When you collect Expos memorabilia, few things give you quite the same thrill as their opening games. The first home game at Parc Jarry. The first home game at the Big O. And, as far as I’m concerned, the ultimate one: a ticket from their very first game ever, against the New York Mets, on April 8, 1969.
That particular ticket just found a place in my home, and I’m absolutely gobsmacked.
Believe me, that’s not an easy feat.
Sometimes even superheroes wear cleats. A player in pinstripes wearing number 27, with a cannon for an arm and an instinct for the game far beyond his peers, could make every hero before him fade into the dust of his strides, friends and foes alike
Thank you, Vlad.
One of the perks of being friends with Dom was that he lived in Sainte-Adèle, and because he lived in Sainte-Adèle, he was naturally friends with Chris Speier. Well, not really. Chris never took a bike ride with us. But Dom kinda-sorta knew his son, Justin, which meant that hanging out with his pro ball dad and talking about Gary Carter was at least a possibility.
But something even better happened one afternoon. Chris and us played catch for a good seven minutes. Seven minutes. Probably the best seven minutes of my life.
People today like to say that kids back then were lucky not to be plagued by mobile phones and social media, those things that supposedly kill our ability to live in the moment. And sure, maybe we were more present back then.
But I’ll tell you this. I would have gladly traded my Rubik’s Cube for one lousy picture of me standing with Chris Speier, wearing my Star Wars shirt and holding onto my banana-seat bicycle, just so I could post it on Facebook with the caption: “Me and my bestie, Chris Speier,” and wait for the LIKES to pour in.
So much for living in the moment.
When I was a kid, before we all learned what a computer having a nervous breakdown sounded like, we’d entertain ourselves by soaking tea biscuits in tall glasses of milk delivered straight to our doorstep by the milkman, while watching our favourite baseball team, until the biscuit was nothing more than paste. It didn’t take long, 3 or 4 minutes, tops. We’d then scoop up the spackle with a spoon while hoping the Expos would come out victorious.
Milkmen are somewhat long gone, and somehow, even those simple tea biscuits don’t seem quite the same anymore. But every now and then, that creamy, sugary taste comes back to me, along with the memory of sitting there with a spoon in one hand, watching the game and waiting for that biscuit to reach just the right consistency.
