My Dad and the A's
Hall of Fame second baseman Nellie Fox made his major league debut for the Philadelphia Athletics in June of 1947 — the same summer my dad was born.
Fox struggled in his first crack at "The Show," hitting a light .247 in a limited role, while shuttling between the minors and the big-league club. After 3 forgettable seasons, the Athletics cut ties with their young prospect, trading Nellie to the Chicago White Sox. A move he would make the A’s franchise regret for years to come.
In 1952, my grandparents moved the family from North Carolina to the suburbs of Chicago, and my dad spent his formative years attending games at Old Comiskey Park. By then, Nellie had blossomed from an undersized benchwarmer into a bona fide star.
As a smaller guy himself, my dad felt a kinship with this scrappy underdog. Nellie made a hard game look easy: He had a grace and agility at the keystone, a keen eye at the plate, and an uncanny ability to never strike out. And he did it all with a huge wad of Favorite Brand chewing tobacco seemingly permanently lodged in his left cheek.
All told, Nellie’s sparkling career on South Side included 12 trips to the All-Star game, 3 gold gloves, and an MVP award in 1959, the same year he led the "Go-Go" Sox to the American League pennant.
He was my dad’s baseball idol.
*
Fast-forward to June, 1971: My parents had just gotten married, and my dad promptly uprooted my mom from her childhood home, and moved her across the country, to San Francisco, so he could pursue his law career.
My dad was a gifted law student, and it turned out, an even better lawyer. He soon became a fixture at his firm, and my parents saved enough money to buy a home in the East Bay.
In 1972, the Oakland Athletics won the World Series. They won it again in ‘73 and ‘74, cementing themselves as a three-peat dynasty, and winning the hearts of Bay Area sports fans for decades to come. My dad, like so many others, was swept up by those Charlie Finley A’s: Their winning, their swingin’, their handlebar mustaches, and furious, hair-on-fire style of play represented what my dad aspired to be, in spite of his straitlaced, prep-school upbringing. For him, the A’s became not just a source of energy and pride, but also, I think they were a cosmic affirmation that he’d made the right choice to move out West and stake his claim in Northern California.
My older brothers were born in the summers of ’78 and ’81. They were eleven and eight when Walter Haas’s "Bash Brother" A’s won the 1989 Bay Bridge World Series. They too, became superfans.
I was still in a crib in October ‘89 when the Loma Prieta earthquake struck, a couple of hours before Game 3 of that World Series. A part of the Oakland span of the Bay Bridge collapsed, leaving my dad stranded in San Francisco, with power lines down, and no smart phones yet invented to call home. It turns out he was late coming home from work, and lucky not to be one of the commuters who never made it back. I have no memory of it, but I can imagine my mom’s panic with two young boys at home, and a toddler, eyes wide as the light fixture in our front room swayed and shook for 15 awful seconds.
I had less of a reason than my dad and brothers to become an A’s fan. The A’s were cellar dwellers when I was little. When I was eight, Billy Beane took over as general manager and soon traded the sport’s best slugger, Mark McGwire, to the St. Louis Cardinals. I probably could’ve (and maybe should have) quit following baseball then. But that very-same year, I discovered a dusty, old VHS tape in the basement that my dad had bought called Champions by the Bay, which documented the 1989 A’s and Giants paths to the World Series. This campy relic had me spellbound, and I’d watch it with a fascination bordering on religious.
Suddenly, Big Mac was back on the A’s! And clean shaven! And there was Dave Stewart blowing hitters away with a death stare I had never seen so up-close-and-personal. And Jose Canseco, blasting moonshots into the 5th deck at SkyDome (which sounded like a mythical, magical place like Cloud City.) I got to know Tony Philips, Bob Welch, Mike Moore, Walt Weiss, Stan Javier. And the mustachioed Dennis Eckersley, side-slinging bullets, sealing victories, and pumping his fist. Coolest of all was Ricky, his lime green gloves dangling, as he glided off first, and crouched, cheetah-like, waiting to pounce and swipe second.
They were all having the time of their lives: Mashing, bashing, and popping Dom Perignon (waiting on ice). Those A’s felt uniquely Oakland: Brash, blue collar, high energy, chips all-over-their-shoulders.
Next thing I knew, the voices of Bill King and Ken Korach were crackling through my bedside radio at 7:05 pm on weeknights, and on lazy weekend afternoons, in the passenger seat of my dad’s ‘86 Alfa, the mood of our day hanging in the balance of their play-by-play.
An A’s win would have us speeding over to the convenient for Slurpees, a loss would have us somberly headed straight home, and Dad reprimanding me to do my homework.
*
My dad was, in many ways, a good dad. He showed up a lot: As a coach on my brothers’ little league teams; as a world’s-biggest-fan in attendance at games, concerts, and school plays. He was excited to talk to you about what you were learning. He was always proud of you, whether it was for an academic achievement, a musical performance, or a three-foot putt. He loved giving hugs, handshakes, and big, hearty slaps on the back.
He was an avid reader and storyteller. He was (in)famous for roping you into a conversation with this intro: "Oh [Name], you’d appreciate this…" and then jumping into whatever story he had in mind. He liked having the spotlight on him. He liked telling inappropriate jokes he learned from his frat days. Often on repeat. And he loved laughing at his own punchlines, louder than everyone else. But somehow, even if you knew every syllable of the joke and would cringe to yourself that he was telling it again, you’d still find yourself nodding and chuckling along.
He also liked doing bad impressions of people: Comedians, colleagues, A’s players and broadcasters - especially Ray Fosse, who my dad would always make fun of for the way he pronounced "INsurance."
Dad had a healthy distaste for the Yankees and Giants. He thought the Yankees were pretentious and the Giants were boring. And I tended to agree.
*
In March of 2000, Dad flew my best friend Charlie and me down to Spring training in Arizona, as a special birthday surprise. Charlie and I were born on the same day, February 29, Leap Day, a time of year that lines up beautifully with the start of exhibition games, and the golden promise that "this could be our year."
For the first time, Charlie and I met actual major league baseball players. And they were larger than life. A young and lanky Ryan Christenson, veteran reliever/professional prankster Doug Jones, A’s manager Art Howe, like a gentle wizard…even the stubby Frank Menechino looked huge! And biggest of all, was first baseman Jason Giambi. When he emerged from the clubhouse, I was so excited I couldn’t even speak. His voice was softer and higher than I expected. But he was a big, friendly, goateed giant, and I watched with awe as he calmly palmed two baseballs at once, then signed and dropped them in Charlie and my outstretched mitts. He even offered to pose for a photo, which my dad was very eager to take. Jason put his arms around Charlie and me, and I swore the two of us were the same size as one of his biceps.
The surprise highlight of that trip was Dad spotting Ray Fosse in the parking lot after one of the games, heading to his car. Dad prodded me to go up to him and ask for an autograph. As a short, shy kid, initiating a one-on-one parking lot chat with a big A’s legend and broadcaster was a terrifying assignment for me.
What I remember most about the exchange, aside from my initial nerves, was how deeply kind Ray was. He didn’t just sign my ball, he listened to my story. He was fascinated by Charlie and my Leap Day birthday, and offered a big, hearty chuckle when I retold one of Doug Jones’s jokes. Ray eventually climbed into his car, and I wandered back in a giddy haze to my dad, proudly hoisting the signed ball, and ready to recount the whole meeting. Dad, naturally, was thrilled to hear every detail.
*
The year 2000 coincided with my first taste of playoff heartbreak. Dad and I were perched high in the third deck at the Coliseum during Game 5 of the American League Division Series against the Yankees. We watched in agony as Mariano Rivera got Eric Chavez to pop out to end our season. The next year, 2001, Dad and I were seated behind the A’s bullpen in left field when Jeremy Giambi forgot to slide, and Derek Jeter came out of nowhere to nab him at home.
Then, that 2001 offseason, we experienced a different kind of heartbreak: Losing Jason Giambi to those hated Yankees, for $30 million more than the A’s offered him. For our big, friendly giant to switch allegiances to our archnemesis was an unfathomable betrayal. The Yankees even made him shave his goatee.
But the following season without Jason Giambi offered a special kind of magic: the 20-game win streak and 103 regular-season victories, with an incredible cast of veterans, newbies, and misfit toys. Then, of course, we watched in horror as Billy Beane’s record-setting, "just plain crazy" Moneyball A’s fell to the lowly Twins in the playoffs, when Stockton-native Eddie Guardado got Ray Durham to pop out to end our season.
Dad watched the 2003 playoffs from home the next season, but I was in the second deck of the Coliseum when we lost to the Red Sox in 5, and Derrick Lowe flipped off the Coliseum crowd after striking out Terrence Long to end it.
The hits (or lack thereof) kept coming. There are a few others with my dad that really stand out:
· August, 2005 at the Coliseum: Dad splurged on tickets in section 120 behind home plate. There were 2 outs, in the bottom of the 9th in a tie game against our division rival, the "Anaheim" Angels. A’s catcher Jason Kendall was standing casually at third base, hands on his hips, representing the winning run. Angels All-Star closer, Frankie "K-Rod" Rodriguez was on the mound, fuming after not getting a close call on the previous pitch. When the Angel catcher tossed the ball back to him, he slapped at it in disgust with his glove. But in his fury, he missed it, and the ball ricocheted off his glove and trickled gently on the grass behind him toward second base. Kendall took off for home. K-Rod scrambled back to grab the ball, dove, and fired a wild throw home too late, mouth agape as he sat, legs splayed on the infield grass, fans going berserk, and an A’s team pouring out the dugout, mobbing Kendall for stealing the game-winning run.
· October, 2006: Dad called me at my college dorm when the Frank Thomas A’s won the West, and finally broke through the division round.
· 2008: Agonizing together over the disappointing Matt Holliday team, and lamenting Jason Giambi’s swan-song season.
· 2010: Cracking jokes from the movie Major League when we experienced yet another major Moneyball roster turnover. "Ryan Sweeney = Mitchell Friedman?"
· 2012: My brothers and Dad and I calling each other throughout the summer, during the A’s miracle second-half run. And we were in section 221 when Avisaíl Garcia bobbled Coco’s single in right, and Seth Smith rounded third and raced home to force a game 5. (I’ve since replayed Ray Fosse’s ecstatic, cliff-jumping scream on the radio broadcast more times than I can count.)
We lost that Game 5. Then we lost again in 5 games to that same Tiger team the following year. And the name Verlander became the bane of my dad’s existence.
With certain A’s nemeses, he would often pick one syllable of their name, and really sound it out loud. The degree of emphasis he gave that syllable coincided with just how badly he despised them.
"VER-lander."
"Pier-ZYN-ski!"
*
My relationship with my dad forever changed in 2014, just before the A’s lost in devastating fashion to the upstart Kansas City Royals in the Wild Card Game, where the world discovered John Lester’s Achilles’ heel: His fear of throwing over to first.
Two weeks before that game, my brothers and I learned that Dad had been having an affair, and hiding his infidelity from the family for over a year. This news (and the fallout from it) put a strain on all of us. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, my dad was human, fallible, and perhaps not someone I should idolize, anymore. I was 26, and only starting to see the man for who he was: A brilliant, flawed, and charming perfectionist, terrified of not being seen as perfect, especially to his sons.
Conversations were awkward in the years that followed, in part because my dad continued to struggle with telling and receiving the truth. He was so invested in his fantasy world that he often failed to see the real (and frankly, amazing) one right in front of him. But throughout these strained and halting conversations, there remained one constant: The Oakland A’s.
The A’s became Dad’s default topic, and in some ways, our safe zone. If conversations veered into territory my dad was uncomfortable facing, he’d bring up Bob Melvin. Or Billy Beane. Or even A’s owner John Fisher, who I could tell Dad was trusting less and less every time the front office dismantled the team, and us fans had to start from scratch and get behind a whole new crop of youngsters, or — as some A’s faithful would say — "fresh laundry."
These roster teardowns seemed to get more frequent after teams with larger pockets like the Yankees, Dodgers, and Red Sox adopted Billy’s Beane’s Moneyball philosophy. Still, the Oakland front office continued to zag when everyone else zigged, and it had my dad and I mutually fascinated. So, when conversations grew difficult, I was often tempted to join my dad in fantasy land, and break down the successes and failures of the green and gold. Even though doing so felt disingenuous, and I was not satisfied with a marginalized relationship with him, it was nonetheless something we shared.
When the A’s were doing well, it was easier to talk about them with him. We were both excited about the Matt (Chapman, Olson) duo at the corners. It’d seemed that finally some A’s draft picks were panning out. In 2018, Our 97-win team lost to the Yankees in the Wild Card round, and another 97-win team lost to the Rays the following year. Of course, 2020 was the year of Covid and cardboard cut-out fans in the stands. Naturally, one of my brothers gifted the other a cut-out for his birthday: A picture of him in full A’s gear. (The beautiful, classic gray away jerseys that just say "Oakland" in green and gold cursive.)
That Covid-shortened 2020 season, we learned that John Fisher was refusing to pay A’s minor leaguers their weekly stipends, which, at the time, amounted to about $400 a week per player, or $1.5 million for the entire farm system that season, or less money than the A’s paid journeyman Brandon Moss before cutting him from the roster. As A’s fans, we were ashamed. This move was greedy, callous, and completely out of touch, particularly at a time when so many people were struggling to make ends meet. Fisher later reversed this decision after public outcry, citing an "error in judgment." But the implication of that initial decision was disconcerting: How could the A’s ever build a winning culture if the owner didn’t support the players, or invest in their success?
Dad called before Game 3 of the Wild Card series against the White Sox. We were both nervous, having grown accustomed to playoff heartbreak. After a brief pregame pep talk, we hung up, superstitiously avoiding contact during the game. After 4 and half hours of torture and a Tommy LaStella juggle, bobble, and capture in shallow right, the A’s emerged, victorious. Liam Hendricks punched out Nomar Mazara, and you could practically hear Liam’s primal, Aussie scream over the electronic crowd noise piped through the Coliseum speakers. Tens of thousands of cardboard humans smiling in elation and relief.
The A’s would then face the much-maligned (but sadly, not sufficiently well-punished for their cheating, trash-can antics) Astros in the division round. Oddly, due to Covid-bubble scheduling, this series took place in Chavez Ravine, just a few miles from my apartment... Where the A’s would come up short, once again.
"Still, I’d love to come visit you down in LA when this whole Covid-thing is over," Dad said. "Doug, you’d appreciate this: I’m reading a new Bosch mystery that takes place there…"
*
The worst of the pandemic began to subside with the advent of vaccines, but in January 2022, it was more contagious than ever. And it was everywhere. To make matters worse, the A’s had just traded nearly all of their best players (once again.) Olson, Chapman, Bassitt, Manaea, Marte, Canha… seemingly everyone we had grown to love and follow from the most recent batch, had been unceremoniously shipped away or signed a big contract with someone else. Though we didn’t know it at the time, the A’s were about to enter their worst stretch in Oakland history.
That spring, I got a call from my dad, and listened to his voicemail, somewhat muffled, while I boarded a flight. "Some news to share…" I texted him that I got his message and would call him the next day. That morning I listened closer to the message. "Some health news to share." I immediately called.
A groggy voice picked up. "Oh hey, I’m in the hospital. The doctors don’t really know what’s going on, I’ve had some stomach trouble, and uh, I’ve been getting these halos in my vision."
"How long have you been in the hospital?"
"Hard to say really. I think a week, or maybe 8 or 9 days…"
I learned eventually that he’d had scalp surgery three months earlier to treat melanoma on his forehead that had metastasized to his brain. Now, his body was rejecting the immunotherapy program.
He had kept the diagnosis a secret from the family for 6 months, and had told no one, save for a pair of work colleagues and his girlfriend.
On May 6, he had a seizure. I flew up to San Francisco to visit him in the ER. On May 7, he was lucid and spoke to my brother and me from the hospital bed. He told us he loved us, and he was deeply sorry for the pain he had caused over the past 8 years. He vowed to be better, and he vowed to be there more in the future.
"I’m going to visit you in LA once I get out of here."
And of course, he talked about the A’s.
"You know, I’m just so mad at the management – they really ought to sell the team to an ownership group that actually cares." In spite of his griping, and his condition, he was still excited to hear about what players I was interested in, and the news about the Howard Terminal project. "I really hope it gets done – I just think it’d be so great for the fans and the city."
I talked to my dad on the phone every day after that – about more than just baseball. We told each other we loved each other. And I meant it, even if I didn’t understand why he’d keep his life-threatening diagnosis from us.
On May 14, I sent him a text after a 15-minute chat: "A’s beat the Tigers, 2-0."
On May 15, two and a half weeks after we learned about his diagnosis, he passed away.
*
There are some odd and uncomfortable parallels between my dad’s life, and the A’s abandoning home for Sin City.
Nellie Fox, my dad’s idol, passed away young from skin cancer.
My dad became a diehard A’s fan in 1971, shortly after the A’s moved to Oakland. 52 years later, in June 2023, we buried his ashes in Oakland — just a few weeks after the A’s announced their plans to leave town. And, though my dad never really trusted John Fisher, his penchant for bending the truth was similar to the way that Fisher, Kaval, and MLB commissioner Rob Manfred have been gaslighting fans during the relocation process.
But as much as the A’s are woven into my personal family history, I recognize how little their planned move actually has to do with devoted fans like my dad. And that’s the part about this relocation that feels particularly cynical. Some might say, "it’s just business." But baseball fans know, that’s not exactly accurate. Over the last 56 years, Oakland A’s fans have been some of the most loyal, passionate, informed, and invested fans in the sport. For many of us, home games weren’t just an excuse to enjoy a sun-splashed, lazy afternoon at the ballpark. Instead, they were gatherings, rallies, celebrations, and spiritual communions, all rolled into one.
Now, A’s fans have effectively no say in the fact that the team is leaving town. Instead, the team’s fate is in the hands of a billionaire who is turning his back on fans, apparently so he can remain on MLB’s revenue sharing plan. Meanwhile, he’s lobbied for hundreds of millions of public dollars to further pad his personal wealth.
*
As corny as the Champions by the Bay documentary is, it helped me understand, to some extent, the legacy of the Loma Prieta earthquake, and baseball’s role in helping communities during moments of crisis and deep loss. Aerial footage of the I-880 collapse, firefighters helping desperate, wounded people out of rubble, and friends and family holding each other close – these scenes of solidarity in dark times are seared into my memory. They gave me context for a moment in my life that I was too young to process, but was visceral and influential to the rest of my immediate family and hometown. And featured in that footage is A’s legend Dave Stewart, hoisting a sign at a community fundraiser that reads: "You can always call Oakland home."
So many things are more important in life than baseball. On the other hand, baseball, I’ve learned, has a special ability to bring people closer together. Similarly, baseball once served both as a means to bring my dad and me closer together; later it served as a distraction from what was really going on in our lives. It brought us closer together again, in my dad’s final moments. And today, it’s been a canvas to help me deal with the grief of losing him so suddenly and unexpectedly.
The end of the A’s in Oakland isn’t just a loss for Oakland fans; it’s also a loss for baseball fans, and pro sports fans, in general. And while some days this move makes me sad, outraged, bitter, disappointed, the overwhelming emotion is actually one of gratitude.
Gratitude for Oakland A’s fans: Drums, chants, heckles, stadium fly-overs, vuvuzelas, epic signs, shirts, and reverse boycotts. Gratitude for the time spent at the Coliseum, basking in the energy of that raucous Oakland crowd. Gratitude for the friendships that baseball helped me form and maintain. Gratitude for the funny, insightful, labor-of-love articles and comments on A’s Nation. Gratitude for the scrappy players who donned green and gold over the years. Gratitude for how so many of them blossomed into stars. Gratitude for the walk-off wins, and "Celebration" by Kool & the Gang. Gratitude even for the gut-punch losses that taught me a bit of real-world resilience. Gratitude for Dallas Braden, who filmed an epic message for me on Cameo (courtesy of my brothers.) Gratitude for Ken Korach and Bill King, for their beautiful and memorable broadcasting. Gratitude toward Ray Fosse for his homespun sayings, great laugh, and interview questions-posed-as-statements. Gratitude for his generous spirit and stewardship of the game. Gratitude for the Coliseum ticket-takers and concession workers, who hosted us at a fair share of Dollar Wednesdays. Gratitude for the unbelievable grounds crew, who made that diamond sparkle. Gratitude for fan-journalists like Brodie Brazil and Casey Pratt for keeping us informed on the relocation. Gratitude for the Oakland 68s, Last Dive Bar, and others, who continue to fight to keep the A’s in Oakland.
Gratitude for the time I had with my dad, going to games, and rooting for our home team. A team that, for many years, felt like home.
*
One of my dad’s many impersonations was of Jim Joyce, the long-tenured, now-retired umpire. That impression, unlike my dad’s others, was actually a pretty good one.
When I was a kid, Dad and I would play catch in our small front yard next to the street. After about 10 minutes of warm-up tosses, he would squat in the catcher’s position and put down the sign for a fastball. The stakes were high, because our house was on a hill, and if I threw a wild pitch or the ball skipped past him, it would roll a hundred yards downhill to the end of the block.
But if I hummed one in there, and it snapped into his mitt right where he held it, he’d jump up out of the squat, and switch seamlessly into the role of umpire, turning to his right, popping out a finger, and bellowing a signature Jim Joyce scream: "Stri-eeeeeeeke!" And after a full inning of this, he’d cross the lawn and shake my hand for a game well saved. Then we’d go inside, have dinner together, and watch the A’s.
It’s a memory and a tradition I had hoped to share with my future kids one day. But I recognize now that whatever tradition I share with my kids will look different, regardless of the A’s future. It may not be A’s baseball that bonds us. And maybe that’s perfectly OK.