Where Travel Meets Politics: Canada

HEROES FOR ONE DAY
I wrote a piece for World Hum this week on "Travel Writing as a Political Act," expanding from the ideas in Rick Steves' new book Travel as a Political Act.

What it doesn't tell is the one time I ever traveled with a clear political purpose. To change things. To make a difference. To tape up posters to sway a numb local populace.

I did this in CANADA.

My friend Matt and I had become, cheekily enough, huge Canadian Football League fans in the mid '90s. It started by calling Air Canada’s toll-free number to ask what cities had CFL teams, then adopted the closest, the Hamilton Tiger-Cats. The operator told us the team was North America’s oldest football squad – around since just after the American Civil War – but was in danger of folding.

Matt and I plotted a rescue. We booked train tickets and packed “Save the Ti-Cats” posters thrown together at an East Village Kinko’s and a roll of duct tape.

On the train a Friday or two later we talked with Tommy, a peppy Chinese-American café attendant, who’d clap his hands after delivered a microwaved ham sandwich. He loved his job, but had never heard of the CFL – and didn’t care to. Strangely we had about the same reaction from our Hamilton taxi driver taking us to King St the next morning. “There’s a game scheduled?” The team was 4-13, yet still technically in the playoff hunt. But did anyone care?

They did. A couple hours later, we found the Canadian Football Hall of Fame –and its charmingly defeatist outdoor sculpture Touchdown that highlighted the failed defender – crammed with scores of fans and many old Ti-Cat greats, like Garney Henley and Rufus “Baby” Alexander. One couple in their late 40s – Bob and Pat – helped us sign up for the team’s fan club and eventually would mail a stream of chunky packets filled with photocopied Ti-Cat stories for two seasons to come.

Later Bob and Pat took us to a pep rally at dinky Ivor Wynne Stadium, where we sat amidst the couple hundred fans braving a chilly rainfall. We dutifully clapped along as players matter-of-factly walked out in jerseys and jeans. Then a voice call out over the PA, “We even have some fans who came in from New York to see our Ti-Cats play tomorrow.” Us. We felt like heroes.

That night Matt and I celebrated our success with a pitcher of Sleeman beer each at a hockey bar on King St. Staggering back to the hotel afterward, we tried taping up a few of our hundred posters on random street signs, then gave up after Matt vomited on a curb. I don’t know Canada’s rules regarding public intoxication, but I thank the Hamilton police for their restraint.

The next day, the Ti-Cats lost the game on the last play of the game and missed the playoffs. We figured the dream was over. But Hamilton quickly picked up enough “seasons tickets” (no typo) to save the team from bankruptcy. They hadn't really needed our outside help, but were happy to have two new Ti-Cat fans.

The next season we returned to Canada to see Hamilton play (and lose horribly to) Ottawa in the Canadian capital. Bob and Pat met us at the historic Frank Clair Stadium – which turned 100 last year and sits beside the city’s impressive Rideau Canal. You’d think it’d be a stunning spot for some three-down football. But not for Pat. She shook her head at first gaze and said, “This isn’t nearly as nice as Ivor Wynne.”

Definitely not. I do kinda wish we had a sign that said it.