As the Major League season, in high drama and excitement, draws to a close, a consideration materialized - long after the fact it should be confessed - to this scriber about the blue ending of the Montreal Expos. Gary Carter steps into the batters box.

Much conspired, not just in theory but in practice, against Montreal baseball fans. It is true, as close to the truth one may come or arrive at, that many fans had to contend with an indifferent city incapable of grasping the potential and subsequent loss of the perennial bridesmaid club and an American news media with infield dirt in its eyes.

Fans who, it can be argued, had bestowed upon them a local Montreal media -not especially poetic in its grace these long days- which did its best to treat the Expos as if it were a disowned gay son.

Eventually and surely, matters began to sink into a banal surreal plot. The subconscious will have to rule this forever I'm afraid. Fingers, fat and skinny, young and old, black, yellow and white alike - colors do bleed into one when it comes time to asserting blame - were pointed furiously in various directions from the sky to the diamond. Even chicken hawk fans, those who hid behind various excuses worthy of a Hitchcock enhanced mystery ploys to not take in a lousy game, felt compelled to offer their Grade B opinions.

It is no wonder, and unfortunate, that no one spotted an irony right under our ugly noses. Carter swings and misses strike one!

The irony spoken of here manifested itself during the move of the Brooklyn Dodgers to Los Angeles - The big club for the Montreal Royals. Just as the Dodgers departure from Ebbet's Fields had its cast of evil characters filled with the usual 3-sided con story laden with confusion - indeed political games, greed and environmental circumstances made up the usual universal themes. The Expos too had their neat plot and sub-plot on multiple levels.

The dodging Dodgers had Walter O'Malley, the Ex-Expos had, for their part in the act, 'The Inept Small Time Consortium', Claude Brochu and Jeffrey Loria. O'Malley sought to move the Dodgers within various spots from Flatbush and Atlantic avenues in the center of downtown Brooklyn. Montreal had an imaginary ballpark in the artichoke heart of the city seeking to regenerate itself. What happened next in both cases becomes stranger than Bjork. Whatever the many possibilities, once the scene ended, with broken hearts and apathy all around, O'Malley left rich and despised; much like the exit blueprint for Brochu and Loria. Los Angeles and Washington simply smelled the fresh blood. Hopeful plans turned to soot and Gary Carter swings and fouls down the first base line. Strike two.

History? Sure, there was lots of it in both towns. Not just in Brooklyn. With history as a discipline dead in the public mind, we may as well leave the ghost of Jackie Robinson alone. The wind at Ebbet's Field and DeLormier Downs died down long ago. Only whispers of branches, memories and hopes for glory remain for those who care about such things.

So there and here it is. An unfortunate ending for two clubs once part of the same fabric and suit. Both let down by the brotherhood of Major League Baseball. The Royal/Dodger connection had indeed come full circle in philosophical speak. Carter takes strike three! He can't believe it! Neither can the fans, Gary. Neither can the fans.