Now most of the anger has passed. The opinions have cooled, the accusations have flowed, and the jokes about the foolish owner thinking he was born on third base and hit a triple have all spread. The Oakland Athletics will soon be history. That means it’s time to move on from the sadness of the funeral and instead celebrate life.
In that spirit, I would like to say this: Thank you, Oakland A’s.
For 57 summers, Oakland had its own team. By extension, all kids like me could get more than just a nice pastime from baseball. The game brought me closer to belonging.
In retrospect, the tensions I experienced growing up in two cultures were perfectly valid. My parents had come to the East Bay from the Philippines in the 1970s, and both had different ideas about blending. My father seemed largely indifferent to his children’s Americanization, and his enjoyment of sports seemed to depend largely on his ability to bet on the outcome. My mother, however, seemed intent on keeping us connected to our origins. We ate the food, and at least understood the language.
These are great ideas, and I hold them close to my heart, especially now with my daughter and son. But at the time, it led to a feeling of total lack of belonging. The families on TV looked different from my family, and they didn’t eat the food my family ate. Everything felt strange.
Then, when I was nine, an older cousin introduced me to baseball by showing me a newspaper page taped to the wall. The flashy headline mentioned the 40/40 Club, and the picture showed a guy in green and gold on base. It was impossible to miss Jose Canseco.
There must have been something interesting, because from that moment on, A’s became a gateway to a new world. It gave me something to see after school and something to talk about the next day. Just take Baseball, and other sports that felt so good, soon became must-watch. It was the late 80s and the Bash Brothers ruled the American League. Rickey Henderson could run. Dave Stewart could run through and beat guys. Mark McGwire could hit the ball long. And when Dennis Eckersley came on the mound, a series of accurate fastballs and devastating sliders ended the game. Baseball didn’t require cultural fluency. It didn’t require translation to appreciate.
Summers were spent buying baseball cards, playing Bases Loaded on the Nintendo, providing play-by-play, and saying things like “Holy Toledo!” Bill King did it, and as we all know, Bill King was the best. As my brothers and sisters grew up, they also started watching, and it just got more fun. Years later, baseball gave us something else to share.
But more than anything, baseball gave me something to pursue, and it wasn’t until later in life that I realized this was a great gift. I didn’t realize it was more common. ~ No I knew where I wanted to go. Playing the game was out of the question, but writing about baseball was at least within reach. Soon, my goal was to get into the press box. Luckily, I bounced around several times and it actually happened.
Every fall, the Hall of Fame ballot arrives in my mailbox. I was there when Derek Jeter recorded his 3,000th hit. 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 homered.
It may sound stupid, but no matter what happens in the future, I will always be able to say that I know what it’s like to touch my dreams.
If it weren’t for the Oakland A’s, none of this would have happened.
As I sorted through my blessings, it became clear that many of them flowed from baseball. It’s a constant in my life. It’s in the background of so many conversations I have with my brother. It was on our big family camping trip this summer. We mimicked the batting stance of the 1988 A’s starting lineup, crouching like Rickey and swinging our bats like Carney Lansford. It was also 20 years ago, when I lost one of my sisters too soon. We did what we all knew she would have wanted. So she wears the No. 3 jersey of her favorite A’s player, Eric Chavez.
I think about my sister a lot, especially now, and wonder what she thinks about how it all went down. Journalism is about leaving fandom at the newsroom door, so it’s been years since I’ve had my feelings about the A’s game. But thanks to baseball, I’ve met my wife, a Yankees fan, and I’m sure she’s taken me to “Moneyball” to savor the heartache my team has caused my team. It’s worked out pretty well. My kids are growing up in a house where baseball is always going on, so I know I can at least get that part right.
One morning recently, as I was reading aloud about Shohei Ohtani—in which he was declared the greatest player in the game—my daughter looked up from her breakfast and commented. She was only six, but she was already showing the beginnings of a wild and loving personality, much like her namesake, my sister.
“Excuse me,” she said. “What about Aaron Judge?”
My wife and I could only smile.
Thank you Oakland A’s. Thank you for existing. Thank you for 1989. Thank you for (mostly) playing baseball. Thank you for the Big Three. Thank you for the 20-game winning streak. Thank you for Sunday afternoons in right field with my brother and best friend. Thank you for inspiring a very lucky kid. He grew up to be a very lucky kid, and I sincerely hope that somewhere in Sacramento or Las Vegas, there is a kid who can still be inspired by the wonderful thing that is a baseball team.
(Above photo: Oakland A’s celebrate after defeating the Giants to win the World Series in 1989: MLB via Getty Images)
