One Last Day at the Oakland Coliseum
I had to go to one final game before the A’s abandoned Oakland.
I can tell you the exact moment the Oakland A’s broke my heart for the first time — it was October 15, 1988, at roughly 8:39 pm. Protecting a one-run lead in the bottom of the ninth, Dennis Eckersley faced a hobbled Kirk Gibson of the Los Angeles Dodgers with a runner on second base. Eckersley threw a slider and Gibson crushed it into the stands in right-center field, winning the opening game of the 1988 World Series and, more importantly, taking the wind from the sails of the seemingly invincible A’s who would go on to lose the series 4-1.
I cried my eyes out. I was only 8, but I knew the series was over, and I was utterly devastated. I still shudder 30+ years later when I see the highlight — but that’s what you sign up for when you fall in love, especially with sports. The A’s have broken my heart numerous times over the years, but my affection always returned. Not this time.
The Oakland A’s died on September 26, 2024, at 3:06 pm when they beat the Texas Rangers 3-2 and left Rickey Henderson Field at the Oakland Coliseum for the final time. After 57 years in The Town, the team will be heading east on I-80 to Sacramento for at least the next three years before eventually moving to Las Vegas.
Regardless of what the incompetent, billionaire owner John Fisher is doing to the team, the Irish in my blood won’t let me mope around and treat this like a funeral. I grew up in Walnut Creek, California, loving the A’s, and I need my goodbye to be a celebration of life. So I called my dad in Florida and made some plans — we were going back to the Coliseum together for the first time since 1994.
When we arrive there are memories to be found everywhere. The spot where I dropped a foul ball. The luxury box where I saw Mr. T. Even the dilapidated restrooms brought something back. It’s too late to go back to the Coliseum, but I can at least try to show you what it meant to me.
Section 106, Front Row, Seats 1-2
It is 1985, and I am in kindergarten. My dad was able to score tickets here, in the first row, right in front of the bullpen on the first base side. I was in absolute awe the entire time. When you’re that young you don’t quite understand that the people you’ve been watching on TV can also exist out in the real world. And I really didn’t have any idea how big they would be!
The next time my dad took me to the Coliseum we had very good seats (about 10 rows up) but like a spoiled little shit I told my dad, “Next time you should get the tickets we had last time.” I very seriously considered trying to get these same seats when we made our return, only to bookend things perfectly… and to be the same little shit at 44 by turning to my dad and saying, “See, we could have always sat here.”
Instead, I got tickets that would be in the shade since it was a day game (and I’m cheap). I’m always deep in my own head, so I had a ton of anxiety about making sure this day would be as perfect as it could be, but many of those worries washed away once we were on the BART.
Signing Table in the Bleachers
It being a sunny, Thursday afternoon I spent a lot of time thinking about the games I went to with my mom, who passed in 2018. We used to ride the train in from Walnut Creek in the early ‘90s, just the two of us. The A’s did a thing where you could donate $10 to the Oakland Library and get autographs after these weekday afternoon games, and we always took advantage of this. So as the Coliseum came into sight from the BART, I immediately thought about when I had Mark McGwire sign my jersey. Dave Henderson was sitting at the next table.
“Why do you want that guy’s autograph?” he asked me, flashing his famous gap-toothed smile. “He’s a bum.”
“And you, I can’t believe you would raise your son to want a first baseman’s autograph,” he teased my mom. “Playing in the outfield is actually difficult…”
I swallowed hard as I pondered this and made a promise to myself — only happy tears today.
As we crossed the bridge to get to the stadium, a walk I’d made countless times, I thought about the man who used to play the erhu on it and the bootlegger who sold shirts that read “Fuckin’ A’s” after losses. As we posed for photos outside the beds of green and purple ice plant that surround the stadium, I cursed Mt. Davis (the outfield upper deck that was built to lure back Al Davis and the Raiders, who like Fisher was doing now, abandoned Oakland for Las Vegas) and the destruction of the Coliseum’s beautiful backdrop, ice plant and all.
Upper Deck
My dad and I looked up to the upper deck and remembered the time we decided to go into a game because “it would be cooler in Oakland than at home.” And it was — only 102 instead of the 110 it was at home. Around the seventh inning, an exhausted and overheated vendor made me a proposition: “I’ll trade you a chocolate malt for a cup of water poured over my head.” I ran to the closest fountain, filled the cup, and joyfully dumped it on the vendor’s head. Pouring water on an adult’s head? I would have done that for free. Still would.
There are always a lot of stories being told when my dad and I get together (once again, we’re Irish), but this was excessive even for us.
Once the first pitch was thrown, we settled into the game, like we had dozens of times before. Peanuts were passed around, helmets full of nachos were consumed, and beers were downed. We cheered, we laughed, and we booed the umpires. It no longer felt like my last A’s game, but just another beautiful day at the ballpark with people I love.
With that emotional baggage gone, I got to appreciate how special being an Oakland A’s fan is. We all were experiencing feelings of loss and abandonment, but showing it through the unique personality Oakland has always had. I met dozens of people wearing Sell shirts (including me). People were waving Sell flags and hanging banners that said FJF (Fuck John Fisher). But there was also joy. So much joy. Fans were beating drums and blowing vuvuzelas in the outfield. The “Let’s Go Oakland” chant rang out often. As did the “Sell The Team” chant which follows the same cadence. Oakland fans had always marched to their own drum (or in the case of Krazy George, they beat that drum), so of course they would grieve in their own way too. No other fan base in the world would have come up with the Sell shirts, the reverse boycott, and the Oakland B’s. It shouldn’t have been surprising given the way fans reacted the first time ownership thought about leaving Oakland.
Behind the Stands
As I was walking through the corridors of the Coliseum and high-fiving other folks wearing Sell shirts, I finally realized what had made me most anxious about the trip — I was afraid I would be a tourist. Like the A’s would be doing soon, I also left the Bay Area. I grew up and being in a band seemed to matter more than baseball. I lived in Chicago, then Jersey, where the A’s games wouldn’t come on until late if they were even on at all. I moved on… and I was afraid that by coming back I’d be a phony. But it wasn’t like that. These were my people, even if I’d been absent for a couple decades.
Going to see a ballgame with your dad is about as cliche of an American experience that you can have, but it’s a cliche because it can be so important in a kid’s life. And a dad’s. I’m not planning on having kids, so I’ll never get to have that experience, but I had something similar watching my wife at her first A’s game. She couldn’t stop talking about how cute the Coliseum was, how much fun she had, how she loved the vibe of the crowd. She made sure we brought home that nacho helmet and the commemorative cup her drink came in, I’m drinking out of it as I write this.
The A’s ended up dropping the game to the Mariners 6-4, but that’s not what any of us are going to remember. We’re going to remember all of the good times — watching the Bash Brothers, Rickey being Rickey, and having fun watching a team we love with people we love.
Next year a baseball team owned by John Fisher will play a season as if nothing had ever happened. But the Oakland A’s are dead and will never exist again, except in the hearts of sentimental fools like me.
I can't believe I wrote this whole damn thing and forgot to mention that it was in section 334 where I first encountered people smoking weed. There were two heshers up in the corner of the very last row smoking something, but it smelled very different than the cigarettes my mom smoked. Hell yeah.