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