There was a time when baseball in Montreal felt eternal. The crack of the bat under the roof of Olympic Stadium, the rhythmic hum of bilingual cheers, and the bright red, white, and blue of the Expos’ tricolor “M” stitched into the soul of a city that prided itself on being both distinctly French and defiantly North American. The Expos were more than a ballclub — they were Montreal’s handshake with the big leagues, proof that Quebec could not only play America’s pastime but redefine it in its own image. And yet, two decades after the last pitch was thrown, the ghosts of that team still linger like an unfinished verse in the song of summer.

The story of how the Expos became the Washington Nationals isn’t simply about relocation; it’s about erosion. It began with ambition and ended with indifference, buried under the weight of a concrete stadium built for the Olympics and not for the slow, beating rhythm of 162 games. For years, Olympic Stadium leaked not only rainwater but hope. A crumbling roof and failing attendance figures became metaphors for a franchise left waiting for someone — anyone — to care enough to save it. But in the end, baseball’s business machine proved colder than Montreal’s early spring nights. When Jeffrey Loria, the art dealer turned owner, arrived promising stability and vision, he instead became the instrument of departure.

The deal that sent the Expos south wasn’t a sale so much as a sleight of hand — a franchise swap that felt almost too absurd to be true. Loria sold the Expos to Major League Baseball, who then sold him the Florida Marlins, while John Henry, the Marlins’ owner, went on to purchase the Boston Red Sox. It was baseball’s version of a shell game, and when the dust settled, Montreal was left empty-handed. MLB took control of the Expos like a ward of the state, quietly plotting their future elsewhere. From 2003 to 2004, the team played part of its schedule in San Juan, Puerto Rico — an odd limbo for a club that no longer knew which city it truly belonged to.

By the time Washington came calling, the fight had drained from the north. Charlotte and Portland were floated as potential suitors, but only the U.S. capital had both the money and political will to bring baseball back after a 33-year absence. In 2005, the Expos became the Nationals, a team reborn but carrying the DNA of a city that still mourned them. To many in Montreal, the move felt less like a new beginning and more like a quiet funeral — one held across a border, out of sight, out of reach. The Expos’ final season had ended with sparse crowds, but for those who remained, the grief was deeply personal.

Yet even in absence, the Expos never truly died. Their logo adorns caps and retro jerseys, their legends — from Gary Carter to Vladimir Guerrero — live on in Cooperstown, and their spirit flickers in the nostalgia of a generation that refuses to let go. The new Netflix documentary Who Killed the Montreal Expos? captures that ache perfectly — a blend of civic pride, cultural friction, and unresolved heartbreak. It reminds us that the Expos weren’t just lost to economics or politics, but to a clash of values: the Québécois belief in community against America’s obsession with profit and spectacle.

​​If the Blue Jays are now Canada’s team, they still play in the shadow of the one that came first. Montreal’s fans, loyal yet wistful, still talk about “next time” — the day when the Expos might return, with a proper ballpark and a league willing to believe in them again. Until then, the story of the Montreal Expos remains baseball’s most haunting parable: how a team with heart, history, and hope was traded away like a commodity, and how a city still listens for the faint echo of a crowd that once filled the Big O, chanting “Let’s go, Expos!” into the night.