I Miss-ed the Expos

By the time I had moved to Montreal, the wonderful Expos, the deplorable Expos, the heart-melting-endearing-patheticly-mismanaged Expos had already left. My team had become a lonely group of woebegone ex-pats relocated to the center of political sin, Washington, D.C. And what a hole they left in this city. Analysis would support the notion that the good citizens of Montreal did not do a good job buying tickets and that the monster known as the, cough, cough, Olympic Stadium, with its myriad empty seats, outdated electronics, and awful sight-lines just wasn't an "attractive" major league ballpark. And who could argue that? Never mind, it's a rhetorical question.

But, damnit, the Expos had been a respectable team when they left, a competitive team betrayed by an ownership that sold off its best players and left Canadian baseball to the Blue Jays from, don't tell me its true, Toronto. A six hour drive through hell to watch, egad, an American League team and the home of the Maple Leafs. (Excuse me for cross-sporting, but a city rivalry is a city rivalry).

So a tear in my eye when I think of the great players who adorned the Big O: Raines, Martinez, Dawson, Staub, Carter, and their fellows. They were my boys and the Expos were my team, even if I did live across the country on far-away Vancouver Island. I bought tickets, I did, whenever I was in Montreal, not often, but I wouldn't miss the chance to see a ball game after breakfast at Beauty's or a smoked meat sandwich at Schwartz's. The Expos were as iconic as any Montreal institution could be and they left. It was a tragedy, I tells ya, and not just for baseball fans.