OAKLAND, Calif. — They began arriving at the Oakland Coliseum at 6 a.m. Thursday, and were pounding Jägermeister shots by 6:30. Nearly 11 hours later, with burning throats and eyes filled with tears, they slowly trudged out of the Coliseum for the final time.
“It’s like going to view the body,’’ Athletics pitching legend Dave Stewart said. “Then, you go to the funeral. And after the funeral, you have the meltdown.
“I just had my meltdown.’’
And at precisely 3:06 p.m. Pacific time, baseball was officially pronounced dead in Oakland.
This franchise delivered four World Series championships, six pennants and 17 division titles to the Bay Area, so it was only appropriate to leave Oakland as a winner.
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Once the final out was recorded in the Oakland A’s 3-2 victory over the Texas Rangers, the sellout crowd of 46,889 — the largest in five years — stood in their seats wildly cheering, chanting, “Let’s Go Oakland!’
The players congratulated one another, and then gathered at the pitcher’s mound. They stood together and listened to manager Mark Kotsay, who played for this organization 20 years ago, emotionally thank the crowd for loving his team.
“There are no better fans than you guys,’’ Kotsay said. “Thank you all for loving the game of baseball. Thank you for your lifelong support of the Oakland A’s. And last, I want to thank you guys for coming out today to share this moment with a club that I’m so proud of. We played our asses off this year.
“I think we should all pay homage to this amazing stadium that we’ve had the privilege and pleasure of enjoying for 57 years. And I ask you one more time, to start the greatest cheer in baseball: ‘Let’s Go Oakland!’”
The crowd erupted again, and then third baseman Max Schuemann grabbed an Oakland A’s flag, ran clear around the outfield, stopped behind home plate, and firmly planted the flag into the ground and screamed.
“Let’s Go Oakland!’’
“It was a spontaneous thing, I saw the flag, and ran,’’ Schuemann said. “Just being a homegrown player, be drafted by the Oakland A’s, and then to represent them was special.’’
The sellout crowd, the Athletics’ first since the 2019 wild-card game, arrived to the Coliseum wanting to be together one final time, to show their love and admiration. They came wearing jerseys of their favorite players, everyone from Reggie Jackson to Rickey Henderson to Stewart to Jose Canseco to Coco Crisp to Steven Vogt, watching replays of their 1972 World Series championship shown on the stadium scoreboards.
There were 120 Oakland Police officers and 500 security officers on hand to help prevent violence or unruly behavior (stadium seats were stolen and a team store was vandalized earlier this week).
The game was mostly peaceful, punctuated occasionally by chants of “Sell the team.’ Two fans sitting behind home plate wore “Sell’’ shirts, and there was other profane and derogatory chants mixed in with the cheers. But there was no violence.
Two fans did run onto the field during the seventh inning, and were loudly booed. A few smoke bombs and perhaps a dozen objects were thrown onto the field in the ninth inning, leaving A’s closer Mason Miller wondering whether he’d be on the field for 45 minutes. But he was never worried about his safety.
“There were a few distractions,’’ Kotsay said. “It wasn’t a full-on Raiders game.’’
Mostly, it was a stadium filled with love. Beyond the “Let’s Go Oakland!’’ cheers throughout the game, fans did the wave during the seventh inning. And then they said their goodbyes afterwards, with eyes blurred by tears.
The Athletics, after playing for the final time in the Coliseum Thursday, will play the final three games of the season in Seattle. Then they will relocate to Sacramento and play in a minor-league facility for at least three years, before moving permanently to Las Vegas.
This moment of finality was too much to bear for many of the fans and longtime A’s employees.
Clay Wood, the heralded head groundskeeper at the Coliseum, went to the pitcher’s mound after the game and burst into tears.
One A’s official, standing just outside the A’s clubhouse, buried his head against the wall, his knees trembling, while a security guard rubbed his shoulder to console him.
A public relations official, who was sitting on the A’s bench before the game listening to Kotsay’s voice crack while talking about the most emotional day of his career, kept taking off his glasses, dabbing at his eyes.
It was the same sentiments expressed in the parking lots and stands, from fans like Matthew Crouch, 51, the first to arrive at 6 a.m. He was standing outside Gate MM drinking a Modelo, still trying to grasp that this is the end.
“I’ve been coming here for 48 years,’’ Crouch said, “and it feels like part of me is dying today. I’m losing a great part of my life because I have so many memories being in this ballpark. I used to come here for Little League.
“And now, it’s gone. A lot of tears.’’
Ron Yorkley, 57, who spent $37 for a bus ticket from Sacramento Wednesday night, slept on the pavement outside the Coliseum. He was walking aimlessly around the stadium, hoping someone would give him a game ticket.
“It’s not right, I grew up just a few blocks from here,’’ Yorkley said, “and now it’s gone. I’m going to just keep on walking and hope I run into (A’s owner) John Fisher.’’
Sorry, Fisher hasn’t attended a home game in two years.
Rich Gomez, 63, who’s been coming to the Coliseum since the A’s arrived in 1968, stood alongside his seats — Section 119, Row 6, seats 13-14 — hanging an A’s jersey over the railing, weeping as players and staff members stopped to sign it.
“It’s depressing, it’s so depressing,’’ he said. “I wanted to come to games earlier this week, but I just couldn’t. It’s so tough. I hated to see this day come.’’
Mikey Thalblum, 57, the A’s visiting clubhouse manager, has been with the organization for 44 years. He still has the original $5 paycheck given to him by former A’s owner Charlie Finley. He pointed towards the Coliseum’s West Side club in the upper deck, where he married his wife, Janine, with Jason Giambi, Tony La Russa and Art Howe in attendance.
He stood on the pitcher’s mound with David Rinetti, the club’s vice president of stadium operations, and Wood, the head groundskeeper, to take a picture before the game. The shots were snapped, but Thalblum couldn’t leave. He buried his head in Rinetti’s chest, crying.
“This is the first time I cried,’’ Thalblum said. “Our hug got me. The only thing I can compare it to is moving out of the house you grew up in with all of the good memories. It’s always been a family here, the Oakland A’s culture.’
Gus Dobbins, 93, the security guard by the press elevator, tearfully said his goodbyes, worrying about what will happen to the younger employees who need a job.
A’s catcher Shea Langeliers, who was hoping to get home plate as a souvenir, stepped out of the clubhouse before the game to give an autographed bat to a security guard, who profusely thanked him.
“That’s the least I can do for all of these people,’’ Langeliers said. “They’re family to us. We’re all in this together. That’s why you feel worse for them than anybody. You don’t want to see any of them lose their jobs.’’
Kotsay received a heartfelt text message in the morning from former World Series champion manager Terry Francona, who told him it was perfectly fine to show his emotions. Kotsay did just that in the morning, and again after the game.
“Today was an emotional day all around from the time I drove in to right now,’’ Kotsay said. ‘I’m still kind of reeling. So, the speech comes from the heart. This is where home began, and hopefully where home finishes.’’
Kotsay walked out to center field with his wife, Jamie, the night before, standing in the middle of a message inscribed on the field that read: “Thank You, Oakland.’’
‘This city makes you feel comfortable,” Kotsay said. “The fans, even though over the last few years have had anger because of the fact that we’re leaving, there’s a certain comfortability to playing here and understanding that even playing in front of 3,000 fans, those 3,000 fans are showing up and are going to be passionate about the game, which makes it special.”
Sure, this 58-year-old joint has problems. It became an eyesore when the city built Mt. Davis, the huge upper deck in center field for the NFL’s Raiders, ruining the stadium’s beauty. There were raw sewage leaks, stray cats, even possums, and plenty of rats.
Yet, it was home.
“Driving in the gates today and seeing the fullness of a parking lot, feeling the energy and the emotion is something I’ll treasure for the rest of my life,’ Kotsay said.
So will everyone who was in uniform or had a ticket Thursday.
Grounds crew members, just like Wednesday night, stood by the dugout with shovels full of stadium dirt, allowing fans to take cups home. A’s infielder Tyler Nevin scooped up a cup full of dirt for himself and placed it in his locker, while outfielder Lawrence Butler had a cardboard cutout of the A’s 2024 schedule autographed by his teammates. A’s bullpen catcher Dustin Hughes, who lives in Sacramento, played catch in the outfield with his father, John, hiked Mt. Davis, and then explored the inside of the scoreboard.
“Sharing moments with them today was tough,’’ Kotsay said. “There’s a lot of people here that have invested their lives and their souls into this organization and into this stadium and into the game of baseball. The love for the game of baseball but more for the love for the people and the relationships that have been built over 57 years in this stadium.’’
Now, it’s all over.
Henderson, a Hall of Fame outfielder, walked onto the field after the game. He requested, and was granted, the baseball used for the final out.
He also revealed the inevitable: Major League Baseball is gone from Oakland.
And it’s not coming back.
“Baseball won’t ever go on here again,’’ said Henderson, who had his number from the old scoreboard signed by players before the game. “We tried. We really tried. It’s over.’’
Now, all they have is memories.
Debbie and Andrew Rodriguez, who started coming to the Coliseum in 1985, spent $250 apiece for season tickets in Section 332. They arrived at 7 a.m. for one final tailgate party.
“And one final cry,’’ Debbie Rodriguez said.
Sean Lovens, a San Jose firefighter who has been coming to games for the past 20 years, grilled hot dogs in parking lot B, knowing that the last major sports team in Oakland is gone forever.
“This has been a long, slow farewell, with a slow death of optimism,’’ Lovens said. “If nothing else, thankfully, the narrative has shifted. People aren’t blaming us. They know this didn’t have to happen. If (Fisher) wanted to stay here, he could have been here.
“Sure, we have our problems, but I think it’s important to know this guy (expletive) on us, and he hurt us. He hurt us bad.
“Hopefully, one day that pain goes away, for all us.’’
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