Much of the anger has now passed. The recordings have gone cold, the vitriol has been spewed and all the jokes have been told about the stupid owner who was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple. The Oakland Athletics will soon go down in history, which means the time has come to put the sadness of the funeral behind them and instead focus on a well-deserved celebration of life.
In that spirit, this should be said: To the Oakland A’s, thank you.
For 57 summers, Oakland has had its own team. By extension, so would any kid like me, who would get much more out of baseball than just a fun distraction. This game brought me closer to feeling like I belonged.
In retrospect, it made perfect sense, the tension that came from growing up with dueling cultures. My parents came to the East Bay from the Philippines in the 1970s, and each had different ideas about blending in. My father seemed mostly indifferent to the Americanization of his children, and his enjoyment of sports seemed to revolve mainly around his ability to bet. on the outcome. However, my mother seemed to be careful that we remain connected to our origins. We ate the food and at least understood the language.
These are beautiful thoughts, and they remain top of mind, especially now with my own daughter and son. But at the time, they led to a feeling of not quite belonging. On TV, the families didn’t look like mine, and they didn’t eat the food my family ate. It all felt strange.
When I was nine, an older cousin introduced me to baseball by showing me a newspaper page he had taped to his wall. The blaring headline referred to the 40/40 club, and the photo showed a man holding up a base while wearing a uniform of green and gold. It was impossible to miss José Canseco.
Something about it must have been intriguing, because from that moment on the A’s became my gateway to a new world. They gave me something to watch after school and talk about the next day. I just received baseball, and it was such a good feeling that the other sports would soon become must-sees as well. This was the late ’80s and the Bash Brothers ruled the American League. Rickey Henderson could run. Dave Stewart stared through his opponents before dominating them. Mark McGwire hit the ball very far. And when Dennis Eckersley took the mound, the game was over after a flurry of sharp fastballs and nasty sliders. Baseball did not require cultural competence; no translation was necessary to appreciate it.
Summers were spent buying baseball cards, playing Bases Loaded on my Nintendo, and doing the play-by-play myself, peppering them with phrases like “Holy Toledo!” because that’s what Bill King did, and as everyone knew, Bill King was the best. As my siblings got older, they started watching too, and that just made it more fun. Years later, baseball gave us something to share.
But most of all, baseball gave me something to pursue, and it wasn’t until later in life that I came to appreciate it as a wonderful gift. It hadn’t occurred to me that this happens often not know the desired destination. While playing was out of the question, writing about baseball at least seemed within reach. The goal soon became to get into the press box. Thanks to some lucky bounces, it actually happened.
A Hall of Fame ballot arrives in my mailbox every fall. I was there when Derek Jeter collected his 3,000th goal. I was there when Dallas Braden gave Alex Rodriguez an impromptu lesson on workplace boundaries. I was there when the Chicago Cubs won their first World Series since 1908. And yes, I was there when Bartolo Colon hit a home run.
It probably sounds weird, but no matter what, I’ll always be able to say that I know what it’s like to touch a dream.
Without the Oakland A’s, it wouldn’t have happened.
As I take stock of my blessings, it is clear that so many of them come from baseball. It remains a constant in my life. It’s there in the background of so many conversations with my brother. It was there during our extended family camping trip this summer, when we recreated the batting positions of the A’s 1988 starting lineup, crouching like Rickey and swinging the bat like Carney Lansford. It was there twenty years ago, when we lost one of my sisters far too soon, and we did something we all knew she would have wanted. That’s why she wears the number 3 jersey of her favorite A-player, Eric Chavez.
I think about my sister often, especially now, and wonder what she would think about how it all turned out. Journalism requires that fandom be left at the press box door, so it’s been years since my mood depended on the outcome of an A game. Still, baseball allowed me to meet my wife, the Yankees fan who I’m convinced once took me to see “Moneyball” so she could revel in the grief her team had caused mine. It worked pretty well: our kids are growing up in a house where there’s always a ball game going on. So at least we know we’ll get that part right.
One recent morning, as I read from a story about Shohei Ohtani—a story that declared him the best player in the game—my daughter looked up with a take of her breakfast. She’s only six, but she’s already showing the beginnings of an outsized and loving personality, not unlike one of her namesakes, my sister.
“Excuse me,” she said. “What about Aaron Judge?”
My wife and I could only smile.
So thank you to the Oakland A’s. Thanks for existing. Thanks for 1989. Thanks for being so good at baseball (most of the time). Thanks for the Big Three. Thanks for the 20-game winning streak. Thank you for all those Sunday afternoons in the right field with my brother and my best friend. Thank you for inspiring a very happy child, who grew up to be a very happy man, who very much hopes that in Sacramento or Las Vegas somewhere there is a child who can still be moved by something as wonderful as having a baseball team to to call your own.
(Top photo of the Oakland A’s celebration after capturing the 1989 World Series by defeating the Giants: MLB via Getty Images)