Bottom Of The Ninth

 My son grew up in Oakland. The baseball he knows is from Oakland. He was carried into the upper deck of the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum in a baby bucket when he was an infant. 

He never experienced a World Series, but he had the joy and excitement of numerous playoff runs. His parents indulged him in souvenir T-shirts and made a point of trying to attend bobblehead days. 

My son had a number of favortie players. Eric Chavez, third baseman for the Oakland Athletics for thirteen years, was affectionately known around our house as Señor Backpack because of his appearance on the Back To School book bag we brought home with us after a game.  Josh Reddick had a number of outstanding seasons in Oakland, and he became a favorite for his connection to Spider Man with is superhuman grabs in the outfield. And there was Coco Crisp, who became a household fixture, immortalized in dessert form with my wife's "walkoff pie."

Somewhere in there, we stopped taking our son to games. He started taking me. For Father's Day. We had a streak going where the A's were unbeatable when my son and I were in the stands. Speaking of streaks, he was only five years old when his team posted twenty wins in a row, an American League record. Nine years later he was able to savor it all over again when Brad Pitt brought it all back on the big screen in Moneyball. And just a few years after that, the guy who played Scott Hatteberg became Star Lord in Guardians of the Galaxy. 

What kid wouldn't love that? 

And through all those years, my son endured all the discussions of his team leaving. For the first time in what seems like forever, we didn't go to a game this year. I don't think the ownership missed us. But now that Major League Baseball has approved the move of the Oakland Athletics to the desert of Las Vegas, we'll miss them. 

We will miss our baseball here in Oakland.