A few years ago, I asked Blue Jays manager John Gibbons – then in his first swing with the club – about one of his prospects in spring training, Curtis Thigpen.
"The two of you have a lot in common," I said.
"What's that?"
"Well, you're both catchers. And you're both from Texas."
"Curtis isn't from Texas," Gibbons said.
I'd just come from speaking with Thigpen. He'd talked about growing up in the hippie redoubt of Austin, and how he didn't feel very Texan in the Friday Night Lights, boots-and-belt-buckles sense. So I knew he was from Texas.
"Sure, he is," I said. "He's from Austin."
Gibbons smirked: "Austin ain't Texas."
From the perspective of the infrequent visitor, there are several varieties of Texas. San Antonio is cowboy Texas. Dallas is cowboy-with-airs Texas. Houston is cowboy-done-struck-oil Texas. And then there's Arlington, where the Jays will be playing the Rangers in the ALDS next weekend.
Arlington isn't Texas, because Arlington isn't really any place. It's the strip-mall wormhole you pass through on the way to Fort Worth.
The city was painfully reminded of this reality when Major League Baseball shipped them their celebratory, division clinching T-shirts. All the league's winners got variations on the same theme – a tag line ("The West Is Ours") emblazoned under the city's skyline.
Arlington doesn't have a skyline (unless it's a Klimtian jumble of highway overpasses). So MLB subbed in Dallas's.
Some people were upset. Presumably, they're from Arlington. Or maybe Dallas. It's hard to tell. They were more exasperated than angry.
They won't be selling those T-shirts at the ballpark. Nor will they be building a skyline. It's a lose-lose.
They have the International Bowling Museum and Hall of Fame, but Arlington is mainly the place to which Dallas outsources its live baseball and football. As it turned out, no one else was super keen on helping to pay for the crashed spaceship that is AT&T (formerly Cowboys) Stadium.
Since you'd like to think you've bought something for a few hundred million dollars in public money, Arlington's then mayor threw a snit when NBC's Bob Costas referred to the new building as "the palace in Dallas." You feel for both of them. The mayor has his legacy to think of. And nothing rhymes with Arlington.
As in all the rest of Texas, people in Arlington are so cordial and solicitous you think you've wandered into a very low-return long con. You'll be ten minutes deep in a conversation with some random passerby when you'll have a "Wait. Do I actually know this person?" moment. You don't. They're just built to act as if you do.
When a couple of us debated one night about how we should get back from the stadium in Houston – walk or take a cab? – a woman wandered into the midst of the conversation, saying, "I cannot in good conscience allow you to walk. You won't survive."
That was very kind of her. Also, life-saving. Don't walk in downtown Houston after dark, people.
Despite the cattle-driving cult, cars are a bigger deal in Texas than anywhere else. A week before the most recent Super Bowl in Dallas, they had a freak ice storm. Three days later, we were being bused to a suburban college campus where one of the teams was practising. As we passed through a neighbourhood, something struck me as odd. After a while, I figured out what it was – no tracks in the unshovelled snow. Neither tire nor foot. Not a one.
None of these people had left their houses for three days because they couldn't drive. I understand that a lot of people will live their whole lives in Texas. I assume it's because they dropped out of driving school, and are trapped.
You can't walk in Arlington. If you must walk, you walk from one parking lot to the next. It always seems to be 4 million degrees outside. If you get lost, your best plan is to lie down and wait to be rescued by friendly Texas vultures.
One day, walking from my car to the stadium in the vast parking-lot nothingness, a gentleman happened by in a golf cart. As one does.
I'm not sure why he was there, but unlike any sane Canadian, he stopped to give a stranger a lift. I'll never forget him, whoever he is. He's my ideal Texan. I'm sure his ancestors were the last people to die at the Alamo.
Three hours before a game in Arlington, there's no one around. An hour after a game, it returns to that state. You find yourself drifting toward the light – which is always a highway. It's as if the city itself knows you don't belong here and would like to point toward somewhere a little more happening.
But when a game's on, people just appear. Where are they from? How did they get here? No one knows. Or, at least, I didn't bother asking. The press box is air conditioned, and only a maniac with reptile blood would go out into the stands for more than a minute.
It's generally a good crowd, buoyed by a few years of good teams. They play Deep in the Heart of Texas mid-game, which is fun. I'll take their word for it that that's where we are. If so, it's a weird place. Friendly locals, but an odd locale. It's like Robert Moses doing the set-dressing for David Lynch.
Arlingtonians – our temporary enemies. Since the whole point of the postseason is picking a (gentle) fight with the fans of the other city, this could be a tough one.
There's no history between us. Beyond the most tiresome clichés, they have no idiosyncrasies to poke fun at. Also, I'm still not sure if they actually exist.
Cathal Kelly