R.I.P. Oakland A's — Part 2 of 3
Part 2 of 3 about the heartbreak of being an A's fan
Part 2: The (sort of) present
In the last few years, it became harder to muster the emotional energy to go see a team whose owners were actively destroying it. You can get the detailed John Fisher greed saga a number of other places—I won’t go into it. But the long and short of it for me was this: I never cared about the business of baseball. Fans shouldn’t have to. If you like to debate and discuss trades, salaries, etc., then by all means. That’s part of the fun for some people. For me, though, it’s always been about the game on the field, the community, and the zen-like focus of watching the game.
It’s a slow game, and I like it that way. Some folks prefer basketball, football, soccer, hockey, etc. because there’s nonstop action. Baseball can be kind of “blink and you miss it.” But that’s what I love about it. You sit there at the ballpark, or on your couch or barstool, and pay attention. It requires a kind of active focus, during which a whole lot of nothing happens. But then: the crack of the bat, or Rickey steals a base (or a few hundred) and SOMETHING DEFINITELY HAPPENS. Then we’re all on our feet, cheering or screaming or shaking our heads depending on the outcome. But boy do you feel like you’re in it with the team and the other folks watching.
But I digress. The point is it’s always been about the game, the players, the feeling, the camaraderie, and the legacy for me. A friend of mine once said that sports are all about family: you like the team you like most likely because your dad, or your aunt, or your best friend, or your coworkers do. You form a tribe. You tease members of the other tribes. You celebrate together. You say, “We’ll do better next time”—together.
As attendance, budgets, and wins dwindled at the Coliseum, I realized I’d better get out there some more. My 40th birthday was spent with my brothers and sisters-in-law and a few close friends in the stands. I took one of my other best friends who doesn’t normally go to games. I met up with the other aforementioned childhood friend Brian when he was in town. It didn’t feel quite the same, but one thing did: the concrete of the Coliseum still held my feet up. It may be cracked in places and covered with sewage in others, but it’s a home away from home for me.
When the news came that the 2024 season would be their last in the Coliseum, I made a point to go to a handful of games. I even sat in the front row right behind home plate for one glorious summer game. And then, I took one last journey to witness their final home game in Oakland on Thurs., Sept. 26 (again accompanied by Adam, as well as my wife and a handful of other friends old and new). It was surreal.
The mood was funereal, but also somehow joyous? Fans were celebrating the past and mourning the lost future. People bought each other beers. We took pictures with legends like Banjo Man and Krazy George. We tipped the heck out of the Coliseum employees. We cried like babies (or at least I did) after that last pitch, which thankfully won the game. Seeing “A’s win” on the big screens—already stripped of their sponsored branding—for the last time is what set me off.
The players rushed the field. Number 24 himself, Rickey Henderson, got out there and doled out hugs to the players—none of us knowing that he would not live to see the A’s first season outside of Oakland in 56 years (goddamnit now I’m crying again). GM Mark Kotsay gave a touching, fan-centered farewell speech that far eclipsed any of the hollow statements from Fisher and co.
For the first time in more than half a century, there is no major league baseball in Oakland. No Stomper, the elephant mascot of the A’s. No rowdy cheering section with drums and flags in right field. No dot racing on the big screen. No Wave. No Oakland Athletics.
It’s hard to even write, and harder to process.
To be continued…
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