earlier. She held a beer in one hand and a coney dog in the other. 

Sometimes words come out of my mouth and I don’t think about them until afterwards. “Twice is a coincidence,” I said. “Three times is fate.” 

“Isn’t that a Spin Cycle lyric?” She watched the game and chewed her coney dog. There was a spot of sauce above her lip that I tried to ignore. 

“My dad used to sing about that,” I said, not trying to brag, just stating facts. “Although he was talking about corporate greed, not love. Not that that’s what I’m talking about.” 

“Yes it is,” she said, finishing her food and chasing it with a quarter pull from her beer that cleaned the spot of sauce. 

“Fender,” I said, offering her my hand. 

She gave me her beer and touched my back as she turned to leave. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Until next time, Fender Carradine. If you’re around the weekend of the 4th, I’ll be here. Try the coney dogs. Not as good as Detroit, but worth it all the same.”

I watched her wave as she walked away, hips swaying to the stadium organ.