From Brooklyn to Montreal and Back
As the Major League season, in high drama and excitement,
draws to a close, a consideration materialized – long after
the fact it should be confessed – to this scriber about the
blue ending of the Montreal Expos. Gary Carter steps into
the batters box.
Much conspired, not just in theory but in practice, against
Montreal baseball fans. It is true, as close to the truth one
may come or arrive at, that many fans had to contend with
an indifferent city incapable of grasping the potential and
subsequent loss of the perennial bridesmaid club and an
American news media with infield dirt in its eyes.
Fans who, it can be argued, had bestowed upon them a
local Montreal media -not especially poetic in its grace
these long days- which did its best to treat the Expos as if it
were a disowned gay son.
Eventually and surely, matters began to sink into a banal
surreal plot. The subconscious will have to rule this forever
I’m afraid. Fingers, fat and skinny, young and old, black,
yellow and white alike – colors do bleed into one when it
comes time to asserting blame – were pointed furiously in
various directions from the sky to the diamond. Even
chicken hawk fans, those who hid behind various excuses
worthy of a Hitchcock enhanced mystery ploys to not take in
a lousy game, felt compelled to offer their Grade B opinions.
It is no wonder, and unfortunate, that no one spotted an
irony right under our ugly noses. Carter swings and misses
strike one!
The irony spoken of here manifested itself during the move
of the Brooklyn Dodgers to Los Angeles – The big club for
the Montreal Royals. Just as the Dodgers departure from
Ebbet’s Fields had its cast of evil characters filled with the
usual 3-sided con story laden with confusion – indeed
political games, greed and environmental circumstances
made up the usual universal themes. The Expos too had
their neat plot and sub-plot on multiple levels.
The dodging Dodgers had Walter O’Malley, the Ex-Expos
had, for their part in the act, ‘The Inept Small Time
Consortium’, Claude Brochu and Jeffrey Loria. O’Malley
sought to move the Dodgers within various spots from
Flatbush and Atlantic avenues in the center of downtown
Brooklyn. Montreal had an imaginary ballpark in the
artichoke heart of the city seeking to regenerate itself. What
happened next in both cases becomes stranger than Bjork.
Whatever the many possibilities, once the scene ended,
with broken hearts and apathy all around, O’Malley left rich
and despised; much like the exit blueprint for Brochu and
Loria. Los Angeles and Washington simply smelled the
fresh blood. Hopeful plans turned to soot and Gary Carter
swings and fouls down the first base line. Strike two.
History? Sure, there was lots of it in both towns. Not just in
Brooklyn. With history as a discipline dead in the public
mind, we may as well leave the ghost of Jackie Robinson
alone. The wind at Ebbet’s Field and DeLormier Downs
died down long ago. Only whispers of branches, memories
and hopes for glory remain for those who care about such
things.
So there and here it is. An unfortunate ending for two clubs
once part of the same fabric and suit. Both let down by the
brotherhood of Major League Baseball. The Royal/Dodger
connection had indeed come full circle in philosophical
speak. Carter takes strike three! He can’t believe it! Neither
can the fans, Gary. Neither can the fans.
