SAN ANTONIO - The last time I saw Colby Rasmus, he could barely speak and was almost crying.

After Game 5 on a cold October night at Kauffman Stadium. The soon-to-be-crowned Royals ending the Astros' 2015 magic, sending Rasmus into Dallas Keuchel's comforting arms, with the Cy Young-winner letting out the tears his outfielder was holding back inside a heartbroken clubhouse.

"I'll never forget it as long as I live," Rasmus said.

The last time we all saw Colby Jack, he was a raging public party animal in huge, ridiculous black goggles.

For social media and the entire baseball world to see: Rasmus double-fisting endless celebration beers, joyously roaming Club Astros shirtless and long-haired, fully living the role of being a new fan favorite after sending all those lefthanded moonshots into the far-away seats on national TV.

So when an e-mail popped into my inbox saying Rasmus was going to be 200 miles to the west on Tuesday as part of the Astros' annual caravan, a road trip became an instant no-brainer.

I had to catch up with Rasmus. I had to check in with the Alabama country boy who called the Astros' offseason bluff, turning the formality of a one-year qualifying offer into a stunning $15.8 million payday.

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I could borrow $10,000 from Rasmus, trade it for an equal amount of words, and still not accurately describe how special, unique and rare No. 28 is in our often cookie-cutter sporting world. But I'll try with the rest of these. And I'll give you a glimpse of what's to come as we follow the newly minted highest-paid Astro across I-10 and I-35, swinging south to north in another big Texas city while the orange admirers await and Rasmus opens up.

"I'm hoping I can be a light that people can see," Rasmus said. "And maybe a story that people can relate to."

Humbled hero

Colby Jack doesn't go into full hero mode until we get to a cheeseburger place.

Right now, he's surrounded by the real heroes. Except they're limping badly, slowly walking with a cane, rolling in a wheelchair, or missing limbs.

The camouflage bill on Rasmus' Astros cap isn't for show. Neither is the power he feels each time some nearly anonymous person from the Army, Navy, Air Force or Marines reaches out a hand, warmly grabs his shoulder or smiles, and asks for a selfie.

"I feel like we're lesser than them walking in here right now. … We should kneel down to them and thank them," Rasmus says as Wounded Warriors started lining up at the Brooke Army Medical Center.

Adam Long finds Rasmus outside the Warrior and Family Support Center, where about 300 wounded service members are served by a staff composed almost entirely of volunteers.

Long is from South Dakota and has sacrificed for his country across the world. He also has an exoskeletal prosthetic aiding a right leg that hasn't run or walked well in six years.

"This is essentially letting me keep my leg," Long says.

Rasmus signs a baseball. Long gets a memory that carries him away from the monotony of rehab and will last the rest of his life.

"That's our celebrity, and we're their celebrity," says Long, who hopes to deploy again.

Jamie Teniente gave two tours and 27 months to Iraq, then nine more months to Afghanistan. After 9½ years in the Army, the Wounded Warrior is about to be medically retired from the military.

"My body is saying it's time for me to go," Teniente says.

Like the city he's always called home, Teniente got back into the Astros last year. His brother is an even bigger believer, which is why it was so unbelievable when Rasmus agreed to place Teniente's phone up to his ear and say hi to another fan.

"There's so much stuff out there," Teniente says. "It feels good to watch a game and go and clear your mind."

As the heroes wave and walk away, Rasmus keeps mentioning peace. Physical, mental, personal. He's the $15.8 million man proudly representing the Astros by reaching out to the injured and maimed. Rasmus is also a 29-year-old husband and father of two with a family farm he loves as much as the game.

Bull and pulpit

After the Astros left Kansas City, it took Rasmus two weeks to even think about the Royals.

Not because the pain was so bad. He was just completely blocking the ending out.

Rasmus was on his 30-acre farm in Salem, Ala., when he eventually opened up his memory box.

"I kind of let it hit me for a minute, and I was just - it got me upset," said Rasmus, who hit .412 with four home runs and slugged 1.176 in six postseason games last October. "I was mad about it. But I knew that I gave all that I could."

Then he got back to the cows.

To try to figure out Rasmus, you have to let him tell you about his cows.

"I guess it's kind of like managing my own baseball team. But I've got cows," said the devoted owner of 20. "Being out on the farm has given me a lot of peace."

The goggles-wearing, beer-spraying postgame party machine also bought a bull, marking what might have been his biggest offseason splurge.

The seventh-year outfielder, a devout Christian who was saved last winter, initially named his prize Rak Chazak after a suggestion by his preacher. A scriptural reference to "strong and courageous" was changed for simplicity to The Rock when Rasmus' auction-won acquisition began to attract outside interest.

"He's kind of big-time right now," said Rasmus, referencing his bull, not himself.

There's no big time in Salem. And a boy who grew up in a single-wide trailer with three brothers in bunk beds and rats and cockroaches running across the floor intends to use his money for public good when it's not going to his farm or family.

Topping the wish list: a baseball facility for area kids and helping out the church he attends twice a week.

"I don't want to be looked at as one of those people that just throw it away and do all these crazy things," said Rasmus, who hosts a Bible study at his house. "I want to be looked at as a righteous person and do good things by the Lord and for … the people in the community."

'That is me'

Goggles-like reflective sunglasses are on indoors. A manly mane flows wild. A crisp, white Astros jersey has faded orange flannel underneath for long sleeves. Dirty, scuffed cowboy boots stop in the middle of a fast-food restaurant, causing a buzzing room to suddenly look up.

"Hey!"

Rasmus stands in the center of it all, points with both arms toward the ceiling like a wrestler, smiles wide, and listens to the cheers.

The cult of Colby Jack crowds in. Rasmus disappears into the back, hanging out with the workers handing out burgers and poking his head through the drive-thru like a kid.

"Just one of a kind, honestly. He beats to his own drum," said Rasmus' wife, Megan. "He's all the good things a husband should be. … But he's a character."

A fan whose family drove about 250 miles from Weslaco just to see Rasmus in person walks up and shows Megan a photo of her husband in full celebration roar.

She keeps speaking, saying how blessed the Rasmuses are to have found the Astros after praying for a lasting answer in baseball.

"We've been through it all," Megan said. "Good. Bad. Oh, yeah."

An hour later, Rasmus is quietly playing with his daughters at another caravan stop as his wife watches nearby. He recalls going to the Little League World Series as a young boy and dancing around in pure joy. He remembers the hard, bad years in St. Louis and Toronto, when he started to lose his love of the game and felt like everyone wanted something from him that he didn't have.

Rasmus lifts up a silver necklace. His wife's and daughters' initials are engraved on one piece. "What God has joined together, let no one separate" from Mark 10:9 is written on another.

Then the man with $15.8 million to his name connects the goggles and Colby Jack - he's seen the photos of kids dressed up as him last Halloween - with his farm, family and peace.

"I wanted to be free. I wanted to do what I am now," Rasmus said. "Because that is me, and that is who I am."