The complicated Kansas City Royals legacy of Whit Merrifield, traded away at deadline

In the winter of 2015, Whit Merrifield turned his career into breakfast, lunch and dinner. The mornings began with nine eggs, partnered with a cup of oatmeal. Before he sat down for a red-meat dish for dinner, he had consumed three servings of chicken and rice, a few protein shakes and whatever else his stomach could handle.

The purpose was bulk on his body that would translate into power in his swing. And by the time he arrived at spring training, he’d added 20 pounds, most of it upper-body muscle.

At 27 years old and a willful disregard to indications otherwise, he anticipated breaking spring on the Major League roster for the first time in his life.

And then his manager botched his name.

Like, continuously.

“Whitfield,” Ned Yost called him.

So much for an impression.

From the jump, Merrifield had to fight for every inch of a Major League career that has spanned seven seasons and now will reach two cities. It took a hell of a strike before he could finally knock down the door to get here.

But when he voluntarily placed one foot outside that door in an interview last month, he necessitated what came Tuesday.

After a quiet greeting to MLB’s trade deadline day, the Royals struck the move that most commanded their attention — trading Merrifield to Toronto for Max Castillo and Samad Taylor.

There’s some irony to the destination that will steal headlines for a story that is outweighed by the frustration and complexity of its conclusion.

Merrifield had served as a model member of the organization for more than a decade — what better example of the work to reach the bigs? —but then refused a COVID-19 vaccine last month that prevented him from joining the Royals for a four-game series in Toronto. In his explanation, he said he would reconsider if traded elsewhere.

A stunning admission. And one that appropriately irked Royals management. Even if GM J.J. Picollo said it did not force their hands, it should have. That the Royals ultimately dealt him to Toronto — where Canada has the vaccine requirement — provides a not-so-subtle wink, intended or otherwise.

The remark leaves a sticky ending to a legacy that had previously progressed so cleanly. How will he be remembered in Kansas City? How should he?

It’s complicated.

That blemish can’t be ignored, not when this fresh and not when it preceded his final days in Kansas City. But the decade should account for something, especially when you consider the journey required.

Merrifield was a bright spot, often the only bright spot, for an organization that has been quite lousy since he became a regular. He literally went years without taking a night off, breaking a team consecutive games played streak, injuries be damned. Over a five-season span from 2017-21, he collected 38 more hits than anyone in baseball. He ranked second in steals over that time frame. Fifth in doubles and 14th in triples.

The city adopted him as one of its own.

And then it felt stung by his words. That’s why it felt stung by his words.

In his final home stand as a Royal a week ago, the Kauffman Stadium crowd greeted him with a reaction that included healthy boos. A rare occurrence in this city, it seemed to bother Merrifield, much as his words acknowledged the fans’ right to do it.

That is part of his legacy now. And he, no one else, has to own that.

But it’s just part of it. It shouldn’t be the entirety, and that’s coming from someone who wrote two weeks ago the Royals needed to trade him for reasons that stretched beyond baseball. His comments reflected the need for a new voice in the clubhouse — one that would pledge to give every bit as much to this organization, even when losing, as it would another.

That won’t be merely the fine print in his bio. But it shouldn’t be the lead sentence, either. When he returns to Kauffman Stadium one day, the reaction will be overwhelmingly positive, I believe. A standing ovation, perhaps. Time has a way of healing wounds. Eventually, the bigger picture will resume its spot on the mantle.

Back to that 2015 winter, Merrifield’s diet had been sparked after the Royals left him off their 40-man roster and therefore exposed in the Rule 5 draft. Any team in baseball could have plucked him, and all 29 passed.

He took it not as an indication of his value but rather motivation to increase it.

In many ways, that’s the context of his vaccination stance. The losing has worn on him, and it became even more frustrating knowing he had given every ounce he had. That’s a helpless feeling.

He’s long deserved to join a contender, to experience postseason baseball, and the Royals should have obliged sooner for their own benefit, too.

That doesn’t excuse his stance — I will never understand a conditionality on health preservation during a pandemic— and it even demanded the timing of his exit be immediate. There have to be consequences for that remark.

We’ll see whether his departure is permanent.

Either way, the resentment doesn’t have to be.

On the night he got booed at Kauffman last month, as he packed up his belongings after the game, Merrifield pulled a red shirt over his head.

“Kansas City,” it read, in white, block letters.

Through the complication of the previous week — self-inflicted complication — he had spent time trying to convince the city he still had love for its people.

That was never the crux of the complaint.

But it’s the crux of what the next few days, months, or maybe even years will reveal.

How much love will be returned?