The Agony of Being an Expos Fan
It's like having your fines innocent hopes shattered, your heart
ground to dust. Your pancreas has been removed and now you must eat pure sugar.
You have many questions that will always remain
unanswered. What was the cosmic attraction between Ron
Leflore, Tim Raines, Terry Francona and the left field wall?
Who stole Steve Rogers' fastball? Was Rodney SAcott the finger
in the dyke? Did Bill Lee put a macrobiotic curse on the team?
Was John McHale in league with the devil. Whatever
happened to the team of the eighties? (you suspect it was
traded or sold down the river)
You watch the current team play, and sigh. You miss Al Oliver, Gary Carter, Scott Sanderson, the Spaceman; you miss what never will be. In your worst nightmares Rick
Monday's homer just clears the fence. You wish Charles
Bronfman would sell the team, or put it out of its misery
It's like watching John Keats not die, and then he goes on
to become a second-rate hack somehow.
Ken Norris is one of the Vehicule Poets and its only baseball fan.