The rapid rise of Brandon Finnegan
— -- FORT WORTH, Texas -- He is 500 miles away, a universe from the frat boys popping fireworks outside and the Chipotle on S. Hulen Street where they used to scarf down burritos. But Brandon Finnegan is still very near. He just sent one of his old TCU baseball teammates a Snapchat photo of himself wearing his Kansas City Royals uniform, right before Game 1 of the American League Division Series. That's Finny, constantly tethered to his phone, even when he's looking out at 45,000 fans piling into Angel Stadium in Anaheim, California.
It's Thursday night in college land, and eight young men in faded T-shirts sit in front of a TV in an off-campus house that is surprisingly tidy, except for the various fast-food cups on the living room table. At some point tonight, Finnegan, a 21-year-old lefty with boyish brown locks curled under his ball cap, might pitch. And it's still so hard for them to grasp.
On Aug. 31, Finnegan texted Connor Castellano, one of his college roommates, to tell him he'd be home the next day. The minor league season in northwest Arkansas was ending, and Finnegan figured he was finished playing baseball for the year. "You're about to live your dream," Castellano told him, trying to be encouraging. It had been a long summer. In three months, Finnegan had worn three uniforms: one for TCU, which made it to the College World Series in Omaha, Nebraska; and two at minor league stops in Wilmington, Delaware, and Springdale, Arkansas.
A few hours after that text to Castellano, the Royals called, and the rest is history. Finnegan went to New York and struck out Derek Jeter. He did the same to Big Papi in Kansas City. It was an exhilarating and bizarre month, but it was nothing compared with what happened last week. In a Sept. 30 wild-card elimination game against the Oakland A's, Finnegan was called from the bullpen in the 10th inning of a tie game. He calmly held the Athletics scoreless for two innings, helping rescue the Royals in their first postseason game in nearly three decades.
Because Kansas City fell into a 7-3 hole that night, and because teams don't generally stake their playoff hopes on young pitchers barely removed from Double-A ball, some of Finnegan's friends went to bed early. They had classes the next day and an offseason weightlifting session looming at 6:30 a.m. But one by one, they were jostled out of bed as Finnegan kept mowing down batters.
TCU pitcher Travis Evans had told his roommates, who were imbibing that night, to keep it down because he had to get up early. But then they busted into his room with the news that Finnegan was in the game.
"And I'm not buying it," Evans says, recalling the night. "I go out there, it's the top of the 10th and Finny's sitting there throwing 93 mph right up the middle. So I sat there the rest of the game in my boxers while my dog was running around."
Anyone who knows Finnegan at TCU saw this coming, just not in the autumn of 2014. Baseball is slow and methodical. Finnegan's ascension was as fast as a storm front rolling across the plains. Only he's so unbelievably calm. That's why he's here, texting them from various ballparks across the country while they're in study hall. "I miss y'all," he'll type.
He's here because he's fanatical. His old teammates can go on and on about all the crazy things Finnegan would do just to make sure he didn't break routine; the parking spaces he'd wait an hour for, the food he'd eat. At TCU, the team meal was always at Hoffbrau Steaks, a local joint near the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo that is touted as the best-priced little steakhouse in Texas. Finnegan would show up at the restaurant at least an hour early. He sat at the same seat and ate the same thing every time -- tilapia, no salad, Dr Pepper and rolls with no butter. One time, when the restaurant was rearranged and his table was gone, Finnegan proceeded to slide another table to its spot, replacing all the salads, plates and silverware.
The room erupts in laughter when his teammates recall the look on the waitress's face as she incredulously asked Finnegan, "What are you doing?"
"One of the weirdest things to think about," TCU infielder Garrett Crain says, "is that he's pitching in the major league playoffs, and we're going to school the next day. And we were just playing, just messing around with him a couple months ago."
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