[Biggp07]

So, as we start the off-season following a mixed but promising 2024 season in KC, I want to reflect on the past year and my first as the dual-hatted GM/M. It was not without its highs and lows.

Let's begin with

⚾ Episode 1: The Experiment Begins

Inside the Mind of a Modern Baseball Architect

(An OOTP 25 Narrated Playthrough – March through April 2024)
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Opening Note

I didn’t plan to come back to baseball. Not like this.

When John Sherman called on a quiet March morning, he didn’t offer a position — he offered control. Both dugout and front office, lineups and ledgers, lineup cards and budget spreadsheets. It was the kind of power no one sane asks for, and no one prepared truly understands until it’s theirs.

He wanted something radical: a single hand on the wheel, responsible for every decision from scouting a sixteen-year-old in Venezuela to deciding who closes in the ninth. It sounded impossible. It also sounded like the only way forward for a franchise that had forgotten what forward felt like.

And so began the experiment.
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March 1 – The Call

“Finish close to .500, strengthen left field, and find me a top-20 prospect.”
That was Sherman’s version of a welcome letter. Not “good luck,” not “glad you’re here.” Just expectations wrapped in polite menace. I accepted the terms, though deep down I knew: managing morale and managing payroll are two very different battles — and I was now fighting both.

The first week became a blur of firings, hirings, and recalibrations. I dismissed long-tenured scouts, increased the scouting budget to fifteen million, and brought in Jason McLeod, one of the few evaluators I trust to spot talent that metrics can’t yet justify. Every spreadsheet felt heavier than it should. Every name in the farm system felt like a question of faith.

As a manager, I barely had time to meet the roster before spring camp. Lugo, Ragans, Singer, Wacha, Sauer — a rotation stitched together with potential and fragility. In the bullpen, experience battled expiration. Perez, still the heartbeat of the clubhouse, would shoulder a new burden — a veteran symbol and, at times, a first baseman when his knees protested behind the plate.

Some days I forget which hat I’m wearing until the phone rings and someone calls me “skip” instead of “boss.”
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March 12 – The First Wave

Change doesn’t happen cleanly in this job. You bleed it out of the system one decision at a time.

I released two coaches, promoted three prospects in the staff ranks, and made my first international signing — a 16-year-old left fielder from Palau named Salesi Kuupauolealoha, the kind of discovery that would make McLeod smile for days. Somewhere between the firings and the signings, I realized I hadn’t yet seen my team play an inning.

I’d always believed that an organization’s soul lives in its minor leagues. That week, I spent more hours combing through A-ball and rookie rosters than I did setting up the Opening Day lineup. Our system ranked 29th out of 30 — a fact that kept echoing in my head every time I walked past a mirror.

The irony wasn’t lost on me: the man hired to rebuild the Royals had spent more time managing development budgets than players. Still, I liked the rhythm. I liked feeling that every name signed or released moved us one inch closer to something resembling identity.
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March 28 – Opening Day

It was cold in Kansas City. Wind cutting from center field like the city itself wanted to test our resolve.

Seth Lugo took the ball, calm and deliberate, and the season began with a sharp, efficient win over Minnesota. A 3–2 victory. Nothing flashy, but it felt like proof that we belonged on the field. Ragans followed with a 5–0 shutout two days later, his fastball alive with conviction. I allowed myself a smile.

Then came the crash — a 9–1 loss that reminded me we were still the Royals, still learning how to win consecutive games without unraveling. I wrote in my office that night, long after the clubhouse cleared:

Two wins, one lesson. The margins in this league are measured in the confidence you carry from inning to inning.
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April 1 – Baltimore

The first road trip began with rain and a brawl.

Ryan O’Hearn homered off us, the dugouts emptied after a brushback, and both teams were fined before sunrise. I tried to calm the storm publicly, but privately, I understood the emotion. Losing builds pressure that must escape somewhere.

We dropped the series, swept away by better pitching and smarter situational hitting. I rode the plane back from Camden Yards in silence, wondering which side of my job hurt more: the tactical helplessness in the dugout, or the long-term dread of watching player value depreciate like bad stock.

In Omaha, Tyler Gentry went five-for-six that night. A small reminder that hope still lived somewhere in the system I was trying to repair.
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April 4 – Reality Check

We stumbled through the first weeks like a team trying to remember the rules. Pitchers strained for control, batters pressed at the plate, and every night ended with another reminder of how far we had to go. The local media called me “The Architect.” I didn’t feel like one. More like a contractor patching leaks with tape and optimism.

Some mornings I feel like a GM trapped in a manager’s body. Other mornings it’s the reverse. Either way, I’m still the one signing the lineup card and the paychecks.

But there were flashes — brief, beautiful flashes. Isbel’s call-up sparked the lineup. Blanco ran wild on the basepaths. Witt Jr. found his rhythm. I began to see cohesion where there had only been chaos a month before.

It wasn’t enough for the standings yet. But for the first time since taking the call from Sherman, it felt like a team was forming in front of me.
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Closing Note – April 30

A month in, and the experiment is holding together — barely, but undeniably.

We hover just below .500, the ownership restless but restrained. The farm system looks healthier than it did in March, and I’m learning to navigate the strange rhythm of making lineup decisions in the morning and contract offers at night.

Every day, I wake up both exhausted and hungry. That might be the right sign.

There’s a rhythm to leadership when you wear both hats: plan, decide, absorb, adjust — and repeat. The losses are heavier, but so are the wins.

And when I look down from the dugout into the bullpen, I can almost believe this is working.

Tomorrow begins May, and with it, the grind.
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⚾ — Todd “BigP” Pollard
General Manager & Manager, Kansas City Royals
“One Vision. One Dugout. One Season at a Time.”
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