One of the most agonizing aspects of the A’s long goodbye to Oakland is knowing when to cut the emotional ties.
For some, it was the moment the team announced it is moving to Sacramento after this season. Or Opening Day. It might not be until Sept. 26, the final game at the Coliseum. Others will be able to hold out until the final pitch in an Oakland uniform is thrown three days later in Seattle.
Fate picked my expiration date.
On May 8, 1968, a fresh-faced young pitcher named Jim “Catfish” Hunter delivered the A’s first signature moment: a perfect game, thrown during the 11th home game of the franchise’s first season in Oakland.
Earlier that day, just across the Bay and to far less fanfare, my mom delivered me.
And just like that, our family’s connection to the Green and Gold was established.
Now, 56 years later, the connection will never be the same.
Wednesday was the last time the A’s called Oakland home on the anniversary of Catfish’s masterpiece.
It was the first without my mom, who died this winter.
Just two years ago, my mom and I had a lot to celebrate on Catfish’s big day. Mother’s Day fell on May 8 – the eighth time we got to “share” the day since I was born. We weren’t always at an A’s game to celebrate those specific days, but my family has spent plenty of near-birthdays or near-Mother’s Days at the Coliseum.
I was there on Wednesday to work. But also to say goodbye.
I never got the opportunity to share with Hunter how our paths intertwined that spring day in 1968. He died in September 1999, a year before I joined the Mercury News. The closest we got was when one of Hunter’s sisters and my wife attended the same conference in the late 1990s.
It wasn’t just the connection to Hunter’s perfect game all those years ago that sealed my family’s A’s allegiance.
One of my first memories as an A’s fan was third-grade me spreading the San Mateo Times across our living room carpet to read the shocking
headline that Joe Rudi and Rollie Fingers had been sold to the Red Sox and Vida Blue to the Yankees, where he would have reunited with Catfish, who had left Oakland as a free agent a year earlier.
Charlie Finley’s scheme was overruled, but by the following winter, Vida was the only remnant of the A’s 1970s World Series teams still around. It was just the start of a rebuild-and-teardown cycle that tested the patience and loyalty of A’s fans, regardless of the era or the ownership group.
The A’s became the soundtrack to my youth not because of Catfish, but my mom.
She had baseball – sometimes the Giants but more often the A’s – on the radio almost every day of my childhood.
It didn’t change much when I became more mobile. It didn’t matter if my brother and I were playing in the neighborhood, or I was in the backyard, throwing tennis ball after tennis ball at the bottom step, pretending to be Vida or Rick Langford or one of their other late ‘70s hurlers. Monte Moore then Red Rush and later Bill King were always with us, calling the game through my transistor radio. I even tried sneaking that radio into bed with me at night, but my parents caught on to that pretty quick.
During elementary school recess one day, a friend randomly offered me a baseball card, one of his duplicates. Of course, it was an A’s player — outfielder Billy North in those distinctive mid-1970s Kelly greens. Hooked as a collector, I fell even deeper into A’s fandom.
Soon, my brother – a Giants fan! – and I convinced our parents to load us into the family station wagon and take us to a game or two each season, often a doubleheader or a promotion day.
I hit the jackpot in 1976, the second time I’d ever set foot in the Coliseum. Not only was it bat day – I scored a green “autographed” Sal Bando bat – but the A’s won, and we saw Hank Aaron hit his 751st career home run. He hit four more that season before retiring from the Brewers, notching a record that would stand for 30 years. By the time it fell, I was helping to cover Barry Bonds’ pursuit of the all-time home run record from the press box.
Without the A’s connection, I might never have played baseball. Or followed it. Or been fortunate enough to become a sportswriter.
That kind of devotion can make you do regrettable things when you’re a kid, such as trading a 1967 Willie Mays card for a full set of A’s cards … for the 1979 team that went on to lose 108 games.
It’s a connection that shaped my relationships and friendships, for which I’ll forever be grateful. I bonded with one of my best friends of adulthood over the shared belief that A’s outfielder Mitchell Page was robbed of the 1977 American League rookie of the year. And we’re still not wrong.
In the early 1980s, just as Rickey Henderson had arrived on the scene, my family moved to the Seattle area, but distance only strengthened my fandom.
When we weren’t at the Kingdome watching the A’s, I was debating with my Mariners-loving friends on the merits of Dave Kingman over Alvin Davis. I’m quite sure mine is the only yearbook photo in the 71-year history of Sylvester Middle School with a personalized A’s jersey (No. 35, Rickey’s number during his FIRST stint with the A’s).
My wife and daughters aren’t big sports fans, but they grew to embrace all things A’s. Not like they had much of a chance – they were born (or married) into it, thanks to the Catfish connection.
The girls knew M.C. Hammer was a former A’s bat boy, before they knew he was a rapper. Kool & The Gang’s “Celebration” – the song played after the final out at every A’s home win – is a signal for good times at the ballpark, at home or in the car. One of our daughters learned how to keep score at the Coliseum. The other presented a middle school science project at the ballpark before a game. And they have come to accept that when we spot a stranger with A’s gear at the market, a conversation about the team or a simple “Go A’s!” is inevitable.
There are still games to be covered and stories of the A’s colorful history in Oakland to be told. The A’s relocation won’t destroy my passion for baseball.
The A’s will continue without Oakland, but it will never be the same for me.
Some A’s followers are more prepared than others. I thought I was.
Not being able to share an A’s season with my mom has been more difficult than I imagined. But I think of her every time I turn on the radio broadcast.
Soon, a young pitcher will throw the first perfect game in the history of the franchise’s new home. A new fan will be born that same day, and another connection will be made.
I hope they enjoy it every bit as much as we did.
