I think the first thought that ran through my head after switching off my 7:00 alarm the morning of the last game in Oakland was to wonder if I was ready for it. The day before, my flight from Detroit into the city that was about to lose the baseball team that had called it home for nearly 60 years had unexpectedly been canceled, giving me an opportunity to walk away from whatever this was going to be. I’d hastily booked an alternative flight for that same evening but still hadn’t known that I’d made the right decision until the Lyft to my Airbnb took me close enough to the stadium to see the lights humming for the early innings of the second to last game that would ever be played there.
Tying up my shoes to head out, I wondered if 8:00 AM I was a little too early. As it turned out, I was very late to the party. And the funeral. And somehow both.
Approaching the Coliseum
The ride over gave me a few minutes to think about why I came. It always felt inevitable that the A’s would fall to my beloved Tigers in all those dramatic playoff series’. And yet they had just as many World Series titles while in Oakland and maybe as many near misses if not for those dramatic moments that most often went the other way. This team that seemed like a permanent underdog, right up to the point where all the failures around them had paved the way for their departure.
Stepping out of the car felt like being dropped into an Opening Day: grilling and cornhole and lawn chairs overflowed the parking lot. And something I didn’t quite expect: laughter. Tons of people smiling, laughing, and hanging together through it all. For sure an unmistakable undercurrent of frustration and anger, as easy as the “Sell” flags/shirts could be spotted, but these were definitely not the dominant outward emotions as compared to the camaraderie and compassion that washed over everything.
The Last Dive Bar in Baseball
Working my way through security and into the concourse, it was pretty easy to see why the stadium had picked up the wonderful nickname “the last dive bar in baseball.” It was a little grimy. The seats were a little battered. There were still troughs in the men’s bathrooms. But it was very easy to see how it could be loved by people who grew up with it. It could be fiercely defended against the haters, in much the same way that you might tease a beloved relative, but would rush to their defense if someone outside our clan spoke against them. You could sit in a rickety green seat, take a deep breath and gaze up to the scoreboard screens and be serenading with a replay of the 1972 World Series (I believe the triumphant game 4). It was hard not to smile.
I was early enough to get through a short line for a burger and a beer, and had an experience that spoke well for how the rest of the day would continue to unfold:
Cashier: “Burger, fries, beer – $36”
Me: “I’m not sure the credit card machine’s working…?”
Cashier (stares at it for a few seconds): “Honey, you want to just do $20 cash?”
There was what I would describe, under the circumstances, a charming lawlessness abound: Open smoking of cigarettes (and other substances), a significant uptick in expletives (most often directed at owner John Fisher), and quite a few instances of sticky fingers that would only intensify.
Celebrating the Athletics
The day started out cool and thickly overcast. An initial tour of the park and peek into the gift shop (much of which had been cleared out in the preceding weeks) left me just enough time to get to my seat up on the divisive Mount Davis. And then that touch of divinity that seems to happen just for baseball: the clouds melted away and the sun shined brightly almost perfectly in sync for Rickey Henderson and Dave Stewart to soak in the glory as they fired in the first pitch and for Barry Zito to give a tender rendition of the National anthem, punctuated with a jet flyover.
I was lucky to sit next to a great mix of fans. To my right, a young couple, Dodger fans that had just recently begun touring ballparks. And to my left, a boisterous group of guys that was the purest heart-on-sleeve party I could’ve hoped to meet.
The game played out slowly which allowed for more observation. Counting the number of “Sell” flags on the lower bowl (24ish), taking an unofficial tally of the most popular jerseys (Josh Donaldson, Dennis Eckersley, and Josh Reddick at the top, surprisingly no Hudson/Mulder/Zito!), and just watching individual people and how they reacted as the innings slowly wound down.
Understanding the Oakland Experience
What apprehension or fear I may have had for brawls taking place evaporated in the realization that everyone there would’ve considered that a form of friendly fire. Whatever memories or experiences each individual person brought with them, these fans were all in it together. The defiance I continuously heard seemed to take that off the table, as if to not give the ‘powers that be’ that satisfaction.
By stretch time, those emotions had begun to really boil over. Banners were unfurled, green smoke bombs fired in the stands, and then onto the field. Stoppage every few outs to pick up beer bottles as the “Sell the team” chants roared.
Upon entry, the first several thousand fans were given a souvenir ticket. They were also given a voucher to receive a replica coliseum figurine. Inspection of the voucher made the whole thing seem a little disingenuous: in order to exchange it, you had to leave the ballpark, starting in the 7th inning, and would not be allowed reentry. I was glad that this didn’t seem like a conspiracy theory to the fans in my section either as we talked it through: nudging as many people out of the stadium as possible before the end.
Getting Some Closure
By the time Mason Miller came in for a four-out save, that had hardly mattered. There is no way a single fan left before the 100+ mph fastballs began to reign down. By then, I was watching men openly weeping around me. Those heart-on-sleeves folks to my left, maybe sensing that tipping point in themselves, decided the time was right to stomp off the cup holders on their seats as keepsakes and to shake hands and part until we meet again. Fans were tackled on the field and police presence was at a high, but even then there was no threat to any specific person (excluding anyone that might own a baseball team).
And then that last fastball. Strike three. Game over. Massive roars and hugs and high fives. Kool & The Gang’s ‘Celebration’ blasted over the speakers: a song that I understand they’ve always played following a victory, and one that felt somehow perfect as a bridge between the joy and sadness. The “Let’s go Oakland” chants that followed I swear were loud enough to bring the whole dive bar down. They swept through the stands, carried us all back to the endless tailgates, to the train station and beyond.
