How could the A's ungrateful owner do this to us loyal fans?
We've been dumped before, but this one feels like a bat to the head.
How could they do this to us? And by “they,” I'm including a long list of guilty, betraying, ungrateful, emotionally abusive parties, starting with Messrs. John Fisher and Dave Kaval. What did we ever do to them besides giving them our money and cheering for their underfunded team?
We showed up in the rain, in the smoke, in the heat, in the marine layer. We showed up when they were 3-15 and down by 10 runs and stayed through the 9th inning (as in last week). We took out-of-town guests to Monday night games and bought them $95 Khris Davis jerseys. We drummed, we bought hot dogs from Hal, we believed in Stephen Vogt. The only thing we never did was pay for parking.
I've had divorces that were less painful than this. And like a bad marriage, everyone understands logically that the end is inevitable, has been foretold for decades, and is actually a step toward healing. But when the papers finally arrive, the shock and heartbreak is horrifically fresh. People will say, “After all this time, it must come as a relief.” No, it is not a relief. I don't care how unhealthy it is, I want my A's back!
It's about the memories, of course, the good times when we were all better people. Carefree afternoons with cherished old friends, some now departed. Players who brought us so much joy — Rickey Henderson, Miguel Tejada, Dave Stewart.
The low-key charm of the Coliseum — cheap tickets and garlic fries, feral cats and possums, the aroma of bacon-wrapped sausages grilling on the aerial walkway, the glorious sunshine and legroom on the third deck.
It's about the East Bay panoply. The newspaper may be filled with carjackings, mudslides, tragedy and injustices of all kinds, but at the Coliseum we were at our best. We left the mayhem behind at first pitch. Girl Scouts from Antioch, senior clubs from Hayward, birthday parties from Manteca — the Coliseum was a place of fellowship and fun, with not a tech bro in sight. Watching my fellow East Bay denizens enjoy a ballgame brought me more joy than the game itself.
And it's about hope. Of course, for A's fans, it's always about hope. Hope that they keep a favorite player. Hope they beat the Astros. Hope they fix the plumbing. Hope that some benevolent billionaire buys the team and invests it with the cash and love it deserves. Hope the worst-case scenario, the option they've been threatening for a decade, never comes to pass.
In fact, we're all so accustomed to hope that it feels unreal to see it ripped away. Is this really the end? No more last-ditch efforts at reconciliation? No more couples counseling? No more extra-inning miracles? I just can't believe it. It's incomprehensible that the A's would leave us, the best fans in Major League Baseball. And for what? That floozy in the desert? They will regret it, especially when that retractable roof malfunctions.
Wouldn't it be nice if a professional sports team in Oakland actually wanted to be here and didn't act as if they were enduring unspeakable hardships? Maybe the Oakland Roots are that team, I don't know, because I'm too depressed to go. Maybe a WNBA team will appreciate us. Maybe we should throw our lot in with amateurs — the Oakland High Wildcats are on a winning streak, and they're definitely not moving to Las Vegas.
As for the A's, I'll never forgive them, but I won't cling to bitterness, either. The grief will ebb, the wounds will heal, the big wheel will keep on turning. The A's will become part of Oakland's past, like Flint's and Genova deli — a happy but dim memory. Will we ever be friends? Not likely, but we won't be enemies, either.
Unless they want to give it one more shot! Please please please! It's not too late! We'll pay for parking this time, we promise.