By now, most of the anger has passed. The filming got cold and snarky, and all the jokes were about this stupid owner who was born on third base and thought he hit a triple. The Oakland Athletics will soon be history, which means it’s time to move on from the sadness of a funeral and toward a well-deserved celebration of life.
In that spirit, it should be said: Oakland Athletics, thank you.
For 57 summers, Oakland has had its own team. By extension, so did every kid like me who got more out of baseball than just a cute pastime. This game brings me closer to belonging.
In retrospect, this makes perfect sense, given the tensions that come with growing up in competing cultures. My parents came to the East Bay from the Philippines in the 1970s, and they each had different ideas about fitting in. The ability to gamble is related to the outcome. However, my mom seemed hell-bent on making sure we stayed connected to our origins. We can eat food and at least understand language.
These are wonderful thoughts and they remain at the forefront of my mind, especially now that I am with my own daughter and son. But at the time, they led to a sense of not quite belonging. On TV, these families don’t look like my family, and they don’t eat the food my family eats. Everything feels weird.
Then, when I was nine, an older cousin showed me newspaper pages he had taped to the wall and introduced me to baseball. The catchy headline referenced the 40/40 Club, and the photo showed a man in a green and gold uniform holding a pedestal. It’s impossible to miss Jose Canseco.
It must have been fun because from that moment on, A became my gateway to a new world. They gave me something to watch after school and talk about the next day. I just get Baseball, it’s such a good feeling, other sports are quickly becoming required to watch. It was the late 1980s, and the Bash brothers dominated the American League. Ricky Henderson could run. Dave Stewart stares a hole in his opponent before dominating them. Mark McGwire hits the ball very, very far. When Dennis Eckersley came to the mound, after a series of pinpoint fastballs and a nasty slider, the game was over. Baseball requires no literacy—no translation is required to appreciate it.
The summer was spent buying baseball cards, playing Bases Loaded on my Nintendo, providing my own play-by-play, interspersed with phrases like “Holy Toledo!” Because that’s what Bilkin does, and everyone knows Bilkin is the best. As my siblings got older they started watching too which just made things more interesting. Years later, baseball has given us another thing to share.
But most importantly, baseball gave me something to chase, and it wasn’t until later that I began to realize what a wonderful gift it was. I didn’t expect it to be more common no Know the desired destination. While playing ball was out of the question, writing about baseball at least seemed within reach. Soon the goal became getting into the press box. Thanks to a bunch of lucky bounces, it actually happened.
Every fall, Hall of Fame ballots arrive in my mailbox. I was there when Derek Jeter got 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 the World Series for the first time since 1908. And, yes, I was there when Bartolo Colon hit that home run.
This may sound silly, but no matter what happens next, I can always say I know what it feels like to reach for your dreams.
None of this would have happened without the Oakland Athletics.
When taking stock of my blessings, it’s obvious that many of them come from baseball. It remains a constant in my life. This was the backdrop to many conversations my brother and I had. There we were, during a big family camping trip this summer, imitating the batting stance of the 1988 A’s starting lineup, crouching like Rickey, like Carney Lansford Swinging the bat the same way. When we lost one of my sisters prematurely 20 years ago, we did something we both knew she would have wanted. That’s why she’s wearing the No. 3 jersey of her favorite A’s player, Eric Chavez.
I think about my sister often, especially now, and wonder how she feels about how it all turned out. Journalism demands that fans be left at the door of the press box, so for years my emotions have hinged on the outcome of A’s games. Baseball, however, introduced me to my wife, who is a Yankees fan and I’m sure she once took me to see Moneyball so she could revel in the heartache her team caused me. It worked out great – our kids grew up in a house where there was always a ball game. So at least we know we’re going to get this part right.
One recent morning, as I read aloud a story about Shohei Ohtani—one that proclaimed him the best player in the sport—my daughter looked up from her breakfast. She was only six years old, but she was already beginning to exhibit a huge and loving personality, just like one of her namesakes, my sister.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What about Aaron Judge?”
My wife and I could only smile.
So, thank you Oakland Athletics. Thank you for your presence. Thank you for 1989. Thank you Big Three. Thank you for the 20-game winning streak. Thank you for all the Sunday afternoons spent in right field with my brother and my best friend. Thank you for inspiring a very lucky kid who grew up to be a very lucky man who desperately wishes there was a kid in Sacramento or Las Vegas who could still be blessed by something as wonderful as owning a baseball team Move yourself.
(Best photos of the Oakland Athletics celebrating after defeating the Giants to win the 1989 World Series: MLB via Getty Images)
