Confessions of a Baseball Fan without a Team

(The U.S. flag is unfurled at the opening game of The Nationals, once the Expos, in Washington, D.C. Even though the team has moved, Arnie still feels a sense of pride. All photos by Jeremy Medovoy)

By Arnie Greenberg
Contact Arnie at
ultours@aol.com

I am a frustrated and saddened baseball fan.

I grew up in Montreal, a city which for many years, boasted one of the greatest Triple A baseball teams in North America. We were the farm team of the Brooklyn Dodgers and the proud ticket holders of a team that boasted the beginning of a career for the great Jackie Robinson.

We were the city of the memorable Montreal Royals with local stars such as Chuck Connors, Roland Gladu, Kermit Kitman and Stan Briard. Other than Connors, who became the star of TVs The Rifleman, most of these young men played out their days in Montreal and faded from memory -- but certainly not from my memory.

(President Bush gets ready to throw out the symbolic first pitch of the game)

I remember those Sunday double headers against Buffalo or Rochester or even Toronto, when we sat over a ten-cent bag of peanuts in the shining sun of Delormier Downs, our city's baseball stadium. I sat there through the Little World Series and watched our team beat them all. I remember waiting for the players to emerge after the game and sign autographs.

In a city known for its hockey team, I made my weekly pilgrimage to that old stadium to watch my summer heroes, 'the boys of summer.'

Delormier Downs closed and the franchise died when Brooklyn became Los Angeles…and gloom spread over my roof. It would be years before baseball would return to Montreal.

Finally...The Big Leagues!

By now I was an adult, but when the news came that we would not only have baseball again but our own National (Big) League team, I was overjoyed. I let out a scream while driving to work that historical day. You can imagine who was there on the first-base line on opening day. Only now we were at a new ballpark called Jarry Park. We were in the pros, and I was there with my buddies to be part of history. We now had our own franchise, better known as The Montreal Expos.

(The actual first pitch of the game)

After so many years of following the Dodgers and the feats of our personal favorite, Jackie Robinson, I was a fanatic fan again. Now I was watching people like Coco Laboy, Mack Jones, Pete Rose, John Boccabella, Ron Hunt and the great Rusty Staub. As a broadcaster myself, I once participated in an on-field interview with the redhead we called "Le Grand Orange." At the end of the interview he handed me his bat. He was a name star with class and a huge fan club.

Then, the 'kid' joined the Expos. Gary Carter became the greatest catcher and drawing card on this sometimes forgotten team. He now joins the other great players in baseball's Hall of Fame. He once gave me an autographed picture for my daughter. Now, 30 years later, she still has it.

But some of the later Expos are still playing. I watch with pride the careers of Jose Vidro, Vladimir Guerrero, Larry Walker and Pedro Martinez. I still have a soft spot for pitcher Tommy Lasorda, who I watched as a kid.

Cold or Rainy Nights, He Saw Them All

Yes, I saw them all, on cold or rainy nights, sipping hot coffee in that open air stadium here in Canada, where the summers seem to end in August. Fans stick to their teams, win or lose, and I was a fan.
I still am. Only now the team name has changed. Who cares?

But, year after year, financial problems, administration woes and exchange rates changed the attitudes. People stopped attending games, and a few years ago the league took over 'our boys.' Then, finally, it was announced that the franchise would be moved to Washington.

To my surprise, I wasn't sad. I felt that the team and the memories would still be alive, even if their uniform, logo and name changed. I might not be able to get to the games, but I'll be with Washington in spirit.

Am I disappointed? You bet.
Am I saddened? Oh, yes.
Will I stop caring about baseball? Never!

During these past few weeks, I have followed The Nationals' every move. I felt some of that old pride this morning when I noticed that even though they only played 11 games to date, they were 7-4 and in first place. It may not last, but while it does, I can sit back and enjoy the game I was brought up on in a city that was very much part of baseball's history.

Feeling a Sense of Pride

I have a new team to look for, even though it's from afar. It matters not who plays the game. What matters is that my heroes are still playing, joined by new young men for me to take delight in.

I am still a teenager, watching Jackie Robinson recklessly taunt the pitcher from third base, feint, sway from side to side, and take off for home.

"It's a steal," I shout. "Slide, Jackie, slide"!
The dust clears. The umpire spreads his arms.
"Safe," he shouts.

This has to be the best game ever invented. Who cares where these titans play. I'm still with them. Montreal, Los Angeles, Brooklyn or Washington: it's all the same if you love baseball.

I still get that tingling sensation when the umpire shouts, "Play ball!"

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