By Edwyn Edwards (Contributor) – Email
Print Edition: November 2, 2011
I am seated in 2A, which is inexplicably the first row of a westward bound 747. We left Toronto at 0700 and after a brief stop in Edmonton or Winnipeg (I’m not entirely sure which and honestly, I can’t tell those airports apart anyway) the bulky Boeing will touch down in Abbotsford International at roughly 1000, giving me about an hour to get my ass to class.
Looking out of my window I can see rush-hour Toronto. It’s terrifying. All 20-something lanes of QEW are just packed with commuters driving in from places like Mississauga and Oakville, all trying to be at their desks, counters and tills on time. The fact that they put up with this tedious journey on a daily basis is depressing in that modern nine-to-five depravity of the individual kind of way, but the sizeable pilgrimage also inspires some admiration. Even from this height, I see no definite end to the sprawling metropolis. The sky is a gloomy grey mixture of morning drizzle and axiomatic Torontonian smog, but in a few minutes the plane will ascend through the haze into the forever sunny skies that pilots are so familiar with. This will be a relief because the whole scene is giving me anxiety: the magnitude and chaos of the place is pretty unthinkable.
Toronto sort of considers itself the de facto cultural capital of Canada and, I think, imagines itself as the New York of the North and maybe like an emblematic representation of the best this fine nation has to offer. Right or wrong, in the world of sports, T-Town has a legitimate case, being the only Canadian city with a professional hockey, basketball and baseball team.
Now, I’m not particularly athletically inclined or anything (though I recall making a near-historic sixth grade game-winning kickball play) so naturally, I am drawn to baseball: America’s pastime. This interest brought me 4205 miles to see the Blue Jays play their last home series of the 2011 season against the Los Angeles Angels.
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I left home yesterday at half past an ungodly hour and drove to YXX, an airport that seems more like a high security Greyhound station and less like an international hub of transportation. A few straggling passengers made their way to the Westjet counter with vague displays of urgency that came off as polite gestures of “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hold up the plane or anything.” Of this bunch, one lady in particular struck me as odd. She was in her mid-30s with dyed blonde, almost platinum, hair. She wore a grey cardigan that was borderline hip but didn’t look cool on her. What was odd was that she was not really walking, but had instead mastered a bizarre, authoritative trot and the long brown leather boots she wore made her look like a militant cowboy. It remains unclear whether this affectation was merely a symptom of luggage dragging or an externalized personality quirk. What made her even more frightening was the fact that her psychotically intense eyes were completely fixed on exactly nothing. They stayed dead ahead and everyone got out of her way. I hoped, like many others in the terminal, that I would not be seated near this woman.
Check in was a breeze and I boarded the plane, found my seat and, just as the sun began to cast a couple of its rays over the Rockies, passed out. One hour later I was scared out of my sleep when the guy behind me, who was about 11 or so and apparently a real big fan of air travel, shouted “Touchdown!” as the wheels smacked the tarmac in Calgary.
Calgary’s airport is bigger than Abbotsford’s, but the landscape that surrounds it—endless prairie like something out of a John Ford film—dwarfs the place. We taxied into the gate and I started to think about the two hours I had to kill until the next flight to Toronto. The Domestic Departures wing is awfully dull and so I made my way to the nearest empty line of seats and set up shop with my trusty iPod.
There are a handful of these buy-a-last-minute-gift-for-your-kids-here-because-you-forgot-to-get-them-a-souvenir-but-promised-you’d-get-them-a-souvenir shops that litter the building. They sell anything from knock off watches to perfume to faux First Nations paraphernalia (ex. Moccasins and dream catchers). I noticed a Calgary Flames booth called “The Fan Attic.” The girl working the booth seemed maybe a bit hung over or at least not in the mood for standard customer service pleasantries, looking more bored than I probably did, but understandably so because the customers weren’t exactly champing at the bit for a plastic Jerome Iginla action figure. I wondered how much money a place like “The Fan Attic” could possibly make to justify its location, which must surely be prime knickknack pushing real estate. But so, there she was, in the offseason doldrums, staring longingly at the jewelry boutique that you just know was her first choice when dropping off resumes, but maybe she blew the interview or something and got stuck peddling an assortment of sporting apparel, all of which brandishes a fiery C that as a Vancouverite, despite being entirely disinterested in the goings on of the NHL, I have come to consider as garishly flamboyant (sorry) and just a bit stupid as far as logos go. Even in the off-season, this little shop reminded me of hockey’s importance and omnipresence. But the fact that these sporting goods worked as a souvenir to kind of sum up a visit to Calgary also seems important.
The boarding call finally came for gate D24 and it was back to traveling. The folks in seats 19D and 19F (who I will call Thatcher and Young Leno due to truly striking resemblances) were less than enthused to find out that yes, 19E would be occupied, effectively eliminating that sense of personal space that would have let Young Leno and Thatcher ignore each other without seeming rude. The little TVs that are usually cut into the headrest of the seat in front of you were not working and this made keeping to oneself even more impossible. In turn, the three of us were forced to do our little introductions, stating destinations, business or pleasure, and talk about airplane food. Pretty standard stuff, but unpleasant in its compulsory nature. We set off into the big Albertan sky and I noticed two ball diamonds in what I suspected to be a suburban schoolyard. I thought of the 1907 first pitch.
The landscape below the plane was geometrically obedient and brought to mind color swatches that had names like Sandalwood, Desert Storm or Rio Grande. I guessed that the green crop season was over or something. There were no clouds and the captain informed us of rain in Toronto. This prompted a brief discussion with Young Leno, who was a born and bred Albertan, about the pros and cons of umbrella usage. We concluded they were necessary sometimes.
After finally getting my feet down on the weird zigzag patterned carpet of Pearson airport, things moved pretty quickly. The pilot had not lied: it was raining. I found myself without an umbrella; clearly this was one of those “sometimes.” Fortunately, the hotel I was staying at is umbilically-attached to the departures level by this escalator bridge thing that seemed straight out of Kubrick’s 2001. I dropped off my bags in my bitchin’ Sheraton room, made a cup of coffee, and leafed through a copy of The Toronto Star. There was an article on the Blue Jays that examined reasons why they weren’t going to make the playoffs, but the writing was belligerent and seemed to expect success on the field. This was kind of shocking because here on the West Coast, we’re just glad to have a Canadian baseball club with an agreeable logo. I put the paper down and figured I would see for myself what kind of fans these Torontonians were soon enough. I hopped on a bus that took me to a train that took me to a streetcar that took me to another bus. Jesus. I got off the bus a couple of stops too early and had to walk the five blocks to Rogers Centre in the heavy, warm rain.
By this time I was soaked to the bone and eager to get to my seat so I could (a) see the game and (b) get my soggy leather coat off and try to shake my hair dry. Just outside of the stadium I noticed a girl about my age wearing a retro blue-and-white Jay’s cap talking to her friend enthusiastically about baseball and the problems with this year’s bullpen. She wore a big smile and didn’t seem to mind the rain one bit. “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” by the Talking Heads suddenly got stuck in my head. I reached into my jacket and presented my damp ticket to the door guy who pointed me through the doors.
Thank God for the Rogers Centre’s retractable roof, which was up and doing a hell of a job if you ask me. I found my spot at row six, seat 10. It seemed pretty absurd to come all this way for a ballgame, but high definition television is no match for the view from 6-10. The crowd was in a good, laidback mood but the stadium was only about half full. The first pitch is thrown. It’s a strike: a nasty fastball that thwacks into the catcher’s mitt.
New GM Alex Anthopolous, who just seems to love baseball and talks about the team like a kid bragging about his kick-ass baseball card collection, has put together an interesting 2011 Blue Jays team. One of Anthopolous’ first moves was to bring in a new manager to replace Cito Gaston. He found former Red Sox pitching coach, John Farrell. Farrell is the kind of guy that reminds you of your friend’s cool dad. I think he’s a good fit with the organization and figure they’ll hang on to him for another few seasons. The ’11 squad that is Farrell’s job to manage is decidedly young and, in fact, is the youngest on average in the entire MLB. The management has assembled talented kids like Colby Rasmus, Eric Thames, J.P. Arencibia, and Langley’s own Adam Loewen and Brett Lawrie that all play with real enthusiasm and are just a ton of fun to watch. Basically, they are a group with a bunch of potential but also a great deal of inexperience and this is perhaps what has kept them at around .500 for most the season.
However, the Jays do have some experience on their bench, notably the All Star slugger Jose Bautista and pitching ace, Ricky Romero. Pitching has been the Achilles’ heel for the team this year. The bullpen has been inconsistent and has forced Farrell to bring up guys from the farm team in Las Vegas who just don’t seem ready for The Show. This, along with a slew of injuries has hampered any chance to solidify a decent set of closers and set-up men.
But I digress. Dustin McGowan was the starting pitcher for the home team and had a pretty strong outing considering he is still recovering from various shoulder surgeries. He worked the first five innings, striking out eight and allowing zero walks, keeping the Angels at bay, allowing only two runs. But he reached his pitch limit and was replaced by Jesse Litsch. I’ve never been much of a Litsch fan. I think my dislike for the guy is based on a few blown games I’ve seen and, superficially, the way he looks. He’s got this weak, wispy red beard, beady eyes and the physique of a heavy reader. The game took a turn for the worse. As the Angels scored run after run, the Blue Jays sent out pitcher after pitcher, trying to keep the Halos at bay. Perez, Villaneueva, Camp, Janssen, and finally, Beck. It was no good. The final score is 7-2. Eric Thames hit a dandy of a home run in the sixth and drilled a line drive at Dan Haren, the opposing pitcher, in the eighth, hitting him square in the wrist. So, you know, that was cool.
I bought a hot dog and a retro blue and white Jay’s cap during the seventh inning stretch. When the last out was made, I took a look around the stadium and gathered my jacket, which was still pretty damp and smelled like wet leather. The crowd doesn’t take the loss too hard though and were well-mannered in their disappointment. Actually, this happens to be one of the main reasons why I love baseball. It’s the sort of “if they don’t win it’s a shame” ethos that I find very attractive and unique in the sport, because while baseball is competitive, it lacks the adversarial and physically combative (for the most part) elements of other popular sports. In many ways, it is why, I think, Canada deserves to be in the American League East. Baseball echoes some of the better Canadian values: it is about being the best that an individual can be in order to help the group… or something.
A while later I was standing at a fairly non-descript bus station, eager to get into that Sweet Sleeper Bed at the Sheraton (these mattresses are obscenely comfortable and are apparently manufactured exclusively for said hotel franchise). My bus rolled in and I got on. I noticed a young professional man sitting near the front who was wearing an old Roberto Alomar jersey. Feeling more outgoing than usual, which I attribute to fatigue, I asked, “What’d you think of the game?”
“Not much.”
“Ah, well. There’s always next year.”
“Hah, that’s right.” I can’t tell if his laugh is hopeful or hopeless. He wore one of those hats that real fans wear.
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I am halfway home. I have a ton of reading to do and still have to stay awake through class and so I keep asking the flight attendant for coffee every time she struts down the aisle. The TVs aren’t working on this flight either and I wonder if maybe I’m on the same exact plane I took yesterday. Without the televised flight tracking, judging what I’m looking at out the window is tough, but if I had to, I’d say I’m somewhere over Western Saskatchewan. From the air most of Canada looks abandoned, punctuated by urban areas, mostly one per province: Vancouver, Calgary, Winnipeg, Regina, etc. I submit that these cities remain quite isolated from one another, with their own respective, nuanced cultures. The Toronto Blue Jays are, in my mind, one of those cultural touchstones that both speak for and unite these fragmented clusters of lights.
