After Ventura tragedy, Royals enter long season of mourning

It had been 54 days since Ventura, the Royals' 25-year-old starting pitcher, had died in a car crash in the Dominican Republic. Duffy had spent those days searching for peace. He hugged Royals fans at an impromptu memorial outside Kauffman Stadium. An old friend visited from out of town, hoping to cheer him up. He scoured the internet for Ventura memorabilia, planning to send a care package to Ventura's mother, Marisol.

Nothing seemed to dull the pain. But as the days turned to weeks, and February melted into March, Duffy kept having these vivid dreams. He kept seeing his friend's face, kept hearing his distinct voice.

"All the time," Duffy says.

On the night of March 17, Duffy found himself in San Diego, preparing to start for the United States against the Dominican Republic at the World Baseball Classic. The game would be win-or-go-home, perhaps the most important start of his career. Duffy could barely control his nerves. But as he slept that night, he says, he found himself sitting in a car with Ventura.

The memory is a blur, as most dreams are. But Duffy can remember it all. Ventura is wearing dreadlocks, he says, extensions of the ones he had in the 2014 World Series. He is speaking perfect English, too. There is just enough time to ask a question or two.

"I was like: 'Man, why did you have to leave us, dude?' " Duffy says.

The dream finishes in an instant. Ventura calls his friend "Papi." He tells Duffy that he is in a better place. As he sits still in the car, he says: "I'll always be with you."

"And then I woke up," Duffy says. "It was like weird. I've never had a calmer game in my life."

Nearly three weeks later, the baseball season has started, but the grieving process continues. The Royals have passed through the initial shock. They witnessed a funeral and helped bury a teammate. They mourned together during private memorial in late January.

They have a season to play and jobs to do, and on Monday they returned to Kauffman Stadium for the first time, sharing their grief with a sold-out crowd. But after the sadness, the tributes, the sorrow and a long spring training, they are now entering the next season of mourning, a year of baseball with a teammate gone.

"I think the hard part is there's no real blueprint with how to deal with something like this," Royals pitcher Chris Young says. "It takes time for all of us."

For some members of the team, the loss still feels surreal. For others, the most routine moment can still take their breath away. For most, there is one prevailing thought: There is no one way to grieve, no right way to process the loss.

"The grieving process is different for everybody," Royals manager Ned Yost says. "And you can deny them or try to cut short their process. Everybody deals with it differently."

The reminders are still everywhere. Last Sunday, on the night before the Royals opened the season in Minnesota, infielder Christian Colon found himself watching as Cardinals starter Carlos Martinez paid tribute to Ventura in St. Louis. Martinez drew Ventura's No. 30 in the dirt of the pitching mound, and then hurled a gem against the Chicago Cubs. Back in Minnesota, Colon felt like he could have been watching Ventura.

Martinez, like Ventura, hails from the Dominican Republic. He is 25. He possesses a blessed arm and electric stuff, and even as Colon sought to turn off his mind and spend a few minutes watching baseball, here was another reminder of his late friend.

"You're watching Martinez," Colon says, "And it's Ventura."

All spring, there had been moments like this. The baseball clubhouse is a communal place. Players sit in groups and pass the time. They tell stories and share laughs. Bonds are built over months and years.

As the Royals arrived in Surprise, Ariz., for camp, the dynamic felt different. For two months in Arizona, they would think about Ventura even when they did not intend to. His presence was everywhere.

They would pass under a black banner with his nickname and number: "Ace 30." They would walk past his empty locker. They would sit in a circle and the topic could be anything, yet it would inevitably drift back toward Ace. Somebody would bring up a pitcher, Colon says, or tell a story about an old play. The memory would jostle another, and the mind would wander, and then the group would go quiet.

"All of a sudden, here comes his name," Colon says. "And it's like: 'Man, it's not a happy vibe after that.' "

As spring training pressed on, Colon, 27, found little ways to cope. He would talk with his wife, Kayla, and tell her stories about Ventura, about how stubborn he was, about how loved he was in the clubhouse. He would pull up interviews on the Royals' website. He missed the sound of his voice.

"I still do it," Colon says. "It's hard to watch. After that, I'll tear up. But that's just my way of coping with it, I guess."

In the aftermath, Colon struggled to talk about Ventura without being overcome with anguish. He bawled that first day. And then again the next. It's easier now, he says, but only slightly. Time can heal. It can't replace the lonely void.

Colon's eyes still well with tears. He still can't believe this is real, he says. But he doesn't want to stop talking about it, either. He wants people to hear the stories, to remember the name.

"I'm glad his name comes up," Colon says. "It's like losing a family member. You just have to accept it, and know that it's real, and let time heal everything."

Colon clutches his cellphone in his hand. If he needs to, he says, he'll scroll through old photos. He has also kept a text conversation that he maintained with Ventura. On some days, he'll go back and read through the messages, just to feel connected.

"I don't know when I'll delete that," he says. "He was special to all of us. He's like a little brother — as close as you're going to have to a little brother that's not your blood."

Inside the clubhouse, everybody had a routine. During games, Royals pitching coach Dave Eiland always looked for Ventura on the dugout rail. On bus rides, Eric Hosmer would occupy a row by Ventura and Raul Mondesi, cracking jokes and offering little nuggets of advice. On long flights, infielder Cheslor Cuthbert would plan a trip to the bathroom, messing with Ventura on the way back to his seat. As the Royals departed spring training last week, flying from Phoenix to Dallas, Cuthbert got up and walked to the bathroom. On the way back, his heart began to ache.

"When I looked, I didn't see him," Cuthbert said. "That's when I realized: 'He's not here anymore. It's hard to accept that.' "

As the 2017 season approached, it was clear: This season was going to be unlike any they had experienced.

"It hit us all pretty good," Gordon says. "Sometimes you don't realize how close guys are."

One day last week, Scott Sharp was cleaning out some stuff in his Kauffman Stadium office when he stumbled upon the speech he gave at the Royals' private memorial service for Ventura in January. Sharp, an assistant general manager, began to scan the remarks, re-reading what he'd told to a collection of players, coaches and front-office members, and for the first time in weeks, he began to get choked up.

As the club's former director of minor-league operations, he had watched Ventura grow from a skinny Dominican teenager with a big arm to one of the most promising prospects in the organization. He had tracked every season, celebrated every advancement, worried about Ventura's obstinate ways and personal life. He had answered phone calls from a frustrated Ventura, who simply wanted to quit minor-league baseball and go home. He watched the same young man throw seven scoreless innings in Game 6 of the 2014 World Series.

"It just still seems really kind of surreal," Sharp says. "Did that really happen? Not that you're expecting him to come around the corner. You realize the finality of it. But it just seems like it always happens to another team, and when it happens to your team, and somebody that you knew, and somebody that was that vibrant ... it's never going away."