In Texas drawl, "Saskatchewan" takes two minutes to say . . .

Minute Maid Stadium and the Damn Yankees

The best reason to go to South Texas when your home is starting the dry, windy spiral into fall and then winter is the heat. Sure. But as Dad and I made our transfer in Dallas Fort/Worth International and started looking for a place to eat as we awaited our connecting flight to Houston, what struck me was the humidity.     

                Ah yes, that. I’ve lived in the tropics and beside the ocean, but I’m still reminded about how I can’t really remember it until I feel it again when my skin does a little happy dance.

                Dad and I were flying to Houston today, t

o meet Adam and indulge ourselves in a man weekend entirely dedicated to the excesses that are the celebration of American sports. Two ball games, one football game. Texas. Big, loud, unapologetic.

                It was my Dad’s sixtieth birthday present from us boys, though I’m embarrassed to tell you that we were only making good on it five days before his sixty-first. See, the problem was the NFL season, which takes so damn long to release its schedule. The other problem is very few US cities host an MLB game and an NFL game the same weekend. S’pose that makes sense. We came close to having it figured in Minneapolis, but then I discovered that that little Viking “home game” was actually taking place in Wimbley Stadium.

                So, Houston, Texas, then. No worries. My wife simply told me I was not allowed to discuss politics with the locals under any circumstances. I nearly kept that promise, too.

                The Houston Astros play at the gorgeous downtown Minute Maid Park. They are one of baseball’s truly terrible teams, so we got impressive lower-tier seats for the two games (12 and 21 rows from right field, respectively) for a good price. Would’ve been a great price but they were playing the dastardly New York Yankees, they of the bloated payroll who have fans in every city they go to. Like the Toronto Maple Leafs of baseball only with, like, the odd championship every decade or two.

                Anyway, I love baseball. My brother had made this an NFL trip—and there’s nothing like an NFL game—but I enjoy the relaxed atmosphere of a ballpark. It was my best sport as a kid, so I can sit back in a live setting and watch nine innings. I can do this on a steady stream of ballpark nachos, popcorn, hotdogs, and of course clichéd Texas beer in two-pint cans. Texas. . .

                The second game, Saturday night, was Hispanic Appreciation Night (the football game would do the same on Sunday), so there were many families of Hispanic descent at the game. It was cool to see the power this old sport still has over people.

                Sadly, the Yankees won both games, and the cheers to support them showed that Minute Maid Stadium was about fifty/fifty on its allegiances that night, sort of like McMahon when the Riders are in town. Seriously, though, it took me from apathetic to emphatic anti-Yankee. Not that I’m an Astros fan, mind; I’ll stick to the Jays.

               

                I’m a culture-hunter, but I was on a sports trip with sports nuts. I wouldn’t say we experienced much of Houston aside from its food, sports, and people associated with same. I enjoyed all three. I search my mind for a memory of one Texan who was not ridiculously friendly and helpful and I can’t think of one.

                Near our hotel, though, was a convention floor hosting an immense guns and ammunition show. This in the wake of another mass shooting last week in Washington, at a place where everyone was armed even though the NRA tells us that more guns would keep people safer. Watching a ninety pound mullet-wearing man with a mustache and a rat face and a wild look in his eyes exit the convention centre with a long cardboard box and an expression of righteous indignation reminded me of where I was.

                Oh, that and the Impeach Obama booth outside the Gun Show. Friendly Texans there too.

                “Hey, sir, will you sign our petition to impeach Obama?”

                “I’m Canadian.”

                “So be a good neighbor.”

                “I’d rather impeach our guy.”

                See, just the one time I broke that promise to my wife.

                Sunday was the Houston Texans game at Reliant Stadium, a half hour train ride south of our hotel.

The game was at noon. We got there at nine. Not because of lines, not because of tickets, but because of that most celebrated American football pastime: the tailgate party.

                Lordy, them Texans.

                It’s an institution, and to hear the locals brag over churning cast iron briquette flame, Houston hosts one of the NFL’s finest. How do you get inside a tailgate party? You say hello.

                Soon, you’re being handed beer, a plate with four shades of brown food, and you’re making new friends with anyone and everyone. One of the things the three of us had done to get involved in discussions was wear our Roughriders hats to each of the games, and the locals loved to hear about our own passion for our own team.

                These were fun people celebrating the South’s true religion: football and fried meat.

               

                As for the game (oh, yeah, there’s football today!) after the two baseball games, the intensity of domed Reliant Stadium and its rabid fans was over-stimulation. It was as deafening and as manic as a rock show, and after the Texans started to blow things in the second half, the fans quickly turned on quarterback Matt Shaub. The Seattle Seahawks went to 4-0 with the overtime win and them nice Texans were calling for their pivot’s blood. At least they had the post-game tailgate to drown their sorrows and a Sunday evening in Houston’s sports bars to watch the remaining evening games on TV.

                I climbed the Chase building to the observation deck. I saw the historic part of Houston’s downtown. I was in the tunnels. I walked past where the Symphony Orchestra plays. I did not get much culture in Houston. I got sports, I got my Dad and brother. I got to worship at the true temples of American faith.

They play "Bulls on Parade" on offensive drives in this military-mad town. Anyone even read the lyrics?

Love of Municipal Politics

                 I do believe that municipal is my favorite kind of politics.

                Unlike federal and provincial, it’s easier to view the politicians as human leaders, rather than superstar media creations. In municipal politics, you truly can see your own effect on community involvement. But the best—the best—part about municipal politics is its lack of party affiliation. There are those who seek to change this, but they appear to be the type who vote for the same party in every election at every level, with some vague dedication to textbook ideologies.

                This fall we vote in the big town I live in. We have two choices for mayor—a sign that this past term was met with greater approval after six names for the top job in 2010—and some thirteen going for councilor, four of whom are incumbents.

                Of these councilors I know of only two who won’t get one of my six votes, and it has almost nothing to do with party politics. I just don’t support what they want us to pay attention to, nor do I feel their fiscal and environmental priorities line up with my own. I will admit that, sadly, a third’s affiliation with the Wildrose Party makes me suspicious of his motivations. I won’t say that I’m not voting for him, but he would have to do a lot to convince me to do so.

                Pierre Trudeau said you judge the policies, not the person. I try to follow that as a rule in politics, and as much as I disparage Stephen Harper’s despicable methods and “leadership,” I try to avoid commenting on him as a human. It’s simply his political behavior that’s, y’know, evil.

                This is harder at the municipal level.

                Depending on the size of your town, and your own drive, you can have a lot of interaction with your municipal politicians. At the municipal level, you might talk to your mayor and councilors often; at least you’ll see them at town events, eat burgers they’ve flipped, or read them interviewed in the newspaper. It can be easy to form opinions on their characters, rather than on their qualities as leaders. There are people who, perhaps, are less proactive about judging person rather than policy. It’s common in our partisan-mad world.

                What we see creeping into our newsfeeds lately are descriptors of municipal politicians who stand for Party X. Every so often you see a letter demanding party politics in city hall because then—if I may summarize cynically—people will know who to hate.

                That’s the joy of this forum, though. Truly, you can represent your constituents because you aren’t toeing a line, although I will admit there are those with aspirations on the next level and perhaps they have a little trouble hiding that big ugly C tattoo.

                What I find most enchanting about municipal government is that it’s a small group made up of individuals—this is the key—working together because they have to, even though they would likely sit across from each other in Edmonton or Ottawa. Issues get addressed, work gets done.

                I have found the partisanship in our Legislature and Parliament to be poisonous, possibly in parallel to the near-religious team mentality you see in the States. I am excited for the fall elections because it allows me to act on issues I see directly, by voting for the people whose policies I approve of, who must work with those whose policies I don’t.

                You know, like democracy?