Quarantining With(out) the Houston Astros: A Meditation on Meaning in the Mist of Memories

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been an Astros fan. But I wasn’t always. At least not at fifteen months old when I attended my first Astros game. Despite the scrunchy, playful smile of a super cute little slugger featured in the photo to the left, my mom recalled that at the game I “did not seem overly impressed” with baseball, let alone with the Astros’ ninth inning rally to defeat the Montreal Expos 6–5.

As the oldest of five sons, I had the good fortune that my mom saw fit to exhaustively document many of my early years through photo albums and journaling. As a parent myself, I understand the quest to document the life of children—especially the firstborn. Furthermore, over the years my mom saved childhood mementos like report cards, academic awards, trophies, Legos, and baseball cards. Eventually she assembled everything in five large Tupperware boxes for my brothers and me. To my surprise and delight, in an archival box of my childhood’s history I found notes she kept about that July 1978 Astros game. She wrote: “July 24—brought Phillip to Astros-Montreal game—Fell asleep in 8th inning—‘pow’ was his comment at beg[inning] of game—did not seem overly impressed. Missed Astros coming back in 9th inning to win game 6–5.”

The author, fifteen months old. July 24, 1978. Astrodome. Houston, Texas.

Eventually, the youthful, cold indifference I harbored toward the Astros melted like ice cubes in the summertime on a scorching Houston sidewalk. I became a baseball convert who possessed a deep, genuine love of the game—first as a Little Leaguer and later as a middle-aged abiding fan of my home-town team. I grew up in Houston and remain a resident of the Bayou City. The surging excitement I felt on the evening of November 1, 2017, when the Astros won their first World Series remains palpable. That year, a victory for the team doubled as a win for the city since Houston was still reeling from the disaster of Hurricane Harvey. In my mind, the Houston Strong patch the Astros wore for the World Series symbolized the city’s resolve to rebuild and recover as much as it named the team’s dominance that season.¹

With the 2020 MLB season curbed significantly due to COVID-19 I’ve had mixed feelings about my beloved team during the pandemic. The planned start of the season was preceded only weeks by the MLB’s official ruling on the Astros’ sign stealing scandal during the historic 2017 World Series season.² Despite the rush of emotion about the World Series described previously, as a fan I remain disgusted and disappointed by the organization’s calculated practice of cheating its way through a championship season. To me, the public regrets and apologies by management and players felt performative and insincere, empty and mechanical.³ However, I believe in second chances. Yet I’m struggling to extend one to my Houston Astros.

On the other hand, with the ongoing absence of baseball during quarantine I’ve increasingly felt urges to forgive the Astros. Part of it is surely that I miss watching them play. I miss the gritty performance of Jose Altuve’s timely hits and the masterful double plays he routinely turns. Alex Bregman’s sticky glove at third base. Justin Verlander’s domination on the mound. Michael Brantley’s consistency and dependability in left field. George Springer’s breathtaking athleticism in right field and the excitement of his lead off homers. And Robinson Chirinos’s veteran poise and strength behind the plate. I miss the summer evening ritual of tuning into the games as my family gathers around the television. I miss the rush of entering Minute Maid Park, the excitement of finding my seat in anticipation of the first pitch, and the echo of “Play ball!” across the stadium followed by the crowd’s roar. I miss the feeling of an Astros home...