I’ve known I was going to Houston for a conference this past weekend since April. I’ve also known that the Astros were playing in the ALCS against the Yankees for the past week and a half or so. However, I did not put two and two together to realize that I might be in a city where the team is hosting a game 7… until Friday night.
Let’s set the stage. Before game 6, I’m still in Clemson packing for my flight in the morning and I get a text from my friend. I’ve been friends with her since middle school. I don’t think either of us would say we were ever the best of friends, but she’s a miserable Mets fan and the Mets are my National League team, so we’ve kept in touch over baseball (I would like to clarify that she is technically an ex because I asked her out in 6th grade and she said yes before breaking up with me approximately 24 hours later). She asks me what I thought about the Astros’ chances and how nauseating it’d be to have to see the Yankees in the World Series. I tell her that I think the Streauxs have a great chance of coming back from their 3-2 deficit, especially with the pitching matchups they have left. She responds, “true, especially since both games are in Houston.”
Houston… Houston? FUCKING HOUSTON!!!
That’s when it clicked that I would be in town for the game. 5 seconds later I’m on StubHub and there are standing room only tickets available for $150 with fees. They’re refundable if Houston drops game 6, so it’s no risk. Growing up in the NJ/NYC area, that’s what it would have cost to get into any professional sporting event my entire life, even regular season games when the Knicks are blowing harder than Lisa Ann. $150 is outrageously cheap for a goddamn game 7 to me, so I call some people coming to the conference with me, and I jump on that with absolutely no hesitation even after they all say they’ll pass. The ticket arrives in my email inbox and I cannot believe I’m going to the Streauxs’ ALCS game 7.
Now mind you, I know Houston is an enormous city and I’ve done absolutely no research on where the stadium is in relation to my hotel. After I pulled that trigger, I started to think about how the Uber there and back with surcharges could easily match the price of my ticket if they’re on opposite sides of town. So, I quickly decide that it’s a problem for future Carl and I won’t look into it until it’s time.
Fast-forward 12 hours and my Uber from the airport drops me off at the hotel. I turn around and I can hit Minute Maid Park with a rock (This is when I realize I’m the luckiest motherfucker in the world and throw $200 on the Streauxs alternate line -2.5 at +260, and $100 on Gurriel to get the first HR at +1200. Fuck you Aaron Judge for robbing me of that extra $1300).
It’s now 11 AM and gates open for the game at 5 PM Houston time. I know I want to be there right when they open so I have a shot at actually seeing some of the game with my standing room only ticket, so that leaves 6 hours to buy some gear to support my favorite team and to get schwifty so I don’t end up spending my life savings on beer in the stadium.
My buddy who came to the conference with me is a huge craft beer guy. I personally think it sucks, but 6 years and counting at college has taught me how to throw any alcohol down (often times back up too), so I agree to go to some brewery he heard of. They have a beer called Astroturf so naturally I ask for a taste. That shit actually tasted like Astroturf. It was fucking gross. But I’d do anything that gives my favorite team a better chance of winning so I pound three of them (they’re kind of communist and make you buy three beer tokens at a time, probably because they know the beer sucks and most people would leave after their first otherwise).
After choking those down, I convince my buddy to move to an actual sports bar closer to the stadium. This is when I start to remember why I’ve been such a big Streauxs fan for so long.
We walk into this place called Home Plate, and are immediately greeted by “Fuck the Yankees” chants. I look at the drink specials and they have a “Yuck the Fanks” shot for $4. Like I said, I’d do anything to give my favorite team a better chance of winning, so I don’t even ask what’s in it I just order 4 for myself. That shit was not gross, it was absolutely delicious, so I ask what’s in it. The bartender tells me it’s a double shot of vodka with a splash of grenadine and a little sprite. This is after I’ve taken all 4 in maybe 30 minutes, and I realize it’s time to mix in a water and maybe sit down for a while.
You can imagine I’m pretty friendly at this point. I’m screaming “SKEAUX STREAUXS” and “Fuck the Yanks” at everyone wearing a Houston shirt or hat (literally everyone is wearing a Houston shirt or hat except me at this point because the team store still had not opened). I’m telling everyone about how easy the win tonight is going to be, how pumped I am that we’re going to the World Series, how long I’ve waited for this moment, etc. I’m making up stories about how I became such a die hard. I told one guy my grandpa was signed by them out of college (I don’t even think they existed when he got out of college). I’m making up family members that lived in Houston. I told some people that I went to college with Charlie Morton and that he really prefers to be called Chuck (surprisingly no one asked where I went to school besides one guy who called me out on that because he knew Chuck was drafted out of high school so shout out to that guy for being a real fan). I’m doing everything but telling people I’m in town for a conference and forgot that game 7 would even be here tonight until less than 24 hours ago.
I became best friends with everyone in that bar and had a blast reminiscing about my favorite team’s incredible season so far, and coming up with predictions about how we were going to win. Time flies and next thing I know it’s 4:30 so it’s time to order 2 more yuck the fanks and head to the stadium.
I get in and promptly buy a #EarnHistory tshirt along with a hat, throw them on, and take a selfie to remind myself and my Snap Chat fam how good I look in my favorite team’s gear.
Everyone with an SRO ticket has the same idea of getting there when the gates open, but I’m still able find the perfect spot in left field. The kind where the foul pole only blocks most of my view, and I have to jump up and down to catch any of the action if the people in front of me stand up.
It doesn’t matter though, the stadium is buzzing already. I mean, absolutely ELECTRIC. I could care less about the fact I’m at a game by myself in a city I’ve never been to before, I’m just making friends with everyone around me. We’re sharing more stories about how we’ve been lifelong fans, what this win would mean to us and our family members, and how I knew I had to come alone when I couldn’t find anyone to join me because I couldn’t miss out.
It’s almost time for first pitch and the two guys next to me ask if I can guard their spot while they take a piss. They come back with a Moscow Mule for me and one of them says “you’re not here alone buddy, you’re here with all of us” (Evan and friend whose name I forgot: you guys are the real MVPs for reminding me how we have the best fans in baseball). Every time my collectible Astros souvenir copper mug was even close to half empty, these guys went and grabbed me another. We had to have had at least 15 of those bad boys lined up in front of us by the time they stopped serving in the 7th inning and they only let me pay for one round. In the meantime, kids are coming up to me and asking where they can get one of those mugs, and I’m giving them out like I’m Saint Nick and still took 2 home. Their dads are coming back with beers in return despite me insisting that the amount of empties lined up in front of me clearly shows that I don’t need any more.
It was an incredible atmosphere for the entire game. I saw maybe 10 Yankees fans the entire day. Everyone became friends with everyone around them, and by the 5th inning you would have thought we had all been going to games together our entire lives. Of course, the fact that we kicked the shit out of them made everyone even happier.
When the final out happened and the game was official, people were crying all over the stadium. I walked around and embraced every single one that I saw. Old guys, young (18+) girls, didn’t matter. I brought them in for a giant hug and told them not to cry because we fucking did it and we’re going to the World Series. I didn’t listen to my own advice. I was overwhelmed with the joy that exuded from the entire city and started crying along with some of them. It was beautiful and an experience I’ll never forget for as long as I live.
The rest of the night was a blur. I know I bounced around several bars with Evan and his buddy, puked and rallied on the walk between most of them, and the dueling piano guy at one of them got pissed at me after I requested he play Tiger Rag for the billionth time with him replying “I don’t know how to play that” after each previous time. Details are hard, but I remember thinking I had never felt happier in my life, and that I started “Let’s Go Streauxs,” “Fuck Kershaw,” and “Beat LA” chants about every 5 minutes.
It’s the nights like those where I just have to thank God that he made me a lifelong streaxs fan.
PS: Sunday morning I woke up and arm from the elbow down was numb and tingly. Although it has gotten better, the sensation is not completely gone still. Not sure if that was copper poisoning from the Moscow Mules, me being so connected with Chuck that I was feeling what he felt from pitching the night before, or if I had a stroke in the middle of the night.
PSS: If you’re thinking “I’ve seen Geaux Tigers before at LSU, but have never seen anyone use that spelling for the Streauxs,” then that just means you haven’t been a fan for as long as I have.
*Disclaimer. I have been an Astros fan for almost 3 days now… That being said, #SKEAUXSTREAUXS*
