I have toiled at loving the Houston Astros my entire life, even though the payoff has never once equaled the work I’ve put in. I’ve stayed in my pup tent and weathered all of their storms: crushing playoff defeats, Astrodome scoreboard destruction, letting Nolan Ryan go (oh, the painful irony of that one), “Enron Field,” Roger Clemens in general, being swept in the World Series and accused of racism along the way, watching our farm system dwindle like the American manufacturing sector after too many years of outsourcing to China…the list goes on and on. But that’s sports fandom, isn’t it? You dance with the one that brought ya. I am a die-hard, lifelong, dyed-in-the-rainbow-wool fan of the Houston Astros. And the Houston Astros play National League ball.
So now I’m unwilling to stand by as they tell me that my beloved ‘Stros are moving to the American League with the same blasé tone of this-is-happening-and-there’s-nothing-you-can-do-about-it-ness usually reserved for announcements like “They’re extending the Bush tax cuts,” or “We’re invading Iraq,” or “Matt Leinart is now quarterbacking the Texans.” I feel powerless, but I know that in this battle, at least, I have a voice. I can vote with my ticket dollars. I can encourage others to join me. I will probably not start a drum circle, but one never knows.
For 50 years, the Houston Astros have been the flagship sports franchise of the proud, innovative, and diverse city in which I was born. They are often overlooked by anyone outside the Bayou City, and the fact is, I think we’d all come to terms with that. But there comes a time in any movement when you must call for reinforcements, link arms, and stand in solidarity against the riot cops of asinine corporate decision-making. The time for action is now, not just for Astros fans, but for baseball lovers everywhere. Sure, you might still be gainfully employed with your team, but so long as 50 years of history can be traded like a $65 million pack of bubblegum cards between very, very rich little boys, no one is safe. Bud Selig and Jim Crane are the 1 percent. We are the 99 percent. Occupy Minute Maid Park. Or, come to think of it: don’t.
— Whitney Pastorek,
Occupy Minute Maid Park
For months now I’ve been wanting to write something about the impending destruction of my favorite sports team, but I kept holding out hope/being in denial that it would actually happen. But now D-Day has arrived and I’m too angry and sad and disillusioned and angry and depressed and numb (and have I said angry yet?) to even think straight much less write. And also why bother? My teams don’t care about me so why should I waste time caring about them? (And in other breaking news there is no Santa Claus.)
I want very little out of life: People who love me and who I can share my life with, a happy and healthy family, a successful and artistically fulfilling career, and the chance to, just once, see the Astros win the World Series. And honestly, a lot of times, it’s unclear to me in what order those are prioritized. Because while I have some control over the other things, the Astros thing is completely out of my control. And that somehow gives it an extra weight. And setting aside the pain and hurt and the anger over the situation, in practical terms, the worst part about today’s news is that it means that it will be that much harder for my team to ever win it all. And in the end, that’s all I really want.
I don’t just want it for myself either. My mom is 60 my dad is 63. And as of today there’s a palpably real sense that I will never be able to share the joy of an Astros World Series win with them. And that moment, that feeling, that experience is why this silly stupid child’s game matters so much to me. It may seem mis-prioritized that in 10th grade when I had to write a paper about an important family member that I chose to write about the Astrodome, but this team IS a member of my family. At times the most important one. Because often the only thing that has been able to bridge time and distance and differences is baseball. The Astros are the shared experience and passion that bonds us as a family. They are my strongest connection to my past, and my childhood, and my Home. They are my constant. But this is the end of the line. I wouldn’t want my kids to have to root for this team. Hell, I don’t want to have to root for this team. But I don’t have any choice. I’m in too deep. There’s too much history; history that just got sold out by a racist, sexist, war profiteer for an extra $70 million bucks.
I could go on for another 10,000 words and just skim the surface of me feelings here. But ultimately I know no one cares. And that’s what’s worst of all. The thing that has brought more joy and fond memories into my life than anything else, has been willfully and irrevocably destroyed though greed and self-interest, and yet outside of myself, my family, and Whitney Pastorek no one else seems to even notice or care in the slightest.
It all makes me feel like life is meaningless, like I hate everything, and that there is no God. So, I guess some things about being an Astros fan will never change…
Okay I’m off to go continue crying now. If you need me I’ll be watching this on a loop until the end of time.
(We lost that series by the way…)
