Baseball Is Dead, Long Live Baseball
A lifelong Oakland A's fan shares his thoughts on the team's move
A note from Austin: So far, Omakase Formula has offered “traditional” written posts, interviews, and podcast episodes. Allow me now to introduce another change-up in the formula. In the first Omakase Formula guest post, my friend Jason discusses a poignant topic dear to any Bay Area native, resident, or baseball fan: the move of the Oakland A’s away from Oakland to Las Vegas. I highly recommend you give this a read, even if you’re not into baseball. It’s an informative—and, more importantly, beautiful—tribute to the end of an era, and I could not think of a better first guest post. I am eternally grateful to Jason for wanting to share his thoughts here.
My Last A’s Game
Bittersweet. That's the feeling that I, along with 46,888 other fans, were resigned to last Thursday when the Oakland Athletics played their final game at the Coliseum. This is not a post game summary. This is an obituary for my 26 year life as an Oakland Athletics fan. Below you’ll find a brief collection of my notes and anecdotes, both bitter and sweet, as a lifelong fan, a third-generation fan, and a hopeless romantic. After all, how can you not be romantic about baseball?
Pregame
It was sweet that September 26th started off like every other day I spent at MLB’s Last Dive Bar. My dad packed up our green backpack with A’s jerseys, A’s jackets, and a few baseballs in case we got a chance to get autographs. No matter where our seats were—Dad always had a ball and a pen, plus 68 backup pens. “You never know!” That was his line. Thanks to his optimism-fueled charm toward players, ushers, and equally ambitious fans alike, we have 10+ crates full of 40 years worth of autographs and memorabilia proving he was right.
As Dad and I entered the parking lot, and my brother crossed the notorious BART skybridge, we were greeted by the smell of street meat and the sight of green and gold in every direction. As usual, we turned down the offers of custom shirts, hats, and beer by the can as well as more illicit offerings available for purchase if you looked closely enough (you’re not a narc, are you?). Dad did bite, literally, on a bacon-wrapped hot dog for old time’s sake. For once, I don’t recall seeing any scalpers offering last minute tickets. Maybe it was because of the increased police presence, maybe it was because it cost $100 just to get a parking pass, or maybe everyone who wanted a ticket had already done everything they possibly could to get one—and nobody who had one was willing to give it up. That’s how I felt. That’s why I had traveled 500 miles to see my team in our ballpark one last time.
Personal Highlights
During the game, I reflected on some of my first and favorite A’s memories. I couldn’t help but see the echoes of Josh Hamilton in Game 162 of 2012 when Wyatt Langford misplayed a ball in the sun and allowed the deciding run to score. It goes well beyond in-game action, although I swear to this day Stephen Vogt pointed right at me when he saved the day in 2013 after Sonny Gray outdueled Justin Verlander for 8 innings in Game 2 of the ALDS. My family had the privilege over the years to experience “small market” specialties like player meet & greets, and I even took batting practice on the field a few years back. In the early days, it was players named Jason that always stole my heart. I met Giambi as a toddler. Jason Kendall inspired me to try catcher, though my knees could never handle the job for 9 full innings. In the later years, I settled into playing second base and took brief moments with legends from Dick Green to Mark Ellis to beg for advice in my own never-to-be big league career. David Justice donned a fedora and offered an extended hitting lesson during a particularly quiet Root Beer Float Day. There’s even a picture somewhere deep in the family albums of my brothers and I shoulder to shoulder with the “Big Hurt” himself, Frank Thomas, where his shoulders still break wider than the three of us combined.
When the A’s made their silver screen debut with Moneyball in 2011, we Stone boys were extras in the crowd. Even though our big scene with Jonah Hill was left on the cutting room floor (I should have left my enormously distracting foam cowboy hat at home—but you can find us in the DVD’s special features!), my dad scored tickets to the premiere where we ran into the real Billy Beane and Ron Washington in the lobby of the theater.
Like my childhood love of baseball these days, the authors of so many of these moments live only in solemn memory now. I cherish a signed jersey from Dave Henderson, now passed, where he simply inscribed “still havin’ fun.” My brother, an aspiring left-handed pitcher himself, and his teammate once approached the late great Vida Blue and asked for the best advice a catcher can give his pitcher on the mound. “Lie to me,” he replied, failing to contain his smile. “Tell me I’m doing great! Tell me nobody can touch my stuff today!” On more than one occasion, I ran into former champion turned broadcaster Ray Fosse at my local grocery store. Ray never failed to stop and chat about baseball to an excited, if a bit overwhelmed, fan like me. His calls on the countless clips I have bookmarked on YouTube still give me goosebumps every time.
Even so, in the grand scheme of things, I’ve only seen a shred of the Oakland Athletics’ storied 57-year history. I ran the math with Dad last season, and we estimated I’ve been to at least 300 games in person. My dad has almost surely doubled that figure in the time since my grandfather passed down our season tickets as a wedding present. Our goal was to keep them in the family. My goal, now in tatters, was to share moments like these with my own kids when the time came.
“A Business Decision”
I can’t even imagine what my grandfather would say if he were alive today, but I’m sure it would be full of expletives directed at John Fischer, Rob Manfred, and the rest of the decision-makers who are forcing the last major professional sports franchise in Oakland from one of the largest markets in the country—albeit a shared one—to the smallest in the league (Las Vegas) by way of an even smaller one (Sacramento), all in the name of business. You could write an entire series, even a book, on the decisions and mistakes that led us here. My friend Mitch rightly pointed out that the case of the A’s will surely be a study in business school courses and beyond for decades to come, showcasing how the worst ownership group in the modern history of American sports obliterated its own fan base. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with these analyses of market concern and concerns over the decision-making process from more professional sources than me. You can also learn more about the latest “attempt” to keep the team in Oakland here.
In short, there is fair blame to go around among each of the powers that be, including leadership in the city of Oakland. But it was the ownership who teased fans and community leaders before abandoning the project to prioritize a venture in Las Vegas. Even now, the Nevada project carries fewer guarantees and a glaring lack of community benefits that were deemed so critical to success in the Oakland negotiations. Tim Keown, a senior writer at ESPN, covered some of these missing links here:
“The Major League Baseball Players Association has yet to approve the changes to Sutter Health Park [in Sacramento]. There are no final renderings of the Las Vegas ballpark. The list goes on. The A's, in a characterization the team believes is unwarranted, are viewed as the mythical snake eternally eating its own tail. It was a sign when the A's abandoned the first site they planned in Vegas, and a sign when it was revealed that the current location, on the site of the soon-to-be demolished Tropicana Casino and Resort, consists of just 9 acres to build a domed or retractable-roof ballpark. (The A's say the space is not an issue, but the smallest park in the big leagues, Target Field in Minneapolis, sits on 8 acres.) And it is considered an ongoing sign that Fisher has not presented a financing plan to fund the ballpark costs beyond the $380 million in public funding provided by the state of Nevada.”
As an A’s fan for 26 years watching no less than five widely circulated plans to relocate the team within and beyond Oakland, I’ve learned to wait until shovels are in the ground—if not for the first pitch in a live game—to say with certainty where the team will be in five years. Ironically, it’s another case where my dad’s “you never know” line still comes in handy. While that may give some lasting resolve to fans for the moment, it’s no comfort to hundreds of staff to whom Fischer, Aramark, and co. offered no warning, no severance, and no alternatives for dedicated workers when they pulled the rug out in April. I’d encourage you to watch Larry Beil’s well-articulated and impassioned response to Fischer’s insult of a ghost-written letter to summarize my feelings on the ownership’s behavior. Or, consider this soundbite from my favorite show—Ted Lasso—where Hannah Waddingham’s character beautifully summarizes, as the owner of the central team in the fictional series, how sports are meant to be so much more than a business in the first place.
Lasting Questions
Over this last season, my own anger and even my disappointment are often overcome in favor of a tortured curiosity:
Why the sudden rush? Keown’s report, also referenced above, estimated the ultimate shortfall in the Howard Terminal project in Oakland to be $36 million. $36 million within a $12 billion total project, or 0.3%. Keep in mind that this iteration of a new stadium also included affordable housing, offices, restaurants, retail, small business space, parks, and public gathering spaces spanning 55 acres to support the local community. I can understand preferring a venture that’s an order of magnitude smaller, and surely Fischer and company find less risk in a fresh start and a smaller project despite the market itself being smaller too. With that said, they’ve known those scales for years. If the project was simply too risky, they could share some of the research they spent millions of dollars gathering to help us understand their dilemma. It wouldn’t be the first time they got ahead of themselves in announcing a move, and it might have reduced the bitter feeling of betrayal they’re leaving behind. With that said, it cannot be ignored just how close this collaborative effort came to fruition. It would have been a game changer for the community of Oakland well beyond baseball.
Why Las Vegas? The city has long been a target for expansion as MLB eyes broader growth. Las Vegas has also welcomed the Golden Knights (NHL) as well as another former Oakland pillar, the Raiders (NFL), in recent years, with varying levels of success so far. I don’t doubt that Las Vegas can support a sports team. But three could be a tall order, not to mention baseball brings a larger home schedule than either of those other sports. I’m not alone in this concern. Despite potential opportunities leveraging the local gaming industry, convention circuit, and high tourist traffic, the A’s themselves are already trying to avoid hosting the full slate in their potential new home. Either way, even if MLB wants to bring a team to Las Vegas, that team does not need to be the A’s.
What’s the difference between the Oakland and Las Vegas proposals? Everything but the baseball. Along with actualizing the geographic and emotional abandonment of generations of fans, the Las Vegas proposal lacks all of the added community benefits and related financial opportunities for city and owner alike that were deemed critical to keeping the team in Oakland via Howard Terminal. There are no provisions for affordable housing, retail, office space, small business space, or parks and open spaces demanded in the Vegas venture. This comes as no surprise given the current proposed site for a Las Vegas stadium is only 9 acres, and the smallest active MLB park occupies 8. The only observable similarity between the two projects, meanwhile, seems to be that Fischer is still relying on significant public funding to get the deal done, despite the Las Vegas proposal being ten times smaller than the Howard Terminal proposal.
My Challenge, and My Warning
I’m not asking for a Deadpool-sized miracle, though there have allegedly been standing offers to save our team for over a decade. But if evident justification is that it’s for the good of the business to keep and move the team, they ought to prove it. In truth, the Oakland Athletics have never been a “small market team”—only a small-budget one, as I alluded to earlier—but Fischer and co. are walking themselves into that constraint now. If they really want to win a championship, they’ll need to show it. I don’t believe fans, media, or even the other owners will continue to tolerate a small-budget product that allows this group to benefit from revenue sharing to the extent they have for the last two decades. We should all be able to see ownership and the front office explain how they’ll recruit championship level talent to a AAA stadium where game days could regularly reach temperatures over 100 degrees, let alone pay them the market rate salaries they’ve failed to commit to in the ~19 years Fischer has already owned the team in Oakland. If ownership continues to flail and fail in half-hearted attempts to put a legitimate baseball product on the field, I expect they’ll find the same bitter result in Sacramento and even Las Vegas that they did in Oakland: inconsistent attendance and team performance, led even in its finest moments by rising stars who will inevitably be traded away as their inexpensive rookie contracts near arbitration and expiration.
Consider this: Oakland set records for high attendance as recently as their wild-card run in 2019. So, while more than 54,000 people showed up to a single game when the team was competitive, they drew some of the smallest crowds in the league this year when they weren't competitive, all while grappling with ongoing rumors of the move. This time, though, the A’s won’t have generations of diehard fans willing to line the owner’s pocketbook while they wait and see if a combination of young talent and lovable journeymen can compete with their competitors’ well-established and even better-compensated stars.
What’s a Fan to Do?
Baseball is and always has been a huge part of my life. I don’t want that to change, but something has to. I’m entertaining the idea of changing team allegiances. I live in San Diego now, and the Padres offer a competitive team, honorable ownership, and a beautiful stadium in Petco Park. The Mariners were actually my first “local” team (and hat!) even before the A’s, and would enable me to maintain my fierce divisional dislike of the Astros. The Giants were always just across the Bay, and have actually won a title in my lifetime. Several friends have even offered to equip me free of charge with some of the orange and black attire they’ve collected from even before the dynasty run of the 2010s. I’ve actually toyed with hosting a party in the spirit of a high school athlete’s “commitment day” where I could confirm which hat, literally, I’ll put on next as a fan.
For now, all of that is on hold. I can’t bring myself to consider a new team when the pain is so fresh. Even now, I hold a shred of hope that an Oakland A’s miracle, a Howard Terminal Hail Mary if you will, ensues one last time to keep the team where they belong. Even as the frustration mellows and the hope fades, though, I’ll add this: we are not alone. Many share the frustrations of an unnamed A’s fan of 30 years I met in the parking lot at that last game. Born in Michigan, I asked if he’ll return attention to his hometown Detroit Tigers as they resumed relevance this October. “It’s not just Fischer. It’s Manfred and MLB that made this happen—I won’t be a baseball fan after today.” Respect.
Last Call at the Last Dive Bar
Amid final calls of “Let’s Go Oakland” mixed with “Sell The Team”—and, more sparingly, “F*** John Fischer”—the Oakland Athletics won a baseball game at home for the last time. A pack formed to my left full of rowdier fans waiting in the aisle to see if the crowd at large would storm the field. Only two took the leap and were quickly detained by the aforementioned large security presence. While players and staff lingered on the field, the rest of us simply sat, stood, and paced the concrete monstrosity we had learned to love so dearly and wondered what to do with ourselves. Like so many others, I even got a bag of dirt to take home thanks to the kindness of the Coliseum staff.
At the end of the day, the Coliseum was a relic that held nostalgia and, I dare say, gritty charm. But that was as much or more so because of its apparent flaws (see: rally opossum) as it ever was the traditional amenities. It was the last “dual-purpose” stadium in major professional sports, hosting both baseball and football before the Raiders’ exit a few years ago. And while my dad rarely went nine innings without reflecting on how beautiful the view was before Mt. Davis (the nickname given to the upper-center field bleachers installed by the Raiders’ ownership when the stadium was still shared) was added, it always had expansive foul territory and brought unique angles from the sun too, creating a “pitcher’s park” environment and, in my view, one of the few reasonable yet noteworthy home-field advantages. Here is the Coliseum in all its glory back in 1989—coincidentally the last time the A’s won a title:
For any other team, in any other ballpark, in any other world, a 3-2 win fueled by exciting highlights from up-and-coming stars in front of a sold-out crowd is all you can ask for. In this case, I wanted more. I wanted extra innings. “That’s free baseball,” my grandfather used to say. I wanted one last magical walk-off win like they had on Tuesday night and countless times before. Truth be told, I didn’t want the game to end at all.
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