Up, Up, and Away: The Kid, the Hawk, Rock, Vladi, Pedro, le Grand Orange, Youppi!, the Crazy Business of Baseball, and the Ill-fated but Unforgettable Montreal Expos (47 page)

The pitching staff also featured several productive players from the Expos’ system. The staff ace was Javier Vazquez: talented but incredibly raw as a rookie in ’98, Vazquez had become a favourite of Felipe Alou’s, despite a 6.06 ERA that year. He shaved a
run off that mark in his second year, then another in his third. By 2002, he’d become one of the best young pitchers in the league, a workhorse who went on to make 32 or more starts for 10 years in a row, following his predecessor Pedro Martinez’s lead by featuring a knockout changeup. The young players who didn’t come from the farm system were usually acquired from other teams in exchange for Expos veterans who’d started to get too expensive. That included Japanese right-hander Tomokazu Ohka (yes, Esteban Yan’s counterpart in that Bart-and-Milhouse joke), who posted the lowest ERA of any Expos starter that year at 3.18. Mix those ingredients with a cheap and effective bullpen committee led by lefty Scott Stewart, and suddenly the Expos had the makings of a contender.

Minaya made a bunch of additional little moves. Desperate for a utilityman, he flipped future All-Star Jason Bay for middling infielder Lou Collier. He also brought back several old favourites, including Andres Galarraga, Henry Rodriguez, and Wil Cordero. But he wanted to do something bigger. By June 1, the Expos’ hot start had faded, and Montreal found itself a game below .500—but an eight-game winning streak later that month hoisted the team into second place. Expos Nation sprang to life. Writing for
BaseballProspectus.com
at the time, I banged out a 1,700-word column stuffed with fake trades, knowing full well they weren’t going to happen. The Expos were literally owned by 29 other teams, with Tony Tavares serving as team president and MLB’s advocate in Montreal’s front office. That arrangement meant that any move that added salary would have to be approved by the Expos’ direct competitors. Given this terrible conflict of interest, and Montreal’s history of making exactly one significant go-for-it deadline deal ever (the Mark Langston trade, which cost Randy Johnson), the realistic prediction was for nothing to happen, and for the team to quickly slide back into irrelevance.

But times had changed. By this point in the year, it was clear to nearly everyone that contraction was off the table: the Twins weren’t going to go quietly, and no other suitable contraction partner could be found, thwarting MLB’s stated goal of deleting two teams at once to avoid having an odd number of clubs. Only Minaya hadn’t been expressly told to operate any differently, so his mindset had to be that this was the Expos’ final year, one way or another. Minaya also wanted to establish his bona fides as a bold, winning general manager—someone who’d be a strong candidate for another GM job once his time in Montreal was done. Time for a blockbuster.

On June 27, the deal was announced. Going to the Cleveland Indians were three terrific prospects: shortstop Brandon Phillips, left-handed pitcher Cliff Lee, and outfielder Grady Sizemore. Coming back to the Expos: Bartolo Colon, one of the best starting pitchers in the game. The trade sent shockwaves through the league. Minaya had been able to defray Colon’s salary by including Loria’s favourite overpaid first baseman, Lee Stevens, in the swap, so money wasn’t the issue. Still, the package of talent sent to Cleveland was one of the biggest ever shipped in a deadline deal. The three prospects all flourished too: as of the end of the 2013 season, they’d combined for 10 All-Star appearances and a Cy Young Award.

Minaya didn’t give a damn. His mandate was to win, and win now. If the team got contracted at year’s end, Phillips, Lee, and Sizemore wouldn’t be ready to become stars in the big leagues anyway. If the Expos eventually moved to D.C., well, that probably wouldn’t be on his watch, not unless the new owners wanted to hang onto the past. And in Minaya’s mind, maybe, just maybe, a miracle playoff run could turn the tide in Montreal.

“We were trying to save the team by trying to contend,” said Minaya. “I didn’t know where things were with potential buyers
or anything. But we felt if we got into the playoffs, the town would have supported us, and the private sector would offer more support. We saw it in Seattle [with the Mariners gaining momentum toward a new stadium after their playoff run in 1995]. And our goal was to win. Getting to the playoffs would have created that demand from politicians, entrepreneurs, to say, ‘Hey, we gotta step up as a city to save this.’ ”

The Expos were 6½ games out when the trade went down. By the All-Star break, they’d fallen to 9½ games back. That didn’t stop Minaya. With the additional playoff possibility of the Wild Card out there, and with most of his chips already shoved into the middle of the table, he made another huge move: an eight-player trade that reeled in both top power hitter (and ’94 Expos wunderkind) Cliff Floyd and Wilton Guerrero (for his second tour of duty in Montreal and a reunion with Vlad). Montreal responded by … losing some more. The ’Spos won only six of their next 18 games, falling back below .500 and out of the race. Floyd got shipped to Boston 19 days after the splashy deal that brought him to Montreal, and Colon got flipped over the winter for a package of talent nowhere near as strong as the one sent to Cleveland. The Expos ended the season at 83–79, a nice accomplishment given the turmoil of February, but not a playoff season. No politicians, entrepreneurs, or anyone else in Montreal made a peep. Same as always.

Mercifully, contraction didn’t happen, so Minaya and company stayed on for another year. Like the year before, 2003 brought more fun than anyone expected. But it also included two monumental punches to the face.

The Expos played well, even while Guerrero missed 50 games that year due to injuries. He got plenty of support: Cabrera put up the best numbers of his career, Vidro and Wilkerson were steady contributors, and Vazquez and Ohka were sharp once again.
The big addition this time, however, was Livan Hernandez, the veteran right-hander acquired in a steal of a deal with the Giants right before Opening Day. Montreal needed a bigger payroll to support this talented squad, and MLB, to its immense credit, obliged. In 2002, the team’s payroll had risen to an all-time high of $38.7 million; in 2003, it jumped to nearly $52 million. Cynical fans might’ve wondered if they’d have been better off with the team being owned by the league all along, instead of the cheapskate local owners who helped drive the Expos into the ground. Montreal started the season with a bang, and through 50 games, the club stood at 32–18, just two games out of first.

Then came the first punch in the face. Since the Expos were going to move soon anyway, and since attendance remained lousy in Montreal (fans by this point knew it), Major League Baseball got the brilliant idea to move 22 home games to San Juan, Puerto Rico. The move did have some benefits, as despite playing in tiny Hiram Bithorn Stadium, the Expos drew more fans per game in San Juan than they did in Montreal, with Puerto Rican players Jose Vidro, Javier Vazquez, and Wil Cordero being particularly big hits. Still, for the Expos fans that had remained loyal throughout all the chaos, having more than a quarter of the team’s home games yanked away—when this might’ve been the team’s last season—was unnecessarily cruel.

It affected the players, too. After that hot start, the Expos ran into the most ludicrous travel stretch imaginable, with a schedule that went like this: four games in Miami (including a doubleheader); three games in Philly (including a doubleheader); six games in San Juan, Puerto Rico; three in Seattle; three in Oakland; three in Pittsburgh (including a doubleheader). Montreal (could you even still call them the “Montreal” Expos?) went 8–14 over that period, losing six of the final seven games at the tail end of the 25 days away from home.

“At first I was thinking, ‘Wow, we get to go to Puerto Rico,’ ” said Jamey Carroll, who was a wide-eyed rookie infielder on the 2003 team. “It was the sense of anticipation for going somewhere new. It was kind of fun. But at the same time, after awhile we started getting tired of it. We started getting numb.”

Ever resilient, the Expos shook off their travel blues, and late in the season, they began to rally. Sitting at 60–60 on August 12, they won seven of their next 11 games: suddenly, the Expos were in striking distance of the Wild Card, heading into a pivotal four-game series at home against the Phillies. It was a last gasp of excitement, one that, against all odds, actually drew people back to the ballpark. In the series opener, more than 30,000 fans saw the Expos hammer the Phillies 12–1. Game 2 was one of the most electrifying contests in franchise history. Down 8–0 heading into the bottom of the fifth, Montreal stormed all the way back, finally taking the lead in a seven-run seventh (once again, the seventh inning was Magic Time). Cordero, one of the heroes of the big late-season Phillies series 10 years before, came through again this time, stroking a pair of two-run doubles. Final score: Expos 14, Phillies 10.

“It’s unreal,” said Frank Robinson after the game, citing both the comeback win and the Expos’ big comeback in the Wild-Card race, in which the team now trailed the Phillies and Marlins by just two games. “You see it happening but you don’t believe it.”

Montreal built on those first two wins, taking the final two games of the series to complete the sweep. Simultaneous losses by the Marlins left the Expos where no one thought they could possibly be that late in the season. On August 28, 2003, they were tied for the Wild Card, with a chance to make the playoffs for just the second time ever—very possibly in their final year of existence.

“It was Believer Fever,” said superfan Katie Hynes, referring to that season’s slogan, as the Expos made believers out of fans
who’d (justifiably) given up on the team years earlier. “I’ll always remember on the Tuesday night, falling behind 8–0. Then that comeback. My nephew, who was six, on my brother’s shoulders. We were jumping around, yelling. It was incredible.”

I’d love to write you a happy ending here. I’d love to tell you that Hollywood got hold of that improbable Expos season, then punched up the script with a huge September, a run to the playoffs, and somehow, some way, a World Series for the ages.

None of that happened. The Expos flew to Miami, then lost three straight nail-biters to the Marlins and their old pal Jeffrey Loria. Three games back and heading into September, they’d at least get a little help from minor league call-ups, since every team gained the right to promote up to 15 players on October 1, right? Most teams called up at least four or five players, some clubs seven, eight, or more. The Expos promoted … 
zero
.

Eric Knott was a relief pitcher on that ’03 team. He didn’t have a great season by any means. But he could’ve at least provided some depth for a bullpen that had worn down over the course of the year (in part due to neck strains caused by watching countless Rocky Biddle fastballs get drilled into the bleachers). He didn’t get that chance.

“We had just swept Philly, so this was a few days before rosters expanded,” said Knott. “We were packing up to play the Marlins, tied for the Wild Card. Then all of a sudden, they pulled me and a couple others from the bus. They were sending me down, right when the roster was supposed to expand. A few weeks later, at the end of September, I got a letter from the commissioner’s office. Due to budget restraints, it said, we regret to inform you we had to send you down.”

And there it was. The Expos were still in the race heading into the season’s final month. But with one last chance for salvation, Montreal—the team and the city—learned that Major League
Baseball had forsaken them. That after funding a competitive team for nearly two seasons, the league wouldn’t approve a few hundred thousand dollars (a few bucks more than a rookie’s salary) to give them one more fighting chance. If Expos fans were ever going to hold an ounce of forgiveness in their hearts—for 1994, for the fire sales, for Claude Brochu and Jeffrey Loria and belittling by ignoramus talking heads and every other kick in the ass baseball had handed out—that forgiveness flittered away on September 1, 2003.

The Expos did get a reprieve for one more year. But the 2004 season offered nothing but pain. At the end of the 2003 campaign, Vladi left to go win an MVP for the Angels. Vazquez got dealt to the Yankees, and went on to play eight more seasons in the big leagues. All that remained in ’04 was to count down the final days, say goodbye, then shed some tears.

“I was at the last game at the Big O,” said P. J. Loyello. “The game ends, and I go in the clubhouse and I see Bob Elliott. Bob had covered the Expos back in their heyday. So Bob says, ‘Tell me about your memories of Olympic Stadium and the Expos.’ And I just broke down. He did, too.”

“After that last game in Montreal, the season ended in New York,” said Mitch Melnick. “I was there with Elliott [Price] and his brother. Those last two years I was doing colour commentary for select road games, and this was one of them, the last one. As we got toward the end of the game, it just kept building. Then we just lost it. It was pretty heavy. This was the end.”

“Things changed after they left,” said Johnny Elias. “There are amateur leagues going on everywhere, and they’re still very popular. But the sense of looking up to somebody, that feeling is gone. For baseball fans, when the Expos left, there was a big hole left behind.”

In the end, the Expos had needed a champion, someone with money and power who could run the team through the harsh 1990s, then reap the benefits in the next decade when an explosion in national and local TV deals and a vastly expanded revenue-sharing program made even the poorest teams prosperous and relatively secure. No one ever showed up. That, more than anything, is why baseball didn’t work in Montreal. In the league’s eyes, Montreal had failed baseball. The cold, hard truth was that for the most part, this was absolutely right.

But to the fans who stuck with the team for all those years, it was the opposite. They’d given their hopes and dreams, their childhoods and adulthoods and their golden years, supporting a team that could be tough to love. In a panel discussion five years after the Expos left Montreal, Dave Van Horne rattled off the nicknames of some of the players who’d made up that tough-to-love team: Rusty and Beetsy, Singy and Jorgy, Stoney and Frenchy, Bocc and Cy and LP, Hawk, Cro, and Rock, Woodie, Ross the Boss, and the Kid, Eli, Gully, Scotty, Charlie, and Scoop, the Cat and Marquis, Walk and Mo, El Presidente and Pedro, Cliffy and Rondell and Orlando and Michael and Brian and Jose and Vladi. These were the guys those fans had cheered for day in and day out, only to see it all slip away.